You can know anything. It's all there. You just have to find it.

-Neil Gaiman


Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Mysterious Ways

I probably shouldn't write about this.  Seriously, it's that bad.  But I decided I will.  Because I'm stupid.  Also, I don't have anywhere else to confess.  I'm not Catholic, so I can't just mosey into some church, find the squealer's booth and kneel down and say, "Guess what I did, Padre?"

No, no I can't.  Besides, God already knows what I did.

And now you will, too.

How's that for buildup?

Okay, remember that post about the Hoover vacuum cleaner?  About how it broke?  About how pissed I was?

Apparently, someone (Jesus!) heard me.

I ended up calling Hoover.  No, my warranty was no good, but that wasn't the best part.  The best part was the foot pedal that broke wasn't even COVERED under the warranty anyway.

My last line to the annoyed Hoover rep?

"Yeah, you know, maybe if you guys actually made parts out of metal instead of crappy plastic..."

Then I hung up.

I realized I sounded like some crusty old man, and I had an urge to open the door and yell, "Damn you kids, stay off my lawn!"

Except it's January.  No lawn.  No kids.  Only three feet of snow out there.

Okay, so I decide I'm going to get a new vacuum cleaner.  Not a Hoover.

So I go to my weekly place of shopping.  Rhymes with Schmarget.  It's Sunday.  Middle of the afternoon, read: Busy, busy, busy....

I fart around looking at vacuums.  Look at the Dysons momentarily and cannot justify spending $500 on a vacuum, even if it looks like really cool aliens made it.

I pick one.  At first, I was thinking of a cheapy.  Mainly, I was sure I didn't want one with a plastic foot pedal; I looked at the ones with On/Off switches on the top of the machine.  I found one that was nicer than my old one, plus it had a 3 year warranty.  Plus it looked cooler and the colors were nicer.  Not that I care... except, all things being equal, I do care what it looks like.  Except all things are never equal.

So I decide.  It's the last one there so I load it in the cart.  Then I finish the rest of my grocery shopping.

I scan the checkout lines, looking for the best ones.  The best ones are not necessarily the shortest ones.  I stay away from the ones where old people are cashiers.  They are always too slow.  That's mean, but it's true.  They get confused when the scanner doesn't work right and invariably they have to call someone when the price won't ring up the coupon for that bulk box of tampons.  Yay!

So I always look for the young kids.  Specifically the dudes.  They don't try to have conversations or worry if the meat is thrown in with the bleach.  They don't give a shit if the bag is crammed full, worrying if it will be too heavy for my little arms to handle.  I like this, because I don't care either.  And the bag is never to heavy to handle.  Shove that sack of Yukon gold potatoes on top of the Clorox and hurry it up!

So I find my suspect and get in line.  He's a big dude, laid-back Jeff Bridges type of guy and probably smokes pot.  He loads my bags with groceries and I move the vacuum cleaner from the bottom and position it in the cart so he can lean over and scan it.  Then I take out my coupons and set them on the register.  Then I watch the register like a hawk, making sure there are no mistakes.

I catch a mistake.  He scans the avocados.  There are two.  But he types in 24.  I say, "Uh, two avocados!"
"Oh, Sorry.  I always hit the 4. I don't know why."
"That's okay."  I wonder if he's high right now.

We are starting to wrap up here.  A line has formed and he's moving faster, maybe feeling a little flustered by the avocado incident.  He grabs my coupons and starts scanning, and thus begins my internal dialog, which I will call Evil Me/Good Me.

Evil Me:  Dude, he's not going to scan the vacuum.

Good Me: What?  Of course he will.

Evil Me: Nope.  He's distracted.  Or stoned.  Ha!

Good Me: Surely, he'll catch it.

Evil Me:  Uh-uh.  Keep your pie-hole shut!

Good Me: Oh, say something.  Really, now...

Evil Me: Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!

He says, "Your total is...."

Good Me: Say something!

Evil Me: Bitch! Enjoy your free vacuum!"

Good Me (voice fading):  You're going to hell!

I sign the thingy and get my receipt.  Already I'm practicing my "Huh, What?" face in case someone stops me as I walk away.  As in, "Huh? What? I don't know what's going on.  What do you mean I didn't pay for it?"  I keep walking and staring at my receipt like a mentally retarded chimp.  I'm terrified someone will stop me.

No one does.

I push my cart across the parking lot, trying not to run.  Trying not to look behind me.  I'm grinning like a crazy person.  Evil Me is laughing her ass off.

I then am crippled by fear.  Oh my God!  I'm in trouble.  Someone will tell.  I will get in a car accident on the way home.  Something.

I practice justify on my way home.  I deserve a free vacuum.  With the amount of money I spend there, I should get a free vacuum, not some of their stupid coupons for diapers and cat litter.

I tell Matt the whole story.  He is weirdly impressed with my deviance.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways!"
"Or maybe that's Satan."

By the way, this is a fictional piece.  Maybe.

No comments: