Actually, it IS Rocket Science

Heavy sighs and Gene Wilder

Yesterday I made a trip to the mall because I had to return something and because I don’t like to tackle the weekend crowd at a mall if I can help it.  The local mall is really anything but; it’s more like Disneyworld at a Bachelor’s party- more like a grown-up’s idea of a theme park.  First of all, it’s completely open, meaning that there are no rooftops which cover the main drag between Nordstrom and H&M, and the whole place is designed to feel like a happy little hobbit town, with moss-covered awnings and fountains that are small enough for babies to play in without the fear of drowning, I’m not exaggerating.  I was at first surprised by this until I remembered that I had moved into a magical fairyland where it almost never rains and a place like this can therefore afford such luxuries.  Next, there’s a ferris wheel.  A Ferris. Wheel. in the middle of the entire place.  And we’re not talking about a rinky-dink traveling carnival piece of tar that you regret getting on immediately after boarding, but an honest-to-god stationary ferris wheel that will allow you to see several miles out at its pinnacle.  The first time I ventured out to the mall, I shit you not, the “Chocolate Room” song from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory played in my head and it was all I could do to keep from spinning around and tossing my hat up into the air Mary Tyler Moore style.

Upon crossing into Utopia, I walked into the store I needed to return my item to and took my place in line to await the upcoming transaction.  Being that it was a Friday and still somewhat early in the day, there was only one cashier and one manager on duty, so I found myself waiting in line for I don’t know, 10 minutes?  13, tops?  Nothing that would make blood start dribbling out of my ears with irritation or anything like that.  Plus I could tell that the girl at the register was busting her own balls to check everyone out as soon as she could, and she was doing a really good job for that matter.

Then I heard it.


And it was directly behind me.

I disregarded it, just figured maybe she just received a text that something more severe than having to wait in line had just occured.  Instead I visually window shopped around the store and took mental notes of what I’d buy had I been a multi-millionaire.

Then I heard it again, louder this time.


Shit, lady, do you have a respiratory problem?  Should I reconsider the leftover garlic chicken I had for dinner last night because I’m about to rescusitate you and I might simultaneously revive and knock you out in one blow?

I do know CPR.  However, I DO eat a lot of garlic.  I guess it’s a lesser-of-two-evils type of decision when it really comes down to it.


Here’s where I get really confused.

Because being in a place so miraculous and full of wonder and amazement, surrounded by the fact that you live somewhere over the rainbow where it never rains and it’s SEVENTY EIGHT DEGREES ON PERMANENT REPEAT, how could you ever find fault with some of the normal horse shit that’s bound to come up every so often due to the fact that you’re not the only person on the planet?

Finally it was my turn to approach the bench and we began the ritual “return mating dance.”  Meanwhile it appeared another cashier began her new shift and opened up a new register.  The woman who very clearly Mastered Summa Cum Laude in Impatience stomped over to her and proceeded to launch into what could only be considered a venomous speech to the poor girl who had probably just come back from a pleasant brunch with her sister of why didn’t they open a second register sooner and did-you-know-just-how-long-she-had-been-waiting-and-this-is-just-ridiculous-and-a-disgrace-and-I-just-can’t-believe-it-and-oh-my-god-and…

My registrar and I exchanged glances that I can only describe as an unspoken Whathefuck?

Then she graciously attended to my item return and went about the normal return rhetoric.  I waited until we came to a lull while waiting for the exchange to register on the computers when I then quietly murmured, “Guess someone’s got a baditude today.”

Girl LIT UP like a Grizzwald Christmas tree.

“Do you know how long these lines get on weekends?”

Chyeah!  Why’d you think I came here on a weekday?”

“This is nothing.  You didn’t wait that long, did you?”

“Nu-uh- PLUS it was just you here.”

“I just… Ugh.  I’m not supposed to talk about these things.”

“HA!  So does this happen a lot?”

*hushed whisper* “I just filter out the all the jackholes.”

And we finished up; I took my gift card, and began to exit the property.  But I have a bad habit.  You guys, I really do.  And it’s a reeeeaaally bad habit.  It’s gotten me in trouble a few times.  My bad habit is that I’m a vindictive bitch.

I am.  I once kicked a car simply because it cut me off as I was trying to cross the street on foot.  Not hard.  No damages.  Just embarrassing in retrospect.

Because I had entered into my transaction earlier than the other woman, due to normal circumstances I finished up before she did.  Which means that she was still at the register once I had completed my business.  And it happened that she was in my direct trajectory of departure from the shop.  So as I’m leaving the store with my gift card in hand and head held high, I offer one conferral of flat-out bitchiness in reciprocity of what we all just had to deal with for the past 20 minutes.



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