**We interrupt your regularly scheduled Friday Five for this important blog announcement.**
Day Fourteen of Twenty.
Yes, I saw the castle (and it was gawrgeous). I went to the whiskey shop and the tartan-weaving factory. I even thought about sucking it up and trying haggis (Dad, you win, I couldn’t do it.) However, the biggest thing to happen was the fight at the Sainsbury’s.
So. Ruby and I are in line… wet, lost, tired, and in somewhat of a florescent daze, when this 150 year old lady starts shouting out complaints behind us. “Why aren’t there more cash registers open?” she gripes. “Why are the queues so long?”
Huh? I looked around. There were two ladies in front of us, and two customers in the line next to us. Pretty tame for a Tuesday morning, in my opinion. She’s obviously never had the pleasure of shopping at the Balch Springs Wal-Mart. As she’s caterwauling, a flustered middle-manager rushes by. The old battle-axe attacks. “We’re understaffed,” the middle-manager explains hastily. “We’re doing the best we can, love.” Oh, ho, ho…. I swear I could hear the bomb explode inside the old battle-axe’s haystack of a head. “Don’t you LOVE me!” she roars. I almost laughed. Almost. Except that something was developing in front of me that was much more amusing.
The two women in front of us had been taking an incredibly long time to buy their groceries. It could have been that they bought some complicated items, but I am placing my money on the fact that they both splitting images of Snooki from the Jersey Shore, aged about 30 and 50 years, respectively. Yes, dear readers, before me stood a horrific sight: two well-past middle-aged women with pitch-black dyed, cotton-candy textured hair and skin as orange as an Oompa-Loompa. I kid you not.
The most unusual thing was the totally random, seemingly normal, blonde infant sitting in their shopping cart. Who are you sweetie and how did you get kidnapped by the Orange Witches?
Aaanyhow. The line is moving slow because while the Orange Witches appear to be paying for their stuff separately, they missed the memo on dividing whose grocery items are whose before the cashier rings it up. “Let’s just throw it all on the counter and let the cashier guess which one of us is paying for the milk and which one ate all of the grapes! Yay! It’s a game!” However, the cashier had not been informed of said game, and asked who was paying for the milk. The younger of the two Orange Witches swoops down, spitting out attacks as if the cashier had not asked about milk, but where one could go to become an Oompa-Loompa. This attack of words caused the cashier to break down and sob. Full on my-favorite-grandma-just-died bawling. The middle-manager from earlier rushes over and asks what the hell is going on. The Orange Witch says that the cashier was being rude (she wasn’t) and that they didn’t do anything to cause her to start crying. Riiiight. Because it’s normal for people to have a nervous breakdown after asking who is paying for the milk.
After the middle-manager rushes the Orange Witches, a nearby cashier asks what happened, to which the middle-manager replies “Rude customers.” Heaven forbid we spend a full two minutes in this store without an old lady becoming verbally abusive. The old battle-axe behind us exclaims, “Are you talking about ME?!?” Well, no, not at first… but now that you’ve brought it up… The old battle-axe demands to see the manager and then gripes and complains while Ruby & I buy our things.
My only regret in the whole things is that I didn’t take any photos.
Day Fourteen of Twenty. Old ladies effing rock.