love the teet

no, i'm not talking about boobettes this time.  i'm talking about the high-class, produce-sexy, convenient to my office harris teeter.  i love it.  in fact, i go there every day.  by far, my greatest financial splurges are my daily designer salads.

the salad bar sings to me.  it allows me to create my meal based on my mood.  do i feel like pickled beets today, or am i more in the mood for some artichoke hearts?  if i'm feeling funky, perhaps i'll add some cranberries.  egg whites?  yes please.  hold the yolks.

by the time i have purchased my bag of lettuce to accompany my topping selections (this way, i can add in salad to extend my enjoyment of designer-salad-euphoria), a bottle of spray dressing, an apple and a soda, i have undoubtedly come to $15 at check-out.  crazy?  perhaps.  worth it?  certainly is for me!  i'd trade in a new pair of shoes for a week of designer salads in a heartbeat.  options, baby.

i have realized, however, that the extent to which i look forward to my lunchtime trips comes at a cost.  and not to my wallet.  perhaps not even to me, so much as the innocent bystanders who also decide to shop at the teet when i'm there to claim my prize.

i get aggressive, even close to anger, the moment my heels hit the parking lot.

i'm not kidding.  from the moment i get out of my car, you had better not get in my way.

old man walking his wife through the automatic doors?  better leave some room for me to power-walk around you.  cart parked in front of my blue cheese?  ooooooh no you don't.  get yourself outta my way.

if you're toying with the crouton dispenser while i'm trying to pick out the perfect pieces of grilled chicken, i will get up in your space.  you should have dispensed more quickly.  got a small child who wants a peek at the veggies?  eat my dust, i'm skipping you in line.

i realize this may come as a shock to those of you who know me.  even worse, maybe it doesn't.  regardless, it's the truth.  i take my lunchtime seriously.

i've tried taking deep breaths prior to exiting my car, preparing myself to be friendly amy in the midst of my salad-bar frenzy.  to no productive end.  by the time i'm at the register, if you're paying with a check (aka, making me wait longer than i'd have to otherwise), i'm sending you negative energy.  to the tune of "hurry your ass up, haven't you heard of debit cards?"  if you're teaching your child to count coins in checkout and i'm behind you, baby better watch it.

checking out the clock, i have a few hours until game time.  buckle-up shoppers, amy's coming for a visit.  and i'm going to dominate.