Infirming

Nothing much to whine I mean blog about today except my back pain. And it’s all the fault of the Evil Target Cashier.

My original back issues began over 20 years ago from a sports injury while playing basketball. (Anyone that knows me in real life and reads this is doubled over with laughter right now. “Kelly? A sports injury??”) The actual-factual story is that I was playing basketball during P.E. Class, and when I bent down to tie my shoe, someone tripped over me. Hence the back injury. Which sounds much cooler when I call it a “sports injury,” painting me as the Athletic Sort. Which I am clearly not. (Okay, friends, you can stop with the laughter!) But I digress.

I try to avoid this Evil Target Cashier whom I affectionately refer to as “Crankenstein” whenever I go to Target because of her rude and snarly attitude toward the patrons, and especially toward me. But she had the shortest line today, and I was in a hurry, so My Bad. I had 25# of cat litter on the bottom rack of my cart, and I politely asked her if she could scan it from there so I wouldn’t have to lift it. She flat out refused! Out of pure obstinacy, laziness, and a desire to see me break a French nail, I’m certain. She watched in amusement as I struggled with the hefty litter bag, turning it this way and that on the rack, trying to find the bar code. Which turned out to be on the very bottom, of course. And even after I found it, pointed it out and moved the cart right up next to her, she refused to scan the bag until I heaved it onto the counter, wheezy and winded. And then she smirked.

She hates me. And so I am going to call Target and report Crankenstein’s rudeness to the management, on the week that I am PMSing. That’ll be an entertaining outlet for my hormonal rage.

So now my back is spasming and complaining, and sending little shooting pains up my spine, just to remind me to never again lift 25# of cat toiletry from the bottom of the cart onto a counter at Target. I keep telling it to blame Crankenstein. But timely, the season finale of “Lost” is on shortly. So I will pamper my posterior with a lounge on a heating pad and a 2-hour dose of my favorite t.v. show. Peace out.