Chopped

Ever see yourself on video and realize that your worst attribute isn't the size of your ass, it's your hair? I knew my last haircut wasn't quite working but until I saw the freshly-combed and yet unkempt flat mess that adorned my fat head, I had no idea.

Oh, it didn't help that I let my suit jacket hang wide open, either, or that my dress shoes are decidedly grandmotherly clunkettes, or especially that I was not smiling for most of the time I was on camera. But the hair was a travesty.

So yesterday I ordered the stylist to chop it all off. She did, and I'm still trying to reconcile that decision. If it's flat, I look like a fat, female, early sixties Beatle. Fluffed and pasted (she used PASTE to style it, swear to God) it's a little more spritely.

I'm not sure if I like it. I've always preferred it short, but this cut needs some time. Or less paste.

The one where she wrote about the pie

I got up Thanksgiving morning and baked three pies. Now, if you're one of those superwomen (or men) who managed to do it all, then I salute you. But me, I did pies, and three is my all-time record.

Yes, they were all from scratch. And yes, they were all with Splenda.

Pie #1: Traditional apple, with cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #2: Blueberry with some red raspberries and lemon, half Splenda, half sugar

Pie #3: Red raspberry with a few bits of apple and cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #3 was definitely my favorite. It was more free-form--more than a crostada, but less than a properly primped and crimped pie. We cut into it just after breakfast. Sweet, tart, like warm candy.

The other two pies were loaded into the Beetle and driven to Connecticut for Thanksgiving dinner at J's cousin's house. I fretted the whole way there that I'd be tempted to eat the obligatory pumpkin pie instead, but to my shock, there was no pumpkin. I was the only one who brought pie.

Not that anyone really ate it. Italians are set in their ways about dessert, and evidently, if it doesn't involve cannoli cream or mascarpone, it is not to be trusted. In fact, at the end of the evening, they told me to take my lonely little pies home.

And so I did. And we are just fine with that.

Giving thanks

Random moments on the art of appreciation:

To the stupid and bitter waitress in the diner who is far more fond of text messaging and grinning at her little doodad than bringing out lunch plates to people who really DO need to go back to work: quit. I'd like that. A lot.

To the customer in the same diner who shook her head, ranted loudly about Weight Watchers while ordering her turkey burger and steamed broccoli, black coffee, skim, I said SKIM, no one needs otherwise, SKIM: I had no use for your clucking and headshaking when my drippy beef cheeseburger arrived. It was divine, thank you. I did, however, appreciate God's wisdom in assigning you the text-messaging waitress who ignored your pleas for napkins when you spilled the SKIM all over your still-fat self. Didn't it go something like "Judge not, lest ye be..."

To little E, and more importantly, your parents, who have raised you and your darling brother to write prompt and personal thank you notes on your own, thank YOU. You make your aunt very proud.

To my self, for vowing to never blog about work, a big fat snort.

To Chef: the mouth, the soul, the passion. And now the laughter? Loved it. Loved every moment, every bite. Crackled and sizzled.

Behold: lasagna

I haven't been writing much lately, but I'm having creative little moments in the kitchen. Sunday I spent half the afternoon putting together two pans of lasagna, with some excellent ground sirloin from a new butcher--and thinly sliced zucchini replacing half the noodles.

It was almost a disaster when I realized we had no red wine--a must for the sauce. Thank goodness for the creepy little wine shop at the corner--I made it in the door one minute before they closed, covered with tomato, garlic and parsley bits, sweating like a beast and unabashedly untethered, much to the horror of the two old biddies in the parking lot.

Well worth any social shunning, let me tell you. Proof: J, who detests lasagna and once made me cry as a newlywed offering up my very first pan, ate 4 big pieces the first night. It was SO delicious--especially the celery, the garlicky sauce, the wine.

Why did I have to make him try it?

Lest ye be judged

I ventured out to Whole Foods today. While I love the store and what's on their shelves, I don't love the other customers. Snobby, entitled, and perfectly willing to snub those who don't meet their standards for acceptable shopping.

I don't even come close, of course, with my lowly black Monsac bag and my regulation Clarks sandals. I dress for comfort, not for speed. (Although I'd just like to know how the hell a $348 purse is unworthy. It's gorgeous, damn it.)

