Wherein I keep my cool...

So we're having Easter brunch here tomorrow (potluck, thank goodness). While planning with Ruth today I realized that what I'd thought was maybe a half dozen people was going to be more like twice that many, and only one person is bringing a dessert.

No problem, I figure I'll make brownies while I'm warming up dinner tonight.

So when I have everything but the mix together and ready to go, I open the box of brownie mix and discover, to my dismay, that this was the one thing in the pantry I didn't throw out when we had parasites a couple months back. Eeeeeeeeewww. And one more sign that I still fail at being houseboy.

No problem, Ruth is putting Theo to bed so I'll run to the grocery.

So I get to the store, grab a box of our fave Ghirardelli brownie mix and take it to the least busy register.

I greet the checker with my usual friendly "Hi, how are you," and she looks at me like I'm a filthy hobo who just ran out of the house in his worst clothes to buy brownie mix. Of course, she's an older lady, with a red dye job and an Uncle Buck mole, so maybe everyone in this lane gets the free evil eye.

As she's ringing the brownies, I swipe my bank card and start the dance of many button presses necessary to use my bank card as credit. As I do, I hear her say -- You'll have to fill in your own "Old lady from New England with a long relationship with Joe Camel" accent here:

"THAT'S AN EXPENSIVE BOX OF BROWNIES."

For real? That's your conversation starter tonight? Um...$3.79. Yeah, OK, I think to myself, so they're not store brand or whatever, but check that label. WALNUTS. In the MIX. And they're using chocolate from a company that's really good at, you know, making chocolate. Something important in brownies, the last time I checked.

I look up from the card machine to see her looking at me expectantly, as if her eloquence is about to send me running for Duncan Hines. Wanting (Lord only knows WHY) to remain polite, I smile and reply

"Yeah, they're really good."

At the same time, I win the game of "memory" required to recognize my card at this grocery. She pulls the receipt and tries once more to rescue me from the fudgy, nutty penury I'm about to eat myself into. Shaking her head in disappointment, she says,

"EXPEEEENNNNSIVE BROWNIES."

For about half a second, a completely foreign RAGE tries to force its way out of my brain, screaming things like "YES! MY FAMILY HAS ENOUGH MONEY TO SPLURGE OCCASIONALLY ON BAKED GOODS!" or "THANKS FOR JUDGING ME! EVER CONSIDER THAT I'M TOO FUCKING HEAVY TO EAT THESE MORE THAN TWICE A YEAR, SO WHEN I DO I'D RATHER NOT EAT CHALK?"

But I realize...this is obviously a miserable person. I was as friendly to her as anyone could've been all day, and all she can do is convene a session of food court over my dessert choices. She probably hates this job; I'm sure I would, at 7pm the night before Easter.

Heck, maybe she's even hoping that starting a fight with this hobo will get her fired. And why give her that pleasure? I fold up the receipt, grab my jewel-encrusted box of brownies and look her in the eye, smiling the whole time.

"Thanks! Have a good one!"