|Seriously, stop crying, it’s just a scrape from my grocery cart.
I need to vent and get a crazy check. Perhaps I am too picky but I am curious to know what you all think about my latest grocery store incident. We have discussed a few times how much I absolutely love to grocery shop. I really do, unless some one goes with me or people bring their brats. I hate that, in fact, I will try to mow down screaming brat spawns of Satan with my cart. I know, it seems harsh on the surface but if their mothers will not teach them to not be heard and stay out of the drunk lady with hooker heels way, then I will graciously be the bad guy. I see it as my service to the public. Like the military but I correct bad behavior with wine and harsh soul breaking words instead of machine gun rounds. Seriously, I wish grocery stores would have an over 21 only shopping happy hour. And serve drinks.
Another trigger to spring a crazy cussing lady melt down is when the baggers don’t put my groceries in proper order. It’s quite easy: dairy with dairy, meat with meat, boxed shit together and so on. Don’t put my steak in the bag with my salad and tampons. Additionally, for the love of Jeebus and all that is supposedly holy, DO NOT put my wine and NyQuil in a flimsy plastic sack that will no doubt rip and splatter my stay sane cocktail on to the ground. So to avoid a God Fatheresque scene, I tend to bag my own groceries which leads me to my latest grocery store annoyance. The cart. Along with not wanting some kid who probably just spanked his monkey in the public restroom and didn’t wash his hands to bag my groceries; I prefer to take my shit out to my truck myself. I have no rational reason but why start trying to find good reasons for my behavior now. Recently I went to the fancy grocery store with wood floors, perfect displays and not one brat to be heard. Holy fuck, I found heaven! It was as perfect as perfect could be until it was time to take my bounty to my car.
“Do you need help out?”
“Nope, I got it. Thanks.”
“Really, I can help you.” (Sparkly smile.)
“No thanks, I got it.” (Touch my cart and I kill you. )
“I have to help you, Ma’am.” (Please don’t hurt me.)
“WHAT?” (Back up or you will never father children after I am done with you.)
Store Manager inserts his big head
“Our policy is that guests can’t take carts out.” (I’m the Manager and demand your respect.)
“Why not?” (Fuck off baldy.)
“Because we want to make sure they will stay on our property.” (You look shifty, lady.)
“The cart won’t fit in my pocket or car plus it doesn’t go with the toilet in my yard.” (Top that, Ass Bag).
“Ok, I will just watch you take it to your car.” (Because you might shoot me or put my head in the freezer.)
And so I took my groceries to my truck. Alone. Really slowly. I may have taken a few unnecessary laps around other cars. I think if I have to go back there, I will walk in front of the carry out guy really slowly and crop dust him all the way to my car.