Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Feb 4, 2010
Sep 17, 2008
Supermarket follies, II
This time I'm shopping for dinner. In the cart are a chicken, a bunch of asparagus, eight ounces of mushrooms and a spaghetti squash. The spaghetti squash was something of an impulse purchase. I'd actually been thinking about spaghetti squash a couple of days before--which shows you how boring my thinking is--when I spied one lone squash under a sign advertising spaghetti squash for $.79 a pound.
So off I go to check out. This time there are plenty of self-checkout registers available, but I don't do the self-checkout thing when I have produce. It's too much of a hassle; you have to keep going from screen to screen to identify the produce and often you can't find your item and all the while that stupid electronic voice is telling you to scan your next item or press finish and pay. Who needs the aggravation?
I get behind a guy with a cart's worth of groceries and wait. I'm not paying too much attention to the action ahead of me, but it all seems pretty standard: No missing UPC codes, no coupons that won't scan, no out-of-state checks that require a visit from the manager. The cashier, a tall young woman who vaguely resembles a melancholic giraffe, is scanning in the groceries in a business-like manner without any undue chitchat. Actually without any chitchat at all. Which is fine with me.
It's my turn. I've already put my groceries on the counter with the obligatory spacers separating my groceries from the guys ahead of and behind me. I offer my card and she scans. Time to scan the spaghetti squash. The cashier looks at the offending vegetable and takes a little cheat sheet out of her pocket. She punches in a number. I happen to look up at the screen: "Summer squash@$1.29 a pound."
"It's spaghetti squash," I say. "Not summer squash."
A small sigh as she reaches for the notebook on the side of the register where all the produce codes are kept. She's about to open the notebook when apparently she has an epiphany of sorts. She mutters something. Then, declares: "No. Not this time." Then she walks across the front of the store to the service desk.
Let me just interject, dear reader, that I made my remark without rancor. It was stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Nine times out of 10, I wouldn't have even noticed that she'd input the wrong squash into the register. And I probably wouldn't have said anything if I had. And I wouldn't have known the price of the spaghetti squash off the top of my head, either. But I had noticed this because the poor lonely spaghetti squash was offset from the rest of its friends in the the genus Cucurbita all by itself in a separate bin. I think it's also important to note the difference between a spaghetti squash and a summer squash. One summer squash at $1.29 a pound would probably cost around 50 cents. The heavier and much larger spaghetti squash rings in at almost $5. And those of us who have been woefully underemployed for nigh on 18 months can't be too careful.
Whatever. I don't actually get into the economics of the situation with our disconsolate ungulate as she scampers off before I can further enlighten her.
A pause ensues. I look back at the people behind me in line, now about 10 persons, and shrug my shoulders with a sheepish expression on my face to telegraph my apologies for having inadvertently become one of those people who hold other people up at the checkout counter. I'm thinking that identification of the offending vegetable might prove problematic as it is the only one in the store, it has no marks on it to identify it and the resident spaghetti squash expert is doubtless on vacation. I resolve to ditch the spaghetti squash.
The cashier approaches. I'm about to tell her to forget about the spaghetti squash when she reaches under the counter, grabs her purse and leaves the store. Apparently, I went too far. A girl can take all kinds of abuse, but when it comes to casting aspersions on her knowledge of squash varieties, well, she's just not gonna take that.
The woman from the service counter, who's right on the heels of the cashier, rings up the spaghetti squash as a supervisor comes up to me to apologize. I pay and go on my merry way.
I'm having the spaghetti squash for dinner tonight.
So off I go to check out. This time there are plenty of self-checkout registers available, but I don't do the self-checkout thing when I have produce. It's too much of a hassle; you have to keep going from screen to screen to identify the produce and often you can't find your item and all the while that stupid electronic voice is telling you to scan your next item or press finish and pay. Who needs the aggravation?
I get behind a guy with a cart's worth of groceries and wait. I'm not paying too much attention to the action ahead of me, but it all seems pretty standard: No missing UPC codes, no coupons that won't scan, no out-of-state checks that require a visit from the manager. The cashier, a tall young woman who vaguely resembles a melancholic giraffe, is scanning in the groceries in a business-like manner without any undue chitchat. Actually without any chitchat at all. Which is fine with me.
