back away slowly

Back up or I shall unleash my cheetah on you. Dont let the fact it looks like a coat fool you.
“Back up or I shall unleash my cheetah on you.
Don’t let the fact it looks like a coat fool you.”

I have real issues with people I don’t know physically up in my grill.  Close talkers.  People who have to walk on the backs of my shoes.  Tailgaters.  Folks, this is a mighty big planet for a perfect stranger to be in my 18″ of personal space. 


Spewing to follow.

This weekend I cleaned out the foyer closet, during which time I unearthed a scrap booking album I bought in … okay, I’m ashamed to say it … October 2008.  Since it was resurrected completely intact in shrink wrap and … shades of mercy … with the receipt I figured I’d simply return it to Michael’s.  Cause y’all know that translates to $10.18 worth of coffee coin for yours truly. 

I do have priorities. 

And … let’s get real here … the likelihood of me nurturing a crafting project to fruition are relatively slim to none.  I’ll spare you the details of what other crafting accoutrements I discovered in my cleaning frenzy. Unfortunately, none of those were accompanied by receipts. 

Yes, there is a point here. I just haven’t gotten to it yet.

Patience, grasshopper.

Yesterday, I made the exchange at Michael’s.  It wasn’t a lengthy process. I handed over the unused merchandise, they gave me an in-store credit. By the way, what’s up with that?   I had a receipt.  Oh gosh, something to do with that silly 60-day return policy. 


Anyway, behind me is a woman who apparently wanted to crawl into my coat, she was just that close.  I’d inch a bit away.  She’d inch closer.  She was breathing my air. 

I so don’t like that.

This seems to happen to me alot lately at the checkout.  Or maybe since it’s gotten my back up, I just notice it more.  At the grocery store, I’ll push my cart down to the bagger, turn around to take the nano step back to pay, only to find my progress impeded by the clown behind me who has pushed her cart into my caboose.

Back off.  Shoo.

I don’t get it. Sometimes I really feel like the cashier oughta step in. 

Ma’am?  Can you please back up your carcass?  The lady in the black coat has not yet paid for her edibles and, as you know, that’s part of the overall shopping process.”

Often, it’s all I can do to stop myself from hoisting my arm perpendicular to my body, palm out, shouting, “My space!  God gave me an arm that’s this long which tells me that this is my little part of the planet.  And, oh my.  Look. You, too, have the same appendage hanging from your shoulder to verify what I’m telling you.”

Sometimes if I’m feeling really ornery … okay, more ornery than usual … I’ll write out my check really slowly.  Then I might just happen to make out the check for the grocery store to … oh, say perhaps the water company.

Scritch-scritch … “South County Water”  

Shucks.  Dopey me.  Guess we’ll have to try that again.  

Well.  They started it.  Hmmph.

Of course, in the event the person who’s become tethered to my person cannot sense my emanating annoyance, I might take the passive-aggressive approach and start balancing my checkbook at the counter.

“Oooh geepers, I’d better write this down or I’ll forget.  Let’s see … 6 minus 9 … gosh, looks like I have to borrow from the 10’s column.”

And since my math skills are right about third-grade level, oft times this can be a rather time-consuming task. 

Next time … maybe next time, they’ll think twice. 

If not, there’s always the taser.


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