Chatty Cathy Cashiers

Last night I went to Walmart, as people often do when their pantries and refrigerators are empty. I apparently loaded up on $55 worth of groceries and headed to one of the three checkout lanes that were open.

When it took the guy ahead of me four minutes to escape with his one item, I knew we had a chatty Cathy on our hands.

"How are you tonight, hon?" she greeted me.

"I'm good, thanks. How are you?"

"Oh, pretty good. Be better when my shift is over."

I smiled and mumbled something sympathetic.

"I guess it's gettin' colder out there, huh?" she asked. "I hear it's supposed to get even colder tonight."

Well, that's generally what happens at night...ya know, when the sun goes down, I thought. But I refrained from voicing my rudeness aloud and instead just said, "Yeah, it is."

She continued slowly scanning my groceries, taking note of each item I was buying. "You makin' a pie?" she asked.

Hmm...what gave it away? Perhaps the graham cracker crust you're holding? I thought about saying, "No, I just like my graham crackers in crushed form." But once again, I reined in my rudeness and, being the nice person that I am, I answered simply, "Yep, sure am."

"What kind of pie?"

"Oh, dreamsicle something. I've never made it before."

"A what kind of pie?"

"Dreamsicle."

"Green what?"

"No, dreamsicle, like the orange-flavored popsicles..."

"Oh," she said. "Is it any good?"

"Well, I've never had it before. It's from a mix," I said.

She gave me a wink like we were conspiring in some sort of plot. "Cheatin', huh?"

"Um, yeah, I guess so."

By this point, all my items were finally in bags and I had swiped my card. It was waiting for her to do something.

"How old are you?"

Well, that's way outta left field, I thought. "I'm twenty-five."

"You don't look it," she said. "I figured you were about twenty, twenty-one."

I gave a polite oh-you're-too-kind giggle and said something about how I'd really appreciate that when I got older.

I grabbed my last bag from the spinning bag holder thingy and prepared to make my escape.

"I'm forty-three." She just couldn't let this conversation end. "Most people say I don't look my age either."

"Oh wow," I said, likely unconvincingly. "No, you really don't look it," I lied. "Well, thanks," I said, in hopes that I could finally get outta Walmart and away from her incessant chatter.

"You have a good weekend, hon."

"Thanks, you too," I said and dashed out before she could start telling me about the thirteen cats I know she lives with and calls her children.