It's my turn. I've already put my groceries on the counter with the obligatory spacers separating my groceries from the guys ahead of and behind me. I offer my card and she scans. Time to scan the spaghetti squash. The cashier looks at the offending vegetable and takes a little cheat sheet out of her pocket. She punches in a number. I happen to look up at the screen: "Summer squash@$1.29 a pound."
"It's spaghetti squash," I say. "Not summer squash."
A small sigh as she reaches for the notebook on the side of the register where all the produce codes are kept. She's about to open the notebook when apparently she has an epiphany of sorts. She mutters something. Then, declares: "No. Not this time." Then she walks across the front of the store to the service desk.
Let me just interject, dear reader, that I made my remark without rancor. It was stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Nine times out of 10, I wouldn't have even noticed that she'd input the wrong squash into the register. And I probably wouldn't have said anything if I had. And I wouldn't have known the price of the spaghetti squash off the top of my head, either. But I had noticed this because the poor lonely spaghetti squash was offset from the rest of its friends in the the genus Cucurbita all by itself in a separate bin. I think it's also important to note the difference between a spaghetti squash and a summer squash. One summer squash at $1.29 a pound would probably cost around 50 cents. The heavier and much larger spaghetti squash rings in at almost $5. And those of us who have been woefully underemployed for nigh on 18 months can't be too careful.
Whatever. I don't actually get into the economics of the situation with our disconsolate ungulate as she scampers off before I can further enlighten her.
A pause ensues. I look back at the people behind me in line, now about 10 persons, and shrug my shoulders with a sheepish expression on my face to telegraph my apologies for having inadvertently become one of those people who hold other people up at the checkout counter. I'm thinking that identification of the offending vegetable might prove problematic as it is the only one in the store, it has no marks on it to identify it and the resident spaghetti squash expert is doubtless on vacation. I resolve to ditch the spaghetti squash.
The cashier approaches. I'm about to tell her to forget about the spaghetti squash when she reaches under the counter, grabs her purse and leaves the store. Apparently, I went too far. A girl can take all kinds of abuse, but when it comes to casting aspersions on her knowledge of squash varieties, well, she's just not gonna take that.
The woman from the service counter, who's right on the heels of the cashier, rings up the spaghetti squash as a supervisor comes up to me to apologize. I pay and go on my merry way.
I'm having the spaghetti squash for dinner tonight.
Supermarket follies, I
So I run into the grocery store to pick up the essentials--coffee and milk. At the front of the store the self-checkout lines are nonfunctioning and a woman apparently buying two months of groceries for an overcrowded prison is patronizing the only visible cashier. But the light is on at another register and I go over to investigate. No one is at the register and I sort of stand there gawking when a cashier comes over.
I put my grocery items on the belt and begin an in-depth investigation of the gum on display. Then I hear some sound coming from the direction of the cashier.
"I'm sorry," I say to the pudgy 20-something at the controls, "what did you say?"
A simultaneous sigh and roll of the eye followed by a deep breath: "DO (10 second pause while she inhales to ensure the proper volume, which is just a smidgen below a shout) YOU (10 second pause) WANT (10 second pause) YOUR (10 second pause) MILK (10 second pause) IN (10 second pause) A (10 second pause) BAG?"
"Do you always talk that way to customers?"
Eyes widen to mimic a look of injured innocence. "What?"
"Like I'm a retard. A deaf retard,' I explain. "Do you make it a practice to speak to customers in that tone."
More wide-eyed innocence. "I was just making sure you heard."
"Right. Save that tone for your mother."
I put my grocery items on the belt and begin an in-depth investigation of the gum on display. Then I hear some sound coming from the direction of the cashier.
"I'm sorry," I say to the pudgy 20-something at the controls, "what did you say?"
A simultaneous sigh and roll of the eye followed by a deep breath: "DO (10 second pause while she inhales to ensure the proper volume, which is just a smidgen below a shout) YOU (10 second pause) WANT (10 second pause) YOUR (10 second pause) MILK (10 second pause) IN (10 second pause) A (10 second pause) BAG?"
