A Finger Wagging in Kroger
The other day in Kroger I got scolded for not using the checkout conveyor belt divider thingy. Never mind that my stuff was in a handbasket and thus self-contained, making the divider moot in the first place. Never mind that the guy in the Dak Prescott jersey ahead of me was in the process of paying for ALL his rung-up items. With an indignant look, the checkout lady made eye contact, slapped that divider down with a crack on the belt directly in front of my basket, said, “You need to use the divider,” and went back to taking the guy’s money.
Well. I stared her down, let me tell you. Stared her down with a thousand-yard stare like no stare has never been stared before or since, while she went on to flirt with the football fan in front of me.
“You think the Cowboys are going to win the Super Bowl this year?” she asked, and bless her heart, given that the Super Bowl had just happened – sans Cowboys, natch – the weekend before, my smirk perked right up. I waited for guy to correct her, but being a better Christian than I, he didn’t.
“Ma’am, let’s just hope so,” he said, and left.
And then it was just she and I. The Scolder and the Scoldee….
I read a book once where the protagonist audibly heard a clang whenever she was told a lie. I really related, because believe it or not, I mentally hear a ding whenever I do something I know is wrong. I’m dinging a lot, if I’m being honest. All day I toddle around slammin’ my jam, and the dings trail me like a brood of ducklings.
• Accelerate to 25 before I exit a school zone. DING!: breaking the law.
• Yell at Alfie after I trip over him for the tenth time while fixing his bowl. DING!: being mean to a starving doggie; if not a sin, it sure as shit should be. DING!: profanity.
• Half-ass cleaning my house. DING! for laziness.
• Feeling like a badass after a run that is unquestionably not badass. DING! and DING!: pride and vanity.
• “God, this bra is tight.” DING!: taking the Lord’s name in vain; I’m know I’m not praying for undergarment relief here.
• Thinking my friend at work looks very pretty but I don’t tell her that because I’m in a foul mood and feel like I look like that painting of The Ugly Duchess, withered breasts and all. DING!: being a brat and withholding a compliment.
• Being in a foul mood for no good reason and luxuriating in it. DING!: Jesus didn’t act like an asshole
• Eating like hell, with unrepentant relish. DING!: corrupting my temple.
• Surfing Facebook at work. DING!: laziness, thievery.
• Come on, it was only 5 MINUTES! DING!: lying, because it was closer to 15.
• Snarling at a Honda Odyssey (my Road Nemesis) ahead driving Granny mph but just fast enough to ease through the yellow light while stranDING! me in pole position on the red: “You mother-fuuuuu….n and delightful person.” DING!
• Giggling at stupid stuff the guys at work say, like when they call spanakopita “spank-o-pita”. DING!: having a low bar for humor. Not sure this one is necessarily ding-worthy, but JIC.
• Doing a hundred things a day I know I shouldn’t do. DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING, FFS.
I mean, I’m dinging all damn (DING!) day here, and all this is (relatively) minor stuff because there is NO WAY I’m outing myself on the internet with what’s really going on in my brain. My mom reads my posts. I don’t need her clutching her pearls and calling for her smelling salts. “Frank! FRANK! She’s at it again!”
Thus when it came to my turn in the Kroger checkout, and I had a Burn for the Ages™ cocked and ready to fire, the dinging was an elementary school fire alarm in my head, King James Version.
And for once – FOR ONCE – I let it go and swiped my loyalty card, mouth shut, because I am tired of all the M%ther-F*$%ing dinging on this M%ther-F*$%ing planet. Ding that, you dingbat.
Desperate times being what they are, I think I might attempt something like what’s described in this Reddit post. I’ve got an unused clicker around here somewhere from an aborted attempt to train Daisy (with laughable results). So instead of DING!ing all day, perhaps I’ll click myself into some grace or something. I told my therapist about it, and she’s on board.
