May 2, 2009

So while Earl was working this morning, I convinced Cubster that we needed to make a trip to the market. This is not one of my favourite tasks by any stretch of the imagination as I am not a fan of these big behemoth grocery stores that plague this area. (We have five Wal*Mart Supercenters within 25 miles of our house). The stores are too crowded, there are too many people yakking on their cell phones and drinking a cup of coffee whilst trying to navigate with their shopping carts and quite frankly I don’t need to be bombarded with a multi-media presentation every 16 feet explaining to me the proper way to squeeze a head of lettuce.

The only exception to my large grocery store rule is Wegmans.

I decided to drive a few extra miles to go to the one locally owned grocery store left in the area. The prices are a little higher but the store is a reasonable size, making it easier to get in there, fling the cart around a little bit, load it up with the items we need and dash out after a friendly checkout experience.

All was well with the excursion until we got to the friendly checkout experience. The cashier glared at me as I approached her lane. I double checked to make sure her light was on, indicating that the lane was open and that I wasn’t in an express lane. It appeared that I was in the clear so I started loading up the belt with our modest number of items. The cashier just sat there looking at me. I figured she was dazed and confused but would eventually kick in so I finished unloading the cart. She just stared at me. So I said, “So, what do we need to do to start this?” as I motioned to the items sitting on the belt waiting to be scanned.

She grabbed the first item and flung it over the scanner, whipped open a bag and shoved it in there. She continued her pissy approach to this for the entire order going so far as to slam the bacon on top of the strawberries. When she was done she barked out the total (she speaks!). I swiped my card, signed “Betsy Ross” on the signature pad and grabbed the receipt as she flung it at me. I said “thank you”. She said “You’re welcome” (two words this time!).

I have no idea what was irking her but it kind of soured me on the “shop local” experience. I think next time I’ll avoid Register 8.

Or find a grocery delivery service.