Hi, welcome to Hannaford's

This guy works in the dairy and never speaks to a living soul. He's cold most of the time so I guess it makes sense. He may be a serial killer. His overalls are creased. He carries that pitchfork in case someone forgets that he is NOT there to answer questions.

I SAID I DON"T KNOW.

Okay, sorry.

He is certainly not there to help you retrieve a particular kind of yogurt from the top shelf. And I wouldn't turn my back on him while he's holding that thing.

She works in the front as a cashier. She falls into the general cashier profile in that they are either young teenagers or middle-aged women. The only part she doesn't fit is that she isn't Chatty Cathy like the other older ones who will talk till you beg for mercy. This one is really and truly pissed off. Probably because she's married to Dairy Man. Imagine going home to cook tuna casserole and crease the overalls for HIM every night.

You can see I am not over my Hannaford's obsession, even though they have now obviously been trained to ask about my well-being as I approach the checkout.

"How are you?"

"Me? Are you talking to me?

"Yeah. How are you?"

"Oh. Well, I guess I'm--"

"Whatever. I need a bagger here."

I'M PRETTY GOOD TODAY SINCE I GOT THROUGH HALLOWEEN WITHOUT KILLING ANYBODY OR GETTING SUED BY LITTLE KIDS WHO BUNCHED TOGETHER ON MY KITCHEN STEPS SO DEEP THAT I COULDN'T OPEN THE DOOR. I GUESS THAT MEANS I'M BETTER THAN YOU, YOU SNIVELING CONTEMPTUOUS ARROGANT NONENTITY. THANKS FOR ASKING.

Okay, I'm better.

Happy.

Cheerful.

Next post? Love. All the things I love, including crostic puzzles and Keuka Lake.

A bientot

love,becky