Thursday, June 15, 2006

Personal Space. Mine. Fuck Off. Thoughts.

You know, the wonderful world of retail really does service me with enough people-time. Therefore, when I grocery shop, if able I frankly do prefer the self-checkout. I can stomach it asking me if I'm done scanning or if I've "forgotten" anything in the basket. I don't mind it yelling "undetected item in bag," or whatever the fuck it says to imply stealing from it, I just want to scan my OJ and go the fuck home.

I should also note that I had to go out for OJ because Derek drank it all. I was really planning on screwdrivers and West Wing (yes, just ignore that whole "My Dinner With Andre" blog, there are definitely West-goddamn-Wing nights, thank you very much). There was only cranberry juice. Cosmos are great but honestly, a little more high falutin than I was aiming for tonight, as could be witnessed by anyone on my grocery store excursion. I mean, first of all I went to the Albertsons across the street, where we only go if someone's ass is vomiting liquid or something. And I was just wearing my workout shorts and a really old Express cami (and I SEE other women similarly dressed but naturally they pull it off--it's like they dress up to look casual whereas I am geuinely roughing it tonight and don't give a fuck, I just want my goddamn orange juice).

Anyhoo, so I'm vaguely buzzed to where I can hear clips and bits of obnoxious conversation still getting through the filter and it just makes me smile rather than cringe. Apparently the cosmo hasn't sent me into Superior Mode and I can still manage to walk without sneering at everything. But I do cringe terribly when I am at the self-checkout (aha, we arrive at our point) and some wench like, JOINS me and shit. There are several self-checkout stops, just wait at the center until one opens up. You don't have to pick one and then hover over the shoulder over the fucking sap trying helplessly to scan her catfood while it asks for the cashier to verify the item code. Perhaps I am too precious with my personal space, but GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME UNTIL I FINISH CHECKING OUT. It's nearly nine at night, calm the fuck down and get away from my check-out area.

I almost asked her if she wanted to rub my nipples while I checked out, I mean, she clearly needed SOMETHING pretty damn fast. I was worried she was going to start humping my leg if I didn't get a move on.

And now for my little show and my little drink. So peaceful. So happy.


Veloute said...

I just want to say I love this post. People are crazed idiots and we should send them all away.

Not only are you most entertaining (this is the most satisfying blog ever), the evidence of the almost-nipple-rubbing woman shows that you must have great pheromones as well.

Ellen Aim said...

Hee hee, danke. Sadly, I feel like I experience similar renditions of this on a near-nightly basis!