In produce, I feared for the end of the world, given the fervor that the other ladies displayed as they pushed each other, and me, out of the way so that they might be first to grab the dill, parsley, and golden beets. Two women, oblivious to big 'ol me in my tie-dyed shirt, combed over every box of mache, rejecting them all as I tapped my foot, unable to reach the organic herb salad mix and unwilling to say "Excuse me" for a fourth time. I was rammed in the ass and the heel, twice, and had my cart yanked out of my hands by a matron who needed to get to the oranges before I did.

Most of the men were just along for the ride. I babbled with one at the deli counter, as a primadonna demanded tastes of at least four meats and then, noting a line of customers patiently waiting for designer bologna, decided to tell the clerk how the last order just wasn't quite right. We both gave up.

In the bread section, I nearly fell asleep waiting for two teens to move their starry-eyed faces from in front of the self-serve roll bins. When I finally pushed my way in, their father clucked. At me. I resisted the urge to pelt him with a 7-seed whole grain puck. Or the urge to buy it, stale bit that it was.

But all was redeemed by the cashier, who was friendly, gentle, and quick. And might I add, a person with a disability. How cool that Whole Foods looks at ability and personality. I was impressed.

Of course, I had my horrid snob moment, too. In the parking lot, after loading my trunk and wanting nothing more than to pop into my car and drink my bottle of acai juice, I saw a man putting carts into the bin and asked him if he wanted another. And then I saw the keys in his hand. He was a customer, not a workerbee.

I was mortified and apologized, and he laughed. I said it was his good deed for the day, but the truth is, I was an ass. If it's any comfort, the acai juice tasted like cough syrup. Bad cough syrup.

Bad, sugar-free cough syrup.

The fish's curse

My last post waxed on about my lovely piece of pesto salmon, which was indeed delectable. Well, the next evening, ravenous after a long session at the office and some blog-sorting for Sahara's site, I realized I had not eaten at 10 pm and promptly grabbed the leftover pesto salmon from the fridge. Devoured it cold, with my fingers, in the dark. Still blissful.

Until it hit my intestines. The rest of that week, well, was painful. My husband is probably still laughing about it. Never mind that I have eaten cold salmon in salad all my life. If someone puts a curse on your salmon, you are doomed.

It hasn't scared me off fish in the least. I had barbecued salmon this week (salty), shrimp risotto for lunch one day, and I'll likely have waterzooi for dinner tonight. Let 'em all swim into my welcoming mouth.

Upstream

I broke loose from J's maddening fish ban (he claims a piece of my bland mahi-mahi was rancid this summer) and treated myself to a nice piece of salmon last night. I had forgotten how much I love fish. I just devoured the leftover bit, cold from the fridge, and it was just as yummy.

It's the simplest thing in the world--take a 3" piece of salmon fillet, top it with a teaspoon of pesto and a few bits of parmigiana reggiano, et voila! 25 minutes at 425, uncovered, and bliss shall be yours.

And yes, it's better if it's organic and wild, which it claimed to be. But then again, I bought it at Fairway, which also claimed that its corn was both local and sweet. What a waste of shucktime that was. Snort.

Speaking of snorting, I got the invitation for my 25th high school reunion yesterday. I decided early on (given that I hated the bitches who ran my class) I wouldn't bother until the 25th, and I stuck to that. Not exactly an issue, given that I was never actually invited before. Well, this year I made the cut, and those ninnies are wimping out. It's a Friday night high school football game, for God's sake, and then Saturday they're meeting up at a bar.

In other words, if you're from out of town, which I am, why bother? Long live their little clique of princess bitches. May they all have painful mammograms. Or something.

The kiss of death

No one said being a writer was easy. Truth is, the easiest part of it is the writing. My fingers rest on the keyboard, and then they dance. And I watch the screen, holding my breath to see what comes next. There are people in my life who struggle to get their words on paper, and it's just not something I comprehend.

Perhaps their writing block is something like my inability to play chess or do a cartwheel. No matter how hard I try (although I gave up years ago) my body and mind just do not make the connection. I'm at peace with both. But how can you live without writing?

Since I've started my secretive staff job, I haven't been pitching as much. I've completed some assignments and others have wandered in, gracefully. Earlier this week, an editor contacted me about doing some new work for a national mag. Naturally, I was delighted.

And in a stunning case of deja voodoo, the magazine prompty went under the next day. This is not the first time that's happened. What is it with me? I eat my blueberries. I try not to curse at bad drivers, much. I forgive and move on. And yet my karma swirls out and strangles perfectly good publications.

Something's got to give.

Giving me the chills

And another thing.