"Do you always talk that way to customers?"
Eyes widen to mimic a look of injured innocence. "What?"
"Like I'm a retard. A deaf retard,' I explain. "Do you make it a practice to speak to customers in that tone."
More wide-eyed innocence. "I was just making sure you heard."
"Right. Save that tone for your mother."
Jul 31, 2008
A question for my guest blogger
What's the deal with the federal job application process? It makes applying for a rebate look simple. I trust that you will do something about this now that you're in a position of power.
Jun 19, 2008
May 27, 2008
Does anti-virus software really work?
Or does it just exist to constantly install updates that cause my computer to freeze up, thus making my life a living hell?
May 18, 2008
Which is which?
Top secret blogger meeting with Jonathan from ChicagoBoyz, fellow Boy David Foster, who also posts at Photon Courier and gentleman blogger Eric Scheie of Classical Values. If I revealed anymore, I'd have to kill you.
(Photo by Jonathan)
May 15, 2008
May 13, 2008
May 8, 2008
Cinderella story
BubbleShare: Share photos - Find great Clip Art Images.
The moral of the tale: Your shoes can make you or break you.
The moral of the tale: Your shoes can make you or break you.
May 2, 2008
Great moments in horse racing history
The run for the roses. The most exciting two minutes in sports. Tomorrow is the 134th running of the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs, arguably the most important thoroughbred race of the year.
One of the reasons the first jewel of the Triple Crown has become so important is its role as kingmaker. From Citation to Affirmed, many of the greatest horses of all time came to the world's attention at the Kentucky Derby.
Secretariat runs the fastest Derby ever
Secretariat was famous even before he won the Triple Crown and he was the favorite to win for the Derby. But the horse known as Big Red lost his final race before the Kentucky Derby, so there were some questions. But not for long.
Secretariat went on to win the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, which he won by 31 lengths. That week Big Red made the cover of Time, Newsweek and Sports Illustrated—the first and last time that ever happened.
Read the rest here.
One of the reasons the first jewel of the Triple Crown has become so important is its role as kingmaker. From Citation to Affirmed, many of the greatest horses of all time came to the world's attention at the Kentucky Derby.
Secretariat runs the fastest Derby ever
Secretariat was famous even before he won the Triple Crown and he was the favorite to win for the Derby. But the horse known as Big Red lost his final race before the Kentucky Derby, so there were some questions. But not for long.
The 13-horse Derby shaped up as a duel between Secretariat and Sham. The two held back early -- Secretariat at the rear; Sham just off the lead. Then Laffit Pincay moved Sham to the front just before the final turn. Turcotte moved Secretariat to the outside to close on Sham, who was picking up steam.
"I didn't think anybody would be able to catch him," Pincay said of Sham. "I knew we were going to win."
Secretariat had other ideas. He caught Sham halfway down the stretch and won by 2 1/2 lengths in a world-record time of 1:59 2/5, the only Derby winner to crack two minutes.
Secretariat went on to win the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes, which he won by 31 lengths. That week Big Red made the cover of Time, Newsweek and Sports Illustrated—the first and last time that ever happened.
Read the rest here.
Apr 7, 2008
Mar 28, 2008
I'm a monotasker
Or is it unitasker?
Anyway, I'm not a multitasker. Now if you had asked me a year or so ago whether I was a multitasker, I'd have answered with a resounding YES. I always pictured myself with one ear on the phone, editing a story while reading about the season's hottest shoes.
Now I feel grateful when I accomplish one thing. Doing two things at once is out of the question. And it takes me forever to switch gears from one task to another.
Am I getting old? Has working from home diminished my multitasking skills? Is there even such a thing as multitasking? And if there is, does it work?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Anyway, I'm not a multitasker. Now if you had asked me a year or so ago whether I was a multitasker, I'd have answered with a resounding YES. I always pictured myself with one ear on the phone, editing a story while reading about the season's hottest shoes.
Now I feel grateful when I accomplish one thing. Doing two things at once is out of the question. And it takes me forever to switch gears from one task to another.
