The words that are most on the tip of my tongue these days are, “can you go any faster?” It is a paranoia I have, thinking that the person checking my groceries has deliberately set a pace that will make me want to reach across the conveyor and slap her. I wonder where these people come from. These people who always have enough time to take their time, and are oblivious to the perspiration building on the brows of those around them. It seems that when my time is at its most fleeting I end up in the line with the checker who wants to know my recipe for whatever it is I'm making that night. “Looks like you're making Fettuccine Alfredo. What do you put in yours?” she asks as she passes the butter, the Parmesan, the heavy cream and the cream cheese over her scanner. They should mark the check out isles, not with number of items, but personality types. I would always go to the Type A line where they understand that I am not here to share recipes. I am here to gather ingredients to cook a meal for my family in time to get the dishes cleaned up this side of MIDNIGHT! I want the grocery store that has a call ahead line, where you just shout out what you're making that night so that when you pull up to the store, the groceries are all waiting curbside, next to a person ready to put them in your trunk. Then I want the call ahead husband line where you just shout out that you've been to the grocery store preparing him to greet you at the door, take the grocery bags from your arms and hand you the open bottle of Valium.
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