Life, Humility, and the Pursuit of Smirnoff

On Sunday mornings we go to the early church service at 8:30 am. It's works well for us. We get out early enough to buy hash browns at McDonald's for the masses (our kids) in the backseats (minivan; shocking, right?) and we are usually home by 10:30, which works out irritatingly well for the husband, whose tee time is usually 11:30. One Sunday morning, we got out a little earlier than usual and, upon arriving at home with the masses, oval-shaped fried potato manna in hand, I announce to the hubby that I am going to run to the grocery store for a couple of things and I assure him that I will be home in time for him to make his precious tee time (I'm not bitter. Were you sensing that? Because, really...I'm not. Really. Not.)

I jump back into the van and head down the highway. I pull into Food Lion, run in, grab my cart, and off I go to collect a few groceries and drinks for a cookout with friends that evening. I am already getting into a mood because I realize on the way to the store that it's going to be a near impossibility for me to get my stuff, get through checkout, and get back home for you-know-who to make his you-know-what. (Okay, maybe just a little bitter.)

Now, if you haven't been in the grocery store early on Sunday morning lately, let me tell you, honey, there's almost nothing that can test your faith in humanity like dealing with the dregs that you run into. (There aren't many of them there, so it's definitely one of those "quality vs. quantity" deals.)

Man, I gotta hurry. So, what do I need first? Green leaf lettuce. Gotta be quick. Produce - head right. The first person that I blow past on the way to the produce is a lovely older gentlemen sporting a not-on-purpose dreadlocked, dirty, gray beard, and a half-buttoned (some might say half-unbuttoned, but I try to be an optimist) red plaid shirt that almost makes it down to the waistband of his dingy, wrinkled, tan pants, which are apparently designed by magician David Blaine because they are completely and mystifyingly defying gravity by hanging on the way they do. (And, literally, I blow past him. I could tell from 20 feet away that the b.o. was going to be off the chart. I exhaled as I ran past him, fearing that, if I inhaled, his b.o. particles would become permanently stuck to the linings of my lungs. You could almost see the green mist rolling down from his body and swirling around his feet, a la Pigpen from Peanuts. Dear Lord, just let me get my lettuce and get away on one breath!) "Hey shuuuuger. Mmmpf," he grunts, "you lookin' gooood this mornin'. You know where dey keep de hot dog chili at?" By the stain on your chest I'm thinking you've already found it! You know, sir, you ARE in a grocery store...there's a whole friggin' aisle dedicated to HYGIENE! Keep moving past the tampons, creep. See the Right Guard and the Irish Spring? There you go. And stop grinning at me and rubbing your belly, for crying out loud! Dang!

"I thinks it's on the canned food aisle." Pretty nice of me considering I don't have time for idle chit chat with redneck Grizzly Adams and he just grunted at me! What time is it? Crap! Getting late, looks like I'll be rolling through Stop signs. Certainly don't want to keep The Boys waiting at the first hole now, do we? (Yeah, I AM bitter.)

What's next? French bread. Flying past the end caps. Gotta to, gotta go, gotta go. Four aisles down. All clear. Here we go...Aisle 7 Bread. As I turn the corner, there she is...Ms. Rode Hard and Put Up Wet. Honey, don't even act like you put that halter top, way-too-tight way-too-low blue jeans, and cowboy boots on this morning to come to the store to pick up some Wonder Bread. (Ironic that we were on the bread aisle, as I was having to see all that muffin top spilling out of the top of those jeans of hers. Ladies, seriously. Stop it. It's not pretty.) Her head is a sight, all bleached out and ratted (I swear I saw a piece of straw in it) and the eye makeup she applied last night is now a set of speckly, black smudges beneath her eyes. She turns and looks over at me and says, with a voice that sounds like that Froggy kid from Our Gang, "Heeeeeey" and then she smiles. Oh my, I think somebody left her teeth in a Dixie cup at the party at Bubba's house last night. "You know where de Alkie Seltzer's at?" Yeah, same aisle as hygiene. What is the matter with people? Don't you have any pride at all?

"A few aisles over, I think." And where in the hell is the French bread? Oh, here's some Italian. Close enough. Bye-bye, Ms. Rode Hard.

Alright, what else? Duh, Smirnoff! It is a cookout! Gotta have tongs in one hand, cold one in the other. I make my way to the cold beverage aisle as fast as I can. Are you kidding me? Where is the regular Smirnoff? I don't want any of this fruity crap. Here it is. Got it.

As I sail toward the only register open, I can see that B.O. and Rode Hard are coming up the aisle and heading to the register, too. Oh, hell no! I am not about to stand in line behind all THAT! So I bust a move and slide my cart into the check-out lane just before they reach it, throwing them a nice, polite, churchy smile so they don't cuss me out. Oh, joy, lookie who we have behind the register...Miss Apathetic, Stringy-Hair Teenager who seems to moving at the speed of slug and, oh, what's this? Someone has a pierced eyebrow. Joy.

"Hello," I said as I put my lettuce, bread, and six-pack of bottles up to check out, trying to sound cheerful and not nearly as irritated and rushed as I feel.

"MVP?" mutters Stringy-Hair.

"Yes," I say as I hurriedly hand her my MVP card.

"Ma'am, you can't buy this."

"Excuse me?"

"You can't buy this," she says, pointing to the Smirnoff.

What? Huh? What the hell is she talking about? Oh, I get it. She's carding me! God bless her heart! Stringy-Hair must sense that I'm having a bad morning and she is trying to make me feel better by carding me. (I mean, I'm closing in on 40 and I haven't been carded since in 15 years. Obviously, she KNOWS I'm old enough to buy Smirnoff, but her effort to make me feel better is just absolutely PRECIOUS.) I certainly don't want to deny her the opportunity to make my day. I feel my faith in humanity being restored in that one sweet, sweet gesture! As I look at her once more, I notice highlights in her hair that I didn't before. You know with a little make-up, Stringy-Hair would be a very attractive girl. I turn and look at B.O. and Rode Hard waiting in line behind me. He's not so bad, ya know. Nothing a little soap and a razor couldn't fix. And as for Rode Hard, well, we've all had a night like that, when we had a little too much to drink and didn't want to drive home til the next morning. I feel a little guilty for judging them. Did I learn nothing in church today?

Sensing that they realize what Stringy-Hair (I mean, Miss Check-Out) is doing, I smile a knowing smile at them to make them aware that I get it, too. I get out my wallet and make a very big deal about pulling out my Driver's License. I wave it in the air and say loud enough (well, yelling, really) so that all those present, even Mr. Pimple, the bagboy, can hear, "Well, you're just about the sweetest thing ever, darlin'. You certainly know how to make a girl feel good about herself this morning! (I flash another smile and flick my hair back.) I can't even begin to remember the last time I was carded."

Miss Check-Out says in a loud, monotone voice (probably thought I was hard of hearing, because I was yelling), "It's Sunday, lady. Can't buy booze 'til noon."

All I hear is snickering behind me as Mr. Pimple bags my bread and lettuce and puts it back into my cart.

Oh shut up, B.O.