Expat of Sadgewich

We were at the whole-foods grocery store, the one that men call The Merc. We had collected things for our purchase, and were being rung up. The cashier asked a question:

"Do you have a bag preference?"

shrijani's eyes widened. Her nostrils flared. "What?!" she asked.

Using the heightened senses given me by my nanotechnology, I clocked the cashier and my wife, and determined that something must be done.

I burst out laughing. Hard laughter. Fell away from the counter.

Eventually shrijani surmised that there had been a misunderstanding, and the cashier joined her in laughter. After a moment, she asked again if we cared for paper, plastic?

Asking if we had a bag preference. shrijani thought she had said something about a bad reference--like the credit card had been declined or something. The look on shrijani's face was quite funny, especially when you saw how quickly the cashier went quiet and nervous--I honestly expected the young lady to back over the other edge of the adjacent register.

And then there was the bush we murdered at the bank.

But that's a tale for another day.