Blog lingo can lead to some interesting thoughts. I was noticing how a blog page consists of post after post. How like a fence it is. Why not name your blog after a fence -something like "white picket" or "barbed-wire"? Maybe, just maybe.
Where do I come up with things like this?
A couple of college girls came through my line today buying a couple cases of alcohol. I love how old people will call it "booze" or "beer" but the younger crowd proudly displays their coolness by referring to each case by its brand name. It's liquor and they know what it's called now.
"Just a case of Tecate today. That's all a guy needs, right?" says idiot #47. I find it sad that a vast amount of college students define their life and good times with what liquid they are obsessed with guzzling, and subsequently vomitting -paying out cash to do it all.
Back to the 2 girls. The fact that they were buying cases of alcohol didn't have anything to to with my story. In the middle of the transaction, one of the girls busted out singing Enrique Iglesias's "Do you know what it feels like?!" And dancing in place. I live for moments like this! I don't know how I managed to keep from laughing out loud.
Funny things happen regularly when your employment deals with the general masses of the public. An old lady in the line next to mine was trying to get her husband's attention. Instead of using the usual loud name shout, she had a bit of fun with it. She put her hand up to her mouth and leaned forward and in a low and loud manly sort of tone she hollered, "WHOA, Walter!"
She repeated it over and over, pausing to chuckle between shouts, and each shout growing louder, the name being stretched out longer, until her embarrassed and irritated spouse found his way to her side. Thank you ma'am, whoever you are! You just improved my day by about 85 percent.
I've found out that I can strike up conversation with almost any woman. All I have to do is hold up a food item they're buying and ask, "Are these good?" The rest of the check-out process flies by as I'm swept off into a miniature consumer review type info-mercial brought to life. Not only do I get all the product review I want and more, but where else to buy it and for what price.
Some people are insanely fastidious about grocery placement. I am amused by the fact that people agonize over the plight of their loaves of bread. "Oh! Would you wait and put that on top of everything else? I just don't want it to get crushed!"
Oh, dear! I had no idea we were dealing with such a precious item! Poor bread! Would you like to cradle it in your arms for a moment to calm it down before nestling it softly in the safe upper-rack of the cart where your child would normally sit? I would've put it there myself before I sensed the look of horror on your face. There, there. Shush. It's ok.
And some who shop as couples will have one person acting as handler of funds (usually the wife), and the other as cart Nazi. They take a firm step between you and the cart -and no item shall be placed into the cart except by the hand appointed by the Fuhrer. Sometimes, I imagine myself sneaking around the outer perimeter of his work-zone and placing an item or two into the cart just to see the reaction-but that's just the mischief in me.
And item placement seems so important to some people, and yet the trip to be made out to the car will be over in 3 minutes or less, under 50 yards, and all the items will then be removed from the cart and put into the car. It doesn't make a lot of sense. But I suppose item placement into the rectangular area of the basket is a bit like a game of Tetris for some people -a game of Tetris that you do not want to interrupt. Because you know how disappointing it is when all the blocks stack up and clog the top of the screen and you don't pass the level.
I noticed something today. An older man was making a purchase and his cell-phone rang. Noticing that it was his wife calling, he answered the phone lovingly, "Yes, my dear?"
Where has tenderness and sincere goodness like this gone?
It's an old fence -cedar posts braving the scour of years, outlasting the men who planted them, in slow decay, until the fence is only evident in vague intervals.