Taking It on the Chin

Yesterday at the grocery store, I rang myself through the self checkout. (I love those! You can buy all of the embarrassing stuff like condoms and tampons and marshmallow peeps without anyone finding out!)

But, I realized I left my wallet at home. Dammit 123Valerie!

So, I said to the Overseer of the Self Checkout Lanes, "Excuse me, sir." (Why did I call him sir? He was all of 17.) "I left my wallet at home. I'm going to run and get it, and I'll be right back, okay?"

"Whatever," said Brian, who I know puts me as his highest priority because his name tag said so. "Just go to the customer service desk."

I ran home. Well, I drove home very quickly, returned to Giant and quickly got in line to claim my supplies for a roasted chicken dinner. I was talking to Megan Jane at the time and regret to inform you that I am that person. On the cell phone. Ugh.

The Counter Boy behind the desk could tell by my harried look that I was the dumbass that came to the grocery store without her wallet, whose groceries he had to babysit for 15 minutes. And the very same person that talked incessantly to Megan Jane on the cell phone since arriving about important issues like leftover Peruvian chicken.

"Megan Jane, can you hold on? Hi. Um. I forgot my wa..."

"Yeah. I know who you are. $10.08." I think he snarled at me.

"Okay." Then, feeling about two inches tall, I did the old swipe-a-roo with the debit card.

"It says invalid pin," Counter Boy informed me.

"Oh, okay. Let me try again. Yeah, sorry Megan Jane, I put in the wrong pin number. Snort." Beep. Bope. Beep. Bap. Bope. Beep. Enter. Green button for Okay. Yes. No Cash Back. Green button for Okay one more time.

"It says invalid pin again."

Clearly, I do not posses the faculties to talk and push buttons at the same time. "Megan Jane, can I call you back?"

Our Giant customer service Counter Boy found it a good time to highlight my dumbassness to tell me that maybe I'm pressing too many numbers. "Most pins are only 4 digits long."

"Well, mine is six. I don't know why. I didn't choose it. Damn you Bank of America. Why couldn't I just have four measly little digits? Let me try again. Please? I swear this time I won't fuck it up. Please? Please? The raw chicken is developing deadly salmonella spores as we speak. Please, for the love of God, let me try to enter my debit pin again! I swear I'll do it right!" By this time, I was sweating and shaking under the wrathful gaze of the counter boy and the people behind me in line.

Beep. Bope. Boop. Bap. Beep. Beep. I waited with bated breath. Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please work. Success!

I walked away with my bags, much to the relief of the folks behind me. Sorry guys! My bad!

At home I unloaded the first bag, and thought, "Hmm? I don't remember buying whole wheat penne. Or a 3-pound block of cheddar. Or Italian seasoning. Hmm?"

Then, the realization smacked me in the face! (On the chin, more precisely, but I will get to that.) Counter Boy accidentally gave me someone else's package, and charged me the much lower price for my roasted chicken dinner supplies. Oh boy. Dilemma. Capital D. What should I do?

I had an in-depth ethical debate with myself.

"Okay, 123Valerie. I am fairly broke and I like whole wheat penne, big blocks of cheese and Italian seasoning. If I get creative, I can make a meal out of only these items."

"Yes, but they're not mine. I didn't pay for them. I don't even need whole wheat penne, a big block of cheese or Italian seasoning."

"Well, that's true, but I frequently overpay at the self checkout because I inadvertently ring up the organic produce and, rather than cause 17-year-old Brian strife and test that I am, in fact, his top priority, I just accept that I have paid double for the added benefit of carcinogenic pesticides."

"I have a point."

"Yeah, I know. And Counter Boy was mean to me, and I know that if I return with the extra bag of stuff, he'll somehow turn it around and blame me for talking on my cell phone like one of those people.

"Well, if I hadn't been talking on the cell phone, I probably would have caught that he gave me an extra bag."

"Maybe. But maybe this is God's way of saying that He loves me."

I made my decision. I kept the bag and did not return to the Giant to tell them they undercharged me for my order.

But, I found out that while God may love me, my skin does not. Remember that gigundous blemish I ranted about in the last post? The one on my chin that is going to have to start paying property tax? (Part of me wants you all to say, "Yes, of course, 123Valerie. We were captivated by your tales of dermatological woe." The other part of me would just feel sad if you did, so let's keep that a rhetorical question, okay my pretties?

It has grown a full head of hair and some teeth, like the abnormal growths our friend's Mom, Bernice, told us about when Megan Jane and I were little. Bernice was a nurse, and she KNEW about these things. I always imagined they looked kind of like this:
Eek! Look at the split ends on this thing. Someone get some deep conditioner STAT!

Bernice also continually told us that men in white jackets would come take us away if we didn't STOP ALL THE GODDAMN SCREAMING. We called her Bernice the Furnace.

She also told us that power tools are the only thing a woman needs to be happy. It took me some years before I understood the full extent of her advice. My parents just laughed when an 11-year-old 123Valerie came home one day and said, "Today, Bernice told us that power tools are the only thing a woman needs. Can I have a drill for my birthday?"

But, the point is that the once-gigundous blemish has grown to ridiculous proportions. They're giving the damn thing it's own holiday in Spain. It's so big, I'm going to have to start styling its hair and brushing its teeth.

Karma, folks. Karma. Was my facial deformity worth an extra bag of groceries? No.

Well, maybe the big block of cheese.

Tell me something embarassing about your self in the Comments section so that I can feel better about my blemish. The winner gets a kiss from my growth.

Special Shout Out to my darling Alex Adams for swinging by the 'ol blog. Double A is a hot, hotty, hot Pilot Pants who rocks out in Charlotte, NC, and sometimes Miami, F-L-A. Say a special prayer that his Mamma and Daddy don't get blown away by Ernesto. Though, rumor has it that Double A might like to get blown by Ernesto. Oooohhh. No you didn't.

Yes, I did.