Okay. So I am in the grocery store last week buying a stash of personal-use Halloween candy. I have the youngest Monkey with me, which means that I am spending about a bajillion dollars over my fun-sized budget. It also means that I have spent the entire trip to the store saying things like "don't touch that" and "you don't need a toy" and "quit poking me in the butt." On Repeat. To Infinity.
Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.
So I get in line to check out.
I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:
1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.
But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.
I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.
"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."
This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."
She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.
"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."
NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.
VIVA LA OHIO!!!*
There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?
*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.