Have you ever had one of those moments when you are caught unawares and then bluster about so much so as to make folks wonder what the heck is wrong with you? Yeah, I have those moments on a near daily basis. And nothing brings it on like a trip to the grocery store.
First off, you need to recall that I am a crazy magnet, as well as a magnet for disaster. These monikers were given to me by others who know me well. And they are right. Put that kind of energy in one person and then give her a shopping cart and a list and you have a recipe for disaster. Really.
Take the night when I was doing a little midnight shopping. There was a mom with a new baby in her cart. I being the ripe old age of 20 had no idea why you would take an infant out so late at night. Of course, this was before I had ever experienced 20 hours of infant wailing. Three kids later and I can proudly say my children have been shopping at all hours of the day. Anyhoo. I’m rolling through the store picking up the necessities of life for a newly 20-something: caffeine, sugar, chocolate, chips, ice cream. All the food groups. Around the corner I come and I spy this sweetly smiling baby in the cart. I start smiling and cooing and promptly run my cart into the edge of the end-cap display.
“Clean-up on isle 12.” My cheeks still burn. Oh, did I mention that this was in a college town? My college town? And that there were fellow college students present for this little debacle. Feel the burn, feel the burn.
Okay, now we’ve established that I’m not perhaps the best driver of shopping carts. Especially not when I’m distracted, which is easily accomplished. Yep, a magnet for disaster – usually of my own making.
Let’s now look at the crazy magnet part of the equation. Not only do people make conversation with me in the grocery store, but some of them seem to want to come home with me. Typically, this occurs near the canned meat isle. Nothing like canned tuna fish to bring out the best in a person.
Now, I share this with you to establish that my trips to the grocery store can leave me just a wee unsettled. And not just because a gallon of milk is so dang expensive. So, you can imagine what I looked like the first time I went through the check-out lane at a local grocery store that has one of those “membership” types of doo-hickies that gives one person a different price than another person. (This can really add to my math-disabled shopping experience when I have limited currency, let me tell you!) So, I nonchalantly put out my hand for my change and receipt and the clerk quips, “Here you go Mrs. Sanchez. Have a nice day.”
I took my change, smiled, and pushed my cart, all while this ran through my head: “Mrs. Sanchez? Is that what she said? Nah, couldn’t be. Must have heard her wrong. The baby was squalling in my hear. Yeah, that must be what happened. Mrs. Sanchez? Hmm.”
After about three more trips I thought I was loosing my mind.
Of course, the most disturbing part of this whole thing was when I finally looked at my receipt and realized that there, emblazoned upon the receipt was, indeed, the name “Steve Sanchez.” Hmm, ring on my finger, a whole passel of kiddos and it makes sense that the assumption would be “Missus.” But Sanchez? Where in blue blazes did this come from?
Turns out that sometime in the past century, some nice person named Steve Sanchez had the same phone number as moi.
Now, the funny thing is that I have stopped by customer service at least 8 times in the attempt to get myself married to my actual husband. No can do. Apparently this particular grocery chain doesn’t believe in divorce. But they do espouse polygamy.
The funny thing is nowdays, I just smile and respond appropriately to being hailed as “Mrs. Sanchez.” I’ve decided that I might as well have a good time with the whole thing. So Mr. Sanchez? Yeah, he’s one heck of a hottie.