Cat-Soup Saturday, or The Time Harris Teeter and I Got In A Fight and Broke Up

Ketchup.  Or if you are snotty and British, castsup (Julia).  I just needed ketchup.  Big holiday weekend with barbeques, gotta have plenty of ketchup.

The CVS near my house is out.  While convenient and 24 hours, most of their merchandise expired before the second ice age. 

Harris Teeter it is.  I really need ketchup.  But Harris Teeter turns a five minute errand into the most mentally and physically exhausting 30 minutes of my life. 

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There are a lot of bad people out there.  To that point, I present:

An Abbreviated List of A-holes:

1)       Able bodied men who don’t give their seats to little old ladies on metro.

2)      People who say “bless you” right before you sneeze.

3)      Hitler.

4)      Drivers that cut you off in a merge lane, and then don’t wave.  (This bothers me SOOOOOO much.  You can’t just wave?  I slowed my progress for an entire car length and you can’t acknowledge my magnanimity?)

5)      Larouche supporters.

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Bad, bad people.

But you know who the #1 A-hole is?

The bastard who designed the parking lot of the Harris Teeter in Ballston. 

I really like the way that there is no clearly defined traffic pattern, especially at the five (or six?) way intersection. 

I also like how the parking spots are just haphazardly drawn lines, ensuring a variety of sizes.  I drive a four door Honda Accord, which has the turning radius of the Exxon Valdez.  It takes a 97-point turn to navigate my Japanese-made barge into one of those spots.

Gingerly open the door and squeeze myself out, dreaming the impossible dream that I won’t put a dent in the car next to me.  Sorry, Prius.

Getting from your car to the door on foot is an elegant dance between cars that don’t see you, the mindless and their shopping carts, and the wayward biker.  Literally, it’s easier to cross the river Styx.  Or find a fan of the band Styx before Big Daddy came out.

Ketchup, Ketchup, Ketchup.

Once inside, I generally love HT.  They always have samples of Kerry Gold Butter, which is by far the most delicious butter ever.  Seriously, drop the Land O’Lakes and get on the Kerry Gold train.  They have a very decent wine and beer selection.  Organic veggies.  Nice meat people.  It’s a good store.

Catsup, Catsup, Cat-soup?

I am being so efficient in the Teet.  I spurn the free samples.  Victory is so close I can taste it.

I have one item.  One item to buy.  I’ll just use this handy-dandy self-checkout machine. 

“Please scan your VIC card.”

OK.  Scanned.  Scanning ketchup.

“……………………………….”  Nothing.

SCANNING ketchup.

“Please remove item from bagging area.”

There is nothing in the bagging area.  OK let’s try this again.

“Please remove item from…please wait for attendant.”

A quick survey of my surroundings confirmed that I was going to be alone in this endeavor.  five minutes.  It took five minutes for someone to respond to my distress call.  Which, when you are cursing at an inanimate object, is an eternity.  I guess if these machines work, the terrorists win. 

“Do you have any coupons?”

No, no coupons, you Johnny 5 reject.

I tear off the four foot long receipt (sorry trees) and, finally.  Ketchup is MINE. 

I promptly forget it on my way to the BBQ.  And I’ve left a little piece of my soul at that Harris Teeter.