Broom Hilda and soup

First, instant karma

I was in the grocery store this weekend doing a little impulse shopping on an empty stomach (it's really the wave of the future; you ought to try it) and, as usual, I made some smart-aleck comment on the state of the people in the store. I turned the corner into the "soup and prepared food" aisle and started choking on my own spit. If that's just not a message from the gods, I don't know what is.

Then, the dumbest joke ever

I generally like to treat people like they're humans. I find that no matter where I encounter another person, if I treat them like they're me (except perhaps a little less likely to blog about something) just working a job to pay the bills or out enjoying a little snippet of their precious free time, things go along pretty smoothly. So there I am, in the checkout line at the supermarket and the woman in front of me looks like she could be the lead in the cult classic "I was a bored middle-aged zombie working at the grocery store." She's got the dull washed out eyes, the stringy, was in fashion 20 years ago hair, and a huge crooked nose probably picked up in a bar fight somewhere. In other words, just your average northern Wistucky (sorry, Josh, but I had to) workin' stiff. Nothing to be ashamed of, and in fact, I can even hear her internal monolouge: "I hate this job. Soup. I really hate it. Roma tomatoes. Stupid people. Doritos. Coming to the stupid store. Bread. To buy stupid. Lettuce. Things." She gets done scanning everything and says, "Fourteen-eighty-nine." I'm thinking, OK, this I can work with for a little humor. "A good year, from all accounts," I say. And immediately regret it. That's gotta be one of the dumbest, kitchiest, requires-the-least-amount-of-brain-power-possible jokes ever. Yeah, not to mention overused by tools like me. Broom Hilda looks at me, completly mirthless, with the emotional response-o-meter pegged firmly in "contemp." "Hu," she says. Not "ha," not "heh," but "hu." And I figure I got off pretty easy with that, all things considered. But I'm no dummy. I been schooled all the way through grade 16, and I got a piece of paper to prove it. I know when I've been beaten. I shut up and stood there, trying to hide all 6'4" 260 pounds of me behind the little stand they have for writing checks and signing credit card receipts. When Broom Hilda handed me the receipt, I could barely bring myself to look at her and say "thanks," then scurry out the door with my groceries. I haven't been back to the store since. Anywhere I almost die, then find my best effort at a joke is lamer than a one-legged horse ain't for me, no ma'am. But I don't have to worry. That store'll be out of business soon enough. See, Super Wal-Mart's comming to town. Take that, grocery market of embarrasment.