Younger, more patient me came to accept the fact that every once in a while, you just have to stop and ask, “What the...?”. The problem older me has with this is that I seem to be asking this question far too often. I don't know if it's that I'm more observant, more curmudgeonly, or if everyone else on the planet has plum given up. Maybe it's a combination, but I'll let you decide as we relive a very recent, very typical Saturday afternoon I spent running errands with the kids.
First stop – the grocery store.
Now, I can accept the fact that shoppers in my local grocery store move as randomly and haphazardly as ping-pong balls on Mega-Millions night. I can even accept my shattered kneecap caused by the shopping cart of the woman who decided to make an abrupt U-Turn without signaling. Sometimes you remember that you forgot Cheez Whiz four aisles back. But what I'll never understand is this guy's inability to nest the little blue baskets under the conveyor belt. This is a blatant and hostile act that takes more effort to accomplish than if he put it away the right way. What the...?
Now, I can accept the fact that shoppers in my local grocery store move as randomly and haphazardly as ping-pong balls on Mega-Millions night. I can even accept my shattered kneecap caused by the shopping cart of the woman who decided to make an abrupt U-Turn without signaling. Sometimes you remember that you forgot Cheez Whiz four aisles back. But what I'll never understand is this guy's inability to nest the little blue baskets under the conveyor belt. This is a blatant and hostile act that takes more effort to accomplish than if he put it away the right way. What the...?
Did he ride the short bus to school after failing the square peg-round hole test, this boy with skewbasketosis? Ultimately to be fired from his job at the paper cup packaging plant because he could only squeeze 9 cups into the 50 count bag? What must the bowls in his cupboard look like, all asunder?As usual, I pull the stack of baskets out and rearrange them. Wegman's can thank my OCD for this.
My kids begin to whine that they're hungry. I remind them that I fed them last week, but they persist. I agree to stop at a nearby Dunkin Donuts for bagels and hot chocolate.
As we exit the super market parking lot, I'm struck by 
the sign I see spiked into the ground. WE BUY SCRAP GOLD.
Scrap Gold? Is that like scrap diamonds or scrap cash? Or are they expecting to be paid
a visit by the kid who stocks the shelves at
Fort Knox, hoping to claim some of those gold bars that have survived past their sell-by dates? What the...?
Scrap Gold? Is that like scrap diamonds or scrap cash? Or are they expecting to be paid
a visit by the kid who stocks the shelves at
Fort Knox, hoping to claim some of those gold bars that have survived past their sell-by dates? What the...?
As we arrive at Dunkin Donuts, we see all that is left are the NOINO bagels (noy-no). Fortunately, a fresh batch of plain bagels have come out of the oven, and rather than 
risk a NOINO, the kids opt for those. What the...?
One thing not seen in this picture is the Tips jar. Why does everyone feel they are entitled to tips for doing their job? I can see tipping a waiter or call girl, but someone who essentially functions as a cashier? If this Dunkin Donuts didn't exist, I could simply drive two miles down the road to another one. If we customers didn't exist, however, this Dunkin Donuts would go out of business (depriving the world of NOINO bagels). I decide to make my own tip jar and carry it around with me.
risk a NOINO, the kids opt for those. What the...?One thing not seen in this picture is the Tips jar. Why does everyone feel they are entitled to tips for doing their job? I can see tipping a waiter or call girl, but someone who essentially functions as a cashier? If this Dunkin Donuts didn't exist, I could simply drive two miles down the road to another one. If we customers didn't exist, however, this Dunkin Donuts would go out of business (depriving the world of NOINO bagels). I decide to make my own tip jar and carry it around with me.
Their tummies now full, it's off to our last stop of the day – Barnes & Noble to buy a few more books for my sixteen year old daughter. We stop at the TEENS section where I begin flipping through some of the new releases prominently displayed on a table.
One of the books that catches my eye is “Baby Names”. At first I thought it was a cutesie named book that didn't just list all the possible names for boys and girls. I was wrong.
What other titles will be popping up on the Teens table? “How To Score the Best Crack”? “When Dropping Out is Best for You”? “What Do Parents Know, Anyway?”? What the...? I took a picture with my cell and figured I'd show it to the clerk, just for kicks. I knew the conversation would go one of two ways: We would both get a good chuckle out of it and they would find out why the book was there, or they would be a humorless sourpuss and spout some corporate gobbledygook about not being at liberty to comment.It was the latter.
Perhaps she mistook me for Mike Wallace or Morley Safer.
I wonder if "Morley" is in the Baby Names book?
On the way home, I see the gas gauge is getting a little low, so I decide to fill up. As my head is awhir with thoughts of NOINO bagels and scrap gold, I pass a van belonging to a Brooklyn seafood wholesaler whose address is 155 63ST ST. Sixty Thirst Street!
I try to get closer to get a picture of the door, but the van eludes me with Nessie-like skill. I regret that I can't stop them and tell them that the prized ST is reserved only for one, with two earning the silver with ND, three gets the bronze with RD while the rest of the field settles for TH. I decide that the system is too complex, particularly for those in the fish mongering field, and perhaps NOINO slinging Dunkin Donuteers, and think it best if all number ordinals be TH. Firth, Seconth, Thirth, etc. Perhaps I should run the idea by the woman at Barnes & Noble.
I ask the attendant at the Valero Station to fill it with regular as I get out to
check the pressure of my left front tire. As I crouch down with my gauge, I notice smoke wafting under my car. There's a cigarette butt, still aglow, inches from me and dozens of shiny little puddles. Bluebasket Boy from Wegmen's was here, no doubt, and he's trying to kill us all.What the...?
