I went grocery shopping today. Yes, clap for me, I know you're happy.
My two older boys were on a playdate with Chuck, so it was just me, Cam and his behemoth car carrier. It was cold out and I was feeling lazy so I left him in his carrier and plopped him right into the shopping cart.
I only needed a few items and I had coupons—yes, coupons!—but we all know how that goes:
Crap, I need granola bars.
Oops, coffee too.
And dammit, eggs.
By the time I got to the checkout, Cam was surrounded by a teetering tower of groceries.
I chucked everything onto the belt and reached for my coupons.
My pockets were empty. I had left the stupid coupons in the car. Even worse, my store card wasn't working so I wasn't getting any of my precious Bonus Bucks.
"Just take your receipt and coupons to the service desk," the perky clerk told me. "They'll take care of you."
The bagger stood there with the bags. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, nodding at Cam, who was occupying all the room in the shopping cart.
"Heck if I know," I joked. He didn't laugh.
I swung the 50 bags over my shoulders, like the shameless packmule I've become, then pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and unloaded the groceries. I grabbed the coupons and pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk.
"Can you honor these coupons?" I asked the clerk.
"Sure, I just need the receipt," he said.
I reached into my pocket. Then the other. Both empty. I remembered the last thing the clerk had said to me: "Do you want your receipt in the bag?"
"I'll be right back," I told the clerk.
I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and opened the trunk.
I grabbed the receipt from the bag and pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk.
"I have the receipt," I told the clerk. "And here are the—"
I reached into my pocket. Then the other. Both empty.
"Omigod, I'll be right back."
I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car and opened the trunk. The coupons were there, lying on top of a loaf of bread. I grabbed the coupons and said aloud, "I have the coupons. I have the receipt." I pushed Cam and the cart to the service desk. I was sweating like a pig.
"Here are the coupons and the receipt." I said proudly. "I also need my Bonus Bucks."
"What's your phone number?"
"I don't have an account for that number. Last name?"
"Can you try my husband's number? It's 860-xxx-xxxx."
"There's an account but the name isn't Mullet."
"Is it Lucky? Chuck Lucky? That's my husband! I didn't change my last name when I got married."
He didn't look up. "We'll mail you new cards."
I pushed Cam and the cart out to the car.
"I don't #$(*^#&%@#*&@*()#!^*ing believe it," I told Cam. "All of that." I ripped off my winter coat, wiped the steam from my glasses and got into the car. Then I looked down at my receipt.
I burst out laughing. Hysterically. Loud and side-splitting, like a crazy woman.
I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Then, because I have had three children, I went home and changed my pants.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.