Anyhoo, we went to the grocery store after lunch and I had a nagging feeling that it might include some weeping and gnashing of teeth. This proved to be the case AND, as a bonus, some intermittent yelling, some begging for crackers, some hitting, a little biting, and a lot of "NO!" It was not awesome.
Sidenote: I think the little guy is feeling poorly, which would account for some unusually bad behavior. So, let's all give him the benefit of the doubt and keep thinking of him as the cutest, sweetest, best-behaved little guy this side of the Mississippi.
So, we shopped. And we talked to the butcher dude. And we perused the cookies aisle. And I got talked into buying Oreos by a two-year old. And then we checked out, whilst Sam said "No!" to the unassuming person in line behind us. Sorry, random lady, for my rude progeny.
And then, a little something of interest happened. I got carded. (I was purchasing a 2012 vintage bottle of vino for roughly $6.79. I like the cheap stuff. Plus, I have a great recipe for crockpot beef au vin with mushrooms.) The cashier glanced at my birthdate and noticed I was born not one, not two, but three decades ago. And, then, she said (drumroll, please): "WOW. You look good for thirty-three!!"
And then I said, "Actually, I just turned thirty-four." Why did I feel compelled to add on that extra year? I don't know. Except that I'm scrupulously honest, as you will see in just a moment.
I couldn't help but feel a little flattered by that comment, but after thinking about it for a minute, I wondered what exactly one would expect a thirty-four year old to look like? Is thirty-four really that ancient? Well, all I know is that Avon's miracle night cream must be doing it's job. Thanks, Avon!
After peeling Sam away from the tree of suckers near the cash register, we made our way out the door with our cart full of Ingles' finest. Back at the car, I put the little guy in, put the groceries in, and then noticed that something was under the cart that I'd forgotten about. Hm. That 8-pack of paper towels that was on sale for $6.78. Uh oh. I forgot to mention those were under there. I glanced back at the storefront. I glanced back at the car with the two-year old and the melting groceries in it (it was a steamy 84 degrees in there). What to do?!? Moral dilemma!
I decided to go back in, toddler under one arm, 8-pack of paper towels under the other. Wait, no. That was a bad idea. Said toddler was about to lose his mind for a graham cracker and the pre-naptime crazies were beginning to set in. Plan B: I decided to pull the barcode off the bag of towels and take it in so that I could explain the situation and pay for it really quick, maybe even leaving the little guy in the car with the air on. But, wait. What if a stranger decided to hop in my already running car and make a run for it with my little guy AND all my groceries. Um, no. Plan C: Write a mental I.O.U. to Ingles and pay for those paper towels next time I'm there. Check.
We drive away. I feel guilty. I feel shady. I feel like the police car waiting at the red light in front of me can sense that the paper towels in my front seat are STOLEN. Luckily, he doesn't do anything about it and I make my way up the mountain eating graham crackers with Sam while The Civil Wars sing "Poison And Wine."
Well, we get home and I unload the boy, the groceries, the contraband and then take a moment to look over the grocery receipt. And, as it turns out, that conscientious cashier who thought I was an ageless freak of nature had scanned those towels! No more running from the law for me! Pshew. I felt better. But, then, I noticed something. I didn't get the discount on those towels and actually paid $10.54 for those things. I think this may be my punishment for semi-shoplifting. Darn you, Ingles.
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| scene of the "crime" |