Am I getting old? Has working from home diminished my multitasking skills? Is there even such a thing as multitasking? And if there is, does it work?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Mar 26, 2008
Mar 12, 2008
Mar 10, 2008
The horror
I spent the better part of my weekend without TV, Internet or phone service. This isn't supposed to happen. I know because of all those commercials where the cable company talks about how much more reliable cable is than satellite.
Mar 5, 2008
Little pieces of perfection
The first cup of coffee in the morning.
A perfectly ripe melon.
A freshly washed body sliding into freshly washed sheets.
A perfectly ripe melon.
A freshly washed body sliding into freshly washed sheets.
Feb 27, 2008
Feb 20, 2008
Are my sister and I
The only two women in the USA under 50 without a tattoo?
While in San Francisco, we went here for massages, before which we lolled around in the communal baths. It was a women-only day so most people stripped down to nothing. And everyone had a tattoo. Young, old,fat, thin, white, black, Asian. Didn't matter. Everyone, except for me and my sister, had some form of body art. The most common being the tramp stamp, but there were branded wrists, ankles, boobs, butts and inner thighs galore.
Tattoos, I understood, used to be thought of as daring. Now that everyone has one, though, haven't they lost their dark allure?
While in San Francisco, we went here for massages, before which we lolled around in the communal baths. It was a women-only day so most people stripped down to nothing. And everyone had a tattoo. Young, old,fat, thin, white, black, Asian. Didn't matter. Everyone, except for me and my sister, had some form of body art. The most common being the tramp stamp, but there were branded wrists, ankles, boobs, butts and inner thighs galore.
Tattoos, I understood, used to be thought of as daring. Now that everyone has one, though, haven't they lost their dark allure?
Feb 18, 2008
Hello, world
Sorry for my long, unexplained absence. I've been sick for the last two weeks. Very sick, with I don't know what, perhaps the flu. In any event, I haven't been up to much beyond contributing to the world's mucus production.
Being ill is kind of like living on a remote island with no amenities. You spend your days trying to coax food out of an uncompromising rocky patch of land and hauling water to a few head of undernourished sheep. You get the news of the world once a week when the mail boat arrives, but it's already over a week old and it really has no connection with your existence.
Actually, I've been feeling kind of out of it since I left for California three weeks ago. I left the day of Bush's last State of the Union speech and by the time I was settled into my hotel room even the postmortems were over. I'd already been locked out of my blog and my email for several days and I had no time before my interview the next day to peruse my complementary copy of USA Today.
I reconnected with the world briefly on Wednesday and Thursday at an Internet cafe a few blocks from my sister's apartment in San Francisco, but by that time I was completely behind on my paid work so I spent my time researching romantic places to vacation, celebrity real estate investors and over-the-top celebrity weddings. (See also 14 most romantic movies.)
I spent that Friday flying back, returning on Saturday at 1:30 am. Saturday and Sunday were spent finishing up already late assignments. Monday doing errands. Tuesday I found out I didn't get the California job and Wednesday I came down with the plague.
So you're all caught up.
Being ill is kind of like living on a remote island with no amenities. You spend your days trying to coax food out of an uncompromising rocky patch of land and hauling water to a few head of undernourished sheep. You get the news of the world once a week when the mail boat arrives, but it's already over a week old and it really has no connection with your existence.
Actually, I've been feeling kind of out of it since I left for California three weeks ago. I left the day of Bush's last State of the Union speech and by the time I was settled into my hotel room even the postmortems were over. I'd already been locked out of my blog and my email for several days and I had no time before my interview the next day to peruse my complementary copy of USA Today.
I reconnected with the world briefly on Wednesday and Thursday at an Internet cafe a few blocks from my sister's apartment in San Francisco, but by that time I was completely behind on my paid work so I spent my time researching romantic places to vacation, celebrity real estate investors and over-the-top celebrity weddings. (See also 14 most romantic movies.)
I spent that Friday flying back, returning on Saturday at 1:30 am. Saturday and Sunday were spent finishing up already late assignments. Monday doing errands. Tuesday I found out I didn't get the California job and Wednesday I came down with the plague.
So you're all caught up.
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