Who knew the Chrisism confliction would have legs as a blog theme?
I realized this morning at 4:30 that I was the Old Mother Hubbard…I’d failed to remember to pick up dry cat food last night and my kitty cupboard was bare.
Normally, Mistress Myrtle’s feeding routine is:
Dried Salmon snacks when we wake up,
I leave kibble for her to nibble throughout the day,
When I get home, she gets a few more Dried Salmon cubes to tide her over to her 6:00 wet dinner.
Wet dinner is at 6:00. Do not make the mistake of missing dinner time.
Running out of kibble is not a situation I want to find myself in when the only thing keeping me alive is that I provide the food that The World’s Most Dangerous Feline loves to hate. Fortunately, I was able to double down on the wet food…”Look, Myrtle, it’s dinner for breakfast!”
She was not as excited about this as I’d hoped.
So, this evening; after changing, playing a bit and giving The Mistress her salmon snacks, I beat feet to the RiteAid for dried food. I also figured I’d pick up some beer and chips to inspire my dinner making creativity. I’d pulled some beef out of the freezer this morning and put it into a water bath in the fridge to thaw. When I got home, the whole damn thing was frozen.
There’s something seriously messed up with my fridge.
All this is pointing toward me having chips and beer for dinner.
Looks like my last meal would be Nacho Cheese Doritos and some Hop Valley Alphadelic IPA.
At least the beer was on sale. A 12-pack for $13.99 ain’t all that bad.
None of this in any way has to do with my confliction.
I get to the checkout, wait for Shaky James to complete his transaction and then step up. The very disaffected young lady – aka: millennial – ringing me up scans the beer and says, “ID for the beer”, which I guess passes for a complete sentence in her universe. I pass her my ID, she types something into her register, pulls her phone out of her hoodie pocket, answers a text, scans my Doritos, mumbles something about what I owe her and stops.
Then she answers another text as I ask her if I can put in my Plenty number.
She puts her phone down on the counter and makes a minimal fuss about forgetting about the store’s loyalty program, replying, “Sure…if you want”.
Then she tells me my total. This time I can hear her clearly.
I start to question the total as she answers another text, so I shut up and give her a $10.
Am I a bad person or just a grumpy old man? Surely being a grumpy old man is a condition that’s exacerbated by bad service, right?
The funny thing is, is that lately I’m scoring on buying beer. Over the weekend, I picked up a 6-pack at the Brodega. It was on sale, too…$8.49 from the $10.99 regular price. It rang up at $12.49. When I questioned that, the cashier asked if I was sure…so I went and checked.
By all means, don’t take my first word for it, let me verify that for you.
Me: Yup. $8.49
Hipster Cashier: Let me fix that for ya.
Me: The funny thing is that this is ringing up for $1.50 more than the non-sale price.
HC: <distractedly> Oh.
Not a question or surprise.
HC: OK, your total is $8.49 then.
Me: <thinking> Because you don’t want to charge me the $.10/can tax on this…right.
But now my confliction is, do I just complain about this cashier’s over-the-top poor performance?