If I say "don't bring anything chilled" please do not ask me if you can bring something that goes in the freezer. Let me be blunter than blunt. One person, and only one, has refrigerator/freezer rights when we're entertaining. The rest of you, the rules apply. Simon says Bring Cookies! Simon says Get Out of My Fridge! Simon says Yes, Your Treat Was Delicious But Now You Put Me in the Ugly Position of Explaining Why You Could and She Couldn't! Simon Says PAY ATTENTION!

It's been eight days and I'm still getting over the party. We counted; including babies, toddlers, and grownups, we had 50 guests. If everyone had shown up, I might be the one curled up in a ball, whimpering. J is already thinking about the next one. God help us all.

Window dressing

There is something going on outside my window. Over the last few days, I've had multiple visits from a fat male cardinal, two monarch butterflies, and a swallowtail. I'm not sure if it's the super pink flower combo, or someone trying to send me a message, but between the fauna and the flora, it's rather nice to sit here, looking out.

Best of all, the squirrels have kindly managed to leave two of the 30+ apples on my Ida Red tree, so with any luck, I'll be able to pluck them off in just a few short weeks and taste the fruits of my gardening labor. Don't worry, I have a backup. There's plenty of rosemary in the garden, too.

The recovery room

Well, I didn't spit in the food. Nor did I strangle the child who screamed in misery all fucking day long, as if hanging out in my backyard, what with its personal chef, shimmering blue pool, and hordes of little people, was the ruination of his wretched life. I am patient only to a point. That point hit early, I'm afraid, and so when he let out his blood curdling bleats of rage, I whimpered like a lost little kitten.

It is probably a good thing I didn't breed.

At any rate, Rules 1, 7, 11, and 19 were violated (see "Are you a good guest" a few posts back). And because I am a bitch, I am adding the following codicil to my list of sins:

1. Turn my living room into the ESPN Zone. Um, we invited you for a party, not baseball night. We are proud Americans, but baseball sucks. You're not here to watch baseball.Next time I'm hiding the damn remotes.
2. You're not here to call the bookie, either.
3. Complain about pretty much everything I do. Don't like it? Sorry. Go home.
4. Don't bother RSVPing until the last minute. Thanks, that made it real fun to deal with the caterer. If you were juggling last minute plans and told us in advance, we're not talking to you. But for all those who could not be troubled to say yes or no until the last damn second, you suck.
5. Blatantly ignore the invitation, the conversation, and any other apparently too distressing request not to bring something chilled. Thanks for rearranging my refrigerator. Where the hell is my spinach?

Sigh. Oh, a note to whoever left their little baggie with Runts and Bottle Caps next to my chair. I ATE THEM. Ha.

Where's that voodoo doll when you need her?

Despite my desperate need to pee like a horse (white tea with mango seems to do that to me), I decided to stop at my favorite garden center on the way home to purchase a flat of something pink and fluffy.

Some weeks back, I planted all the window boxes with pink and purple wave petunias, and in mere days, they shriveled up like salty worms and died. So much for the promises on that pink cup. J insisted it was my planting skills (open pack, loosen roots, push into box filled with Miracle-Gro container soil filled with healthy bits-o-shit, water, and wait).

Alas, the slugs got them. Or so my mother explained, and I am not inclined to argue or search for the slimy things. Bad enough they hang out on the pool fence when we're night swimming, watching us and most certainly plotting our demise.

At any rate, with 32-67 guests descending on the house like locusts in oh, four days, I felt the Transylvanian gardening statement had to go (despite the fact that I am, in fact, half Transylvanian. REALLY. Wanna see my fangs?). And so, pee clock and all, I parked the pretty Beetle at the nicest garden center on Lawn Guyland, grabbed a cart, and prepared to purchase my pink flat. Hell, I would've settled for red, even. Whatever I could grab that was still verdant, all right?

As three carloads of people entered the store door, I was stopped 10 feet away by a young man who informed me the store was closing in 15 minutes. "No problem," I said. "I'll run in, grab what I need, pay up, and be gone."

Now this was 5:45. The store's site claimed they closed at 7 or 8, depending on where one looked. When I made it to the door (oh, 12 seconds later since I got the first spot) I was blocked by Brunhilde, the crankiest old woman I have ever seen in retail. "WE'RE CLOSED!" she barked. "YOU CAN'T COME IN!"

