Chatter Boxes

I stopped at my neighborhood drug store this morning to "pick up a few things." Upon entering the door I glance to see who is at the register.

It's inevitable when girls go to "pick up a few things" that there will be one of two people working the cash register, 1) a dreamy young man who looks like he jumped off the cover of Teen People just in time to check you out. And not in the "Hey-baby-check-you-out!" way...I mean to scan your "few things" while you die a slow humiliating social death or 2) a burly, often hairy, gentlemen with tattoos and piercings in places my mother would not approve.

Today it was bachelor #2. His name is Larry. I'm not actually sure if he is a bachelor. He had a ring on his ring-finger but it was of a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. I don't know if that means he's married (to Satan perhaps) or if that's the only finger that would fit.

But this morning I had a plan. It's called "Self-Checkout". At this moment I would like to pause and say a quick thank you to Mr. or Ms. Self-Checkout Creator. It makes trips to "pick up a few things" much less embarrassing.

That is, of course, if they work correctly. I scanned my item and it rang up at twice the price. I try to click cancel to scan it again when the machine says out loud, "Please contact an associate for assistance." I don't want to...that's why I chose the self-check option!

I ponder whether it's worth paying double not to have to talk to anyone, when Larry dutifully makes his way to my side and I explain the problem. Larry picked up the phone and pushed a couple buttons. Then it happened. What every girl from the age of 13 fears the most.....