Daily Gripe

Hello, my name is Stu. Today my gripe is shopping. Actually not shopping but checking out at the registers. Step one is to find one open with not an excessively long line. I remember a big discount store that had a banner hanging above all their checkouts. It said – Customer Service- If there are more than three customers in line we will open another register. Well, I put that propaganda to the test. They have removed the banner.
So I am lucky enough to find an available register with a smiley faced associate. I swipe my debit card through the machine. They are all different.
And Ms. Smiley Face requests my phone number. Politely I tell her I don’t give that information out. I want to be able to make it through dinner without a telemarketer calling. Then she requests my zip code. Big brother needs to keep track of me I’m guessing. Now I feel like this is an intrusion into my private world. So I snap – NO.
I just want to buy two items. Why is this so difficult?
There is a problem with the transaction and she sweetly asks for another card swipe. I respond somewhat annoyed and punch in my PIN number. Then she says – “I need your last name.”
“It’s a debit card,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Now it is asking for your address,” she says softly.
I do not want to give someone a dissertation of my entire life. I just want to purchase two items and go about my life.
"It’s not accepting the debit. You will have to put it through credit,” she states.
Now it seems like I have done something wrong and the computer is revolting. Is it because I refused to give up my phone number and zip code? The transaction is finally completed and I leave a bit frustrated.
I go home and open the clearance flashlight, complete with batteries and try it out. The batteries are leaking acid and the inside of the flashlight has rusted. I toss them back in the bag to be returned. I go outside and plug in the new sump pump. Nothing, nada. It doesn’t work. I head back to the store trying extremely hard to think good thoughts.


Holiday Cheer,

Mr. Pid