Now at this point I began to simmer. I tried polite reasoning. It pissed her off. I tried telling her the website promised longer hours. She was unconvinced. She wouldn't move. She raised her angry biddy voice at me. She bulged her eyes and tried to morph into a stinkweed.

"Last time I shop here," I retorted, and I tore my card in half and stomped back to my car. Tomorrow, I have every intention of calling the store owner and going ballistic. Every month, they send me a fancy 4-color newsletter touting not only their plants, but their exemplary customer service.

Service my ass. Their plants may be healthy, but their spirits are cold and dead, those people. I thought it was a fluke last summer when I, about to purchase over $1,000 in plants, asked when they could be delivered. "Oh," the nonchalant clerk said, "I don't know. Maybe a week. Maybe three weeks." (And no, I didn't buy them!)

Listen, all you descendants of Hicks (yes, it is Hicks Nursery on Jericho Turnpike, damn them): your customers are not pests. We are not downy mildew or blackspot. We are not even petunia gulping slugs. Last time I checked, 5:45 was not 7 or 8, and if you were too useless to change the website hours when you decided to start closing at 6, well, 5:45 isn't 6 either.

If that surly woman worked for me I would die of shame. And then I would come back to life and kick her ass from here to the Walmart Garden Center. Snort.

The glory of the lord

Most days, my greatest battle involves traffic. I'm forever racing to my Beetle, fighting to merge, gripping the wheel in fear and cursing the morons who:

1. Suddenly turn right from the far left lane
2. Run red lights
3. Yap on mobile phones, without headsets
4. Ride my ass even though I'm flowing with traffic and going well over the speed limit, in the middle or right lane
5. Exhibit other idiotic selfish tendencies

When feeling benevolent, I try to imagine that they are rushing to the bedside of a dying loved one, or are in labor, or something even worse. Most days, I just scream in my car, ugly snippets like WHORE! or NITWIT! or bits too ugly to blog.

They may well deserve public flogging, but I need to get a grip.

And this week, I've been working on that. Just a few days back, I used this blog to ask God a few pointed questions. Offered up a suggestion or two. Well, for some reason, God said nope. And a hell of a lot of people are trying to figure out why.

In the midst of it all is a sunny, bright kid who is facing cancer like it's a picnic with her favorite teen idol. She is calm, radiant, and full of wit in a time that most of us would be terrified. In a week, her life and her presence on the planet have become a story everyone loves to tell.

It is bigger than I could ever have imagined. It is as if a great whale has swallowed her up, with her parents, in a sea of prayer, love, good and bad advice, and hope. And there she is, swimming calmly and marveling at the sights.

It is grace beyond her years and frankly, mine. I am only the messenger--it is her tale I tell, late at night, after sorting through her mother's thoughts, scribbled frantically during a 15 minute computer session at the Ronald McDonald House. I weave and balance, knowing that 11 year old girls are reading, that a rock star has enlisted his entire list of fans, that a thousand born again Baptists are praying and clicking right alongside a crop of Jewish lesbians, a Vietnamese advertising executive, and a Muslim economist near Sarajevo.

Jesus will save you, the Christians tell her, and all over the world, a network of people who may or may not believe in God join hands and tell this child there is hope.

You can read about her real battle at www.saharaaldridge.com.

Let there be peace on earth

The neighbor has taken up the electric guitar. The neighbor does not have air conditioning. The neighbor has no natural talent for music.

Oh, goodness.

The fat lady cannot float peacefully whilst clutching her lime green pool noodle anymore. All she wishes to do is paddle about, not thinking about work, chores, or people who do not have the manners to be quiet and play with headphones.

Oh, but the fat lady has a plan. Mr. Fat Lady (AKA, the fat man) has a shiny electric guitar, too. And perhaps she would like to hear Flight of the Bumblebee.

I say a little prayer for you

The Lord may work in mysterious ways, but the Fat Lady has some questions. Now, she gets that it's all part of a master plan, and moreover, she shouldn't question it lest a lightning bolt should smack her in the head the next time she goes out in the rain.

But in her quest to be a decent human being who wants to learn from all this, she'd just like to know:

God, what were you thinking? Because the truth is, I'm having a rough time reconciling the fact that my friend's wonderful kid has a brainstem tumor and will not be blowing out candles on a homemade cake tomorrow, but will instead be meeting with a pediatric neurosurgeon. This kid is a shining light and the possibilities astound me.

If you are inclined to whack someone and make her parents miserable, couldn't you choose someone more, well, deserving?

