Once a Bagger ...

Last week, Brian and I went to Hellmart to gather my supplies for my Great Day Green Country TV segment. Brian didn't want to be there. He never wants to be at Hellmart, but on this particular night he was coming off a three-day sinus infection that had laid him flat. Once my list had been checked twice, we went through our new self-checkout. I'm not sure what it is about the self-check out, but dang if it's not fun, right? There's power in that scanner, y'all.

I turned to Brian before I began scanning and asked, "Do you want to bag?"

He shook his head, so I scanned and bagged. Rwar! I am woman! I can do it all!

And I got it all in one bag. 

"Heather? Geez," Brian sighed and pulled another bag out and started re-bagging my purchases.

You see, back in the day, Brian was a state-champion bagger. 

No. I'm not kidding.

"I asked you if you wanted to bag," I whined when he was redoing my chance at carrying in all of our purchases in one hand.

"I don't. But I don't want to pick up a bag full of your stuff from the driveway when the bag breaks."

"You miss it, don't you. You miss bagging the groceries, stacking heavy to light, creating sacks full of groceries that won't squish." I teased as I paid out.

"I really don't. I just don't want the bag to bust before we get home," he sighed. 

"You miss the apron, right? You wanna wear the apron when we get home?"

It was at that point that he stopped talking to me.

But he did wear the apron around the house the next day.

Bless His Heart ... And My Heart, Too

Daughter 1 had decided to fry chicken on her night to cook. More specifically, she was going to fry drumsticks because, aside from nuggets, there's really not much else to a chicken, right? And despite my mad grocery-list-making skillz, we had no oil in the house in which we could fry chicken. This meant that in the middle of the week, I had to go to Hellmart. (PS--I am using a photo from Walmart's Flickr Creative Commons' stream. I'm still calling it Hellmart, though.)

I dropped Daughter 1 off at home after school and headed back out to Hellmart in the middle of the afternoon. As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted Mr. W coming from the store. I watched him for a while waiting for a primo spot to open up, and it was very clear that Mr. W couldn't find his car.

Source

Bless his heart. Our family used to attend church with Mr. W, who has just celebrated his 90-something-th birthday. He's a veteran pilot, whose late wife was also a member of the Air Force along side of him. When they finished their tours, they settled down, had children, and Mr. W continued flying commercially until his retirement. At that time Mr. and Mrs. W traveled with their trailer seeing the parts of our country they'd yet to see until Mrs. W's health warranted that they settle down. They settled in our small town about fifteen or so years ago.

Mr. W is a sweet, sweet man. He never remarried after his wife died, and he doted on our kiddos. My heart broke a little bit to see his fragile frame wandering aimlessly in the Hellmart parking lot. I pulled into my spot and decided to go find Mr. W's car first. I wasn't sure if he'd remember me, and I thought it'd be smarter to find his car and then lead him to it. I quickly found his white Ford, complete with his specialty plate on the front. Then I wandered the five aisles over to Mr. W to take him to his car.

I'm honestly not sure if he remembered me or not, but as I stated earlier, he's a very sweet man. When I approached him and told him I knew where his car was, he offered his arm to me as I led him to his car. He thanked me profusely. I assured him that I lost my car in the parking lot all the time. He got into his car and left.

With a lump in my throat, I silently prayed for two things: First, I wanted to be as independent as Mr. W when I was his age and second, I always wanted to be surrounded by people like me--helpful, beautiful, smart.

Then, I set out to find my own car. I walked up and down the aisles until I finally remembered that I was not in the RAV. I was in the truck. And then I walked up and down the aisles (again) until I found the truck. I smiled at the irony as I drove home.

"Guess who I saw," I called out to Daughter 1 when I walked through the door.

"Who?"

"Mr. W. Bless his heart. He had lost his car in the Hellmart parking lot."

"Aww," my sweet girl sighed. "Did you get the oil for my chicken?"

When I went back to Hellmart to get the oil, I made sure to notice what aisle I parked on. Bless my heart, too.

Across A Crowded Parking Lot

Even with a good trip to Hellmart, I come out of that place feeling blah. Such was the case last weekend, when I made my weekly trip to the mecca of fools to gather our weekly groceries so that I could take them home, spend an hour prepping them and putting them away only to have the other three members of my family declare that there's nothing to eat in the house. Ya know the drill, right?

But last weekend, I got a pleasant surprise when I left. As I backed out of my parking space and noticed a cart, still full of bagged groceries. It was just sitting in the middle of the parking lot, all by itself, as if it had run away from its pusher.

This is not my picture because I didn't have my phone. Source

I reached to the passenger seat where I normally kept my purse to grab my phone and take a picture of this maverick cart. But, my phone was not to be found, and my purse was not in the seat.

I sighed. I knew exactly where my purse (and my phone) was. I sighed again.

This trip was pretty basic. I got milk, bread, peanut butter--it was as if a snow storm had been predicted. I got a bunch of eggs because we like protein around our house. I picked up some Febreeze 'cause these cats we got for Daughter 2 are smelly. Really smelly. And, since the school supplies were out in all of their colorful glory, and because three-ring binders that I need for my classroom were on sale, I loaded my cart up with thirty poly-binders for 88 cents each.

The only problem was the at the binders rang up for 99 cents each. I corrected the price for James, my friendly Hellmart checker, and he graciously adjusted the price for all thirty binders. He did this with a smile. The lady behind me in line, however, was not smiling. She was mumbling. And cussing. And inching her cart closer and closer to the backs of my ankles--at least that's where I think she was aiming.

Finally, I paid, gathered my Earth-friendly bags and headed to the car. I loaded my notebooks in the back seat because I would be taking those to my room this week. Then I lamented the fact that it doesn't matter how little or how much I buy at Hellmart, I will end up paying over $100 every single week. I dug my keys out of my pocket, started my car and backed out. That's when I saw the rogue cart.

I laughed. I needed that. Everyone needs a laugh when they leave Hellmart. I wanted to Instagram this solitary cart holding abandoned (or run-away) groceries. I laughed again and reached for my phone. But, as I stated earlier, it was not there.

Again, I laughed. I knew where my purse was.

I drove myself over to my cart, which had rolled two and a half rows away ... with my groceries, my purse, and my phone still in it.

Go ahead and laugh. I did. So did the three cars, two trucks and random cyclist who saw me loading the rest of my groceries. Everyone needs a laugh when they leave Hellmart ...

Everyone also needs chocolate. Go register to win some Sees Candies HERE.

Late Night Hellmart Run

I made my list and checked it twice, but I still ended up going to Hellmart a dozen times this week. Yes, it's only Wednesday. I don't have proof yet, but I'm fairly certain that Hellmart redesigns their stores just hours before the holiday rush.