Now I understand that means I'm stepping into Your Territory and therefore I'll shut up. But I'd appreciate any consideration--a miracle cure, a brilliant surgeon with all the answers, a scientist who figures out the right combo of chemo, radiation, and popsicles. You have the power. For the sake of everyone who's ever even heard of this child, use it.

Are you a good guest?

Dorothy once asked Glinda the Good Witch "Are you a good witch or a bad one?" Now, if Glinda's shimmery pink frock and fluffy clouds of strawberry blonde hair weren't enough to give it away, well, then Dorothy had clunked her vapid head a good one just before landing in Oz and picking up the slippers. So we'll forgive her.

But what we're not inclined to forgive are bad guests. Oh, J will forgive them and beg them to return again. But me? Bah. Piss me off twice and I will contemplate spitting in your food. I won't do it, for God's sake, but the thought will be there churning away and in my head I'll be chanting "Go! Go! Go! Go!" to the beat of whatever song amuses me at the moment. And if you are really bad, you will go into my book of bad guests.

Now for those bad guests who happen to read my blog, a caveat: being a bad guest does not mean I consider you a bad person. Oh, I may indeed. You may also be on my shitlist. I once served baked beans with real bacon to a vegan who had majorly pissed me off. And get this, she LIKED them. A lot. But she was not a bad guest.

So what does one do to ascend my Bad Guest Throne?

1. Show up with screaming kids. (I'll forgive infants)
2. Instruct said screaming kids to pee anywhere that is not a toilet, emergency pee bottle, or other approved tinkle-collecting device. Yes, I understand toddler crisis situations and will forgive one transgression if accompanied by profuse contrition. If they poop in the pool, however, you're dead.
3. Suggest that my upholstered furniture is the perfect place to practice tumbling and jumping.
4. Pick 70% of the chicken out of the chicken pasta salad because your kids like it more than veggies. So do we.
5. Run screaming into the David Austin rosebush, break half the canes, and then shriek at me because it has thorns.
6. Ask me, 30 minutes before arrival, what I'll have for your kids to eat. This is incredibly rude. Train your brats to eat what's offered, or bring something for them yourself, that doesn't require me to cook or rearrange my entire fridge. Trust me, if I know your kids are coming, I have prepared something from the list of Acceptable Child Chow Version 7.24b.
7. Show up with items that require refrigeration, kids or not. Cousin Debbie, you are exempt because I will SAVE ROOM for your fabulous cannolis.
8. Show up with something so pathetic, you should be ashamed. For example, a friend of J's once presented me with a box of 6 Dunkin Donuts, for 4 people. At the door, his 15 year old son told me he was starving and promptly ate 2. Gosh, it sure was fun when he ate two more for dessert (after devouring 2+ pounds of steak) and left 2 for the rest of us to share. Mutant.
9. Just as bad was the one who showed up with a 2-liter bottle of soda. Regular soda, which J and I never drink. And when he called to announce this gift, we told him we keep plenty of regular on hand for our guests. We have been shaking our heads all week.
10. If you can't afford to bring anything, or forgot, or couldn't find what you wanted, come with nothing. It's fine! Really! Sure, we'll dub you with a nickname (like Ronny-no-pie) but it's you we want, not your treats (again, exemption for Cousin Debbie, we will accept the aforementioned cannolis OR your nut cookies, thanks. 800 dozen, please.)
11. Your kids destroy my living room, and you don't clean up.
12. You plug the toilet, and do not bother to request homeowner assistance instead of flushing it 56 times and leaving the water teetering at the edge of the bowl.
13. You leave cups full of soda in the trash.
14. You put full burgers into the trash. At least cover them up so I don't have to spazz out over the waste.
15. Give me decorating tips and tell me what you would have done less than a month after I complete an 8-month fullblown kitchen renovation.
16. Refer to my house as a cute little cottage. It cost more than yours did, midwesterner.
17. Talk endlessly into the night when you can see I'm falling asleep.
18. Exclude me from conversations. There is a special hell for you and I'm gonna round up all my southern-drawling pals to duct tape your mouths and then force you to listen.
19. Arrive more than 10 minutes early. Park your ass around the block and wait. Or for God's sake, unless you are Amish, use the cell phone, and call to let me know. 9 times out of 10 I'll say come on over, and on the 10th, you will feel my unshowered hysteria through the phone and offer to bring wine, Xanax, or other calming potions.
20. Change the baby on my bed without putting down a towel or sheet. Ooof!
21. Expect me to provide towels and laundry service. One forgotten towel trip is fine. ONE.
22. Smoke in my house.

Gosh. Why would you want to come see me?

Off to see the Wy-zard

No, I am not dead. Nor am I pretending to be one of those monks who makes the good fudge.

I started a new gig about a month ago, and I'm still adjusting to wearing shoes and proper undergarments all day. And that's all I'll say about it, other than the people are nice, it's a good situation, and I'm writing. The rest of it, nope.

What, you think I didn't learn from Dooce?

Anyway, I'm off to Cowtown in the morning, to frolic with the nieces and senior nephew, the parents, and of course, Greg-in-his-adorable-new-hut. G has kindly offered to be my date for Picnic with the Pops Saturday night, where we will gaze upon Wynonna and let her lull us into bliss.

Back away from the fork and nobody gets hurt

The FDA has decided we are all too fat. No, really? But in their bizarre quest to downsize the American waistline, they've just taken aim at restaurant portions. They're suggesting that chefs trim the fat--and the portion size of restaurant entrees--so that our citizens won't eat ourselves into a state of greater distress.

While some portions (okay, most) are absurdly enormous, isn't the FDA going a little far on this? What's wrong with suggesting that people use judgment? Push away from the table. Put down the fork. Don't take the second twirl with the pesto mayo, no matter how divine it may be. The reality is, we know what we're eating. We know what it can do. And sometimes, we still choose to shovel it in.

I don't want the government regulating my body--and I sure as hell don't want them regulating my chef. Let him (or her) create joyfully. You want nutrition information available? That's cool. But leave my pretty plate alone.

Simply the best

When you are married, you end up enduring a lot of things for the sake of your spouse's pleasure. Now, before you cover the childrens' eyes and close this post because you don't want to know THAT much about the fat lady's private life, that's NOT what I'm talking about here. My goodness.

No, it's music. For the last ten years J has been blasting the oldies like a senior citizen whose hearing aid needs turning up. And I have suffered through many a concert where I am the youngest in the auditorium by multiple decades.

Well, Saturday, I began evening the score. I dragged him to Wynonna in Atlantic City, and I was so overwhelmed, joyful, and in love with her every throaty note that my lip quivered and tears ran down my cheeks.

It was a very good day. We had a decent drive, an excellent dinner that was more than a bit unexpected, and the best service ever from a waiter (Susan at East Bay Crab & Grill, you ROCK). The hotel room was free, enormous, and comfy, we had candy for the car and J seemed amused by my "pop a jelly bunny in his mouth and ask him to identify the flavor" game. I kept most of my gambling money (a whole $100) in my pocket and played on $20 for two hours and still came home with $57.50 over the $100.

He was happy because he got to see whores with tattoos. And because, on Sunday, we drove to Philly to taste-test cheesesteaks. Pat's and Geno's are on the same corner. Geno's wins by a mile--better meat, although less of it. Softer, fresher, bread. Comfier plastic tables that are not particularly friendly to those who eat a lot of cheesesteaks.

I sang Wynonna songs in my head the whole way home.

Krystal blue frustration

I really don't want this blog to drown in a sea of whining about abysmal customer service. But sometimes a girl needs to snap:

On Saturday I was foolish enough to stop by the Waldbaums in Levittown to do a bit of grocery shopping. Why foolish? Because this particular store offers rotten service--consistently.

Also foolish because I usually shop at the new Waldbaums in Jericho, where the service (and products) are outstanding. The staff members at Jericho are cheerful, know their products, and treat customers like valued human beings.

But Levittown is another story entirely--and my experience Saturday convinced me to never return. According to the receipt, my cashier's name was Krystal; she was, without embellishment, the epitome of awful. She treated me with absolute disdain: no greeting, no smile, just a look of scorn as she pulled my items across the scanner. When she scanned my jumbo delicious apples, I noticed they rang at $1.29/pound rather than the advertised $1.00/pound, and I mentioned this to her. Nicely. Rather than checking, she argued with me, finally sending a pleasant man off to produce to check the price. As we waited for him to return, she huffed, puffed, snorted, and finally turned her back on me.

When he returned and showed her the mistake was hers--she'd refused to look at the apple tags and instead input the wrong code, she glared at me as this was corrected. She completed the transaction in silence, just sighing enough to let me know that my choosing her line had ruined her day, or perhaps her entire life.

Gosh, so sorry to have chosen her line. Maybe her little nose stud was poking her.