jewel-in-the-crown
Today (Wednesday, November 22), after getting the wheels balanced on the CR-V, I had to patronize the so-called “jewel-in-the-crown,” the nearby gigantic Pittsford-Plaza Weggers (Wegmans), the store so big ya need a powered cart, and they have limo-service in the parking-lot.
The place was a zoo both inside and out — I suppose the usual pre-holiday melee.
Outside, the parking-lot was awash in huge SUVs, juking-and-jiving ponderously trying to get a parking-place.
I had to park hard by a bunch of discarded shopping-carts half in the lane — I guess the mighty Hummers were avoiding it for lack of footprint.
Frankly, I don’t think Linda could have dealt with such automotive madness.
Every intersection (and at the vaunted Pittsford-Plaza Weggers there are 89 bazilyun) was a slow strange dance of angry drivers.
A red Neon lumbered slowly into the intersection in front of me, but stopped to let the others clear.
I drove in front of her, across the intersection — I don’t think it’s a move Linda could have made. Madness like this is mental overload.
Inside angry Grannys were ramming their powered carts into massive produce-displays, sending apples tumbling onto the floor. Haggard clerks picked them up and put them back for sale.
I found myself threading narrow passages through careening carts, and all I wanted to purchase was milk and bananas and spinach and a few other things.
I found myself dodgeing numerous Jack wannabees: “HEX-KYOOZE me; I voted for DUBYA! What are ya; some kind of Godless liberial?” Just getting milk was a tortured mess.
Checking out was a melee of trying to find a lane not already clogged.
A clerk dragged my cart into an express-lane, and then promptly missed my “Shopper’s-Club,” even though I put it right in front of her nose.
It meant using “customer-service;” we’re talking about 60¢.
The Pittsford-Plaza Weggers only has one entrance — who knows what happens if the power goes. To get out you have to thread all the angry Grannys coming in.
Then you have to get across the vast parking-lot without getting T-boned by a Hummer searching for a parking-space.
A black Scion phone-booth was in the fire-lane; four-ways flashing — “no parking; fire-lane.” No one was in it, or anywhere near.
The place was a zoo both inside and out — I suppose the usual pre-holiday melee.
Outside, the parking-lot was awash in huge SUVs, juking-and-jiving ponderously trying to get a parking-place.
I had to park hard by a bunch of discarded shopping-carts half in the lane — I guess the mighty Hummers were avoiding it for lack of footprint.
Frankly, I don’t think Linda could have dealt with such automotive madness.
Every intersection (and at the vaunted Pittsford-Plaza Weggers there are 89 bazilyun) was a slow strange dance of angry drivers.
A red Neon lumbered slowly into the intersection in front of me, but stopped to let the others clear.
I drove in front of her, across the intersection — I don’t think it’s a move Linda could have made. Madness like this is mental overload.
Inside angry Grannys were ramming their powered carts into massive produce-displays, sending apples tumbling onto the floor. Haggard clerks picked them up and put them back for sale.
I found myself threading narrow passages through careening carts, and all I wanted to purchase was milk and bananas and spinach and a few other things.
I found myself dodgeing numerous Jack wannabees: “HEX-KYOOZE me; I voted for DUBYA! What are ya; some kind of Godless liberial?” Just getting milk was a tortured mess.
Checking out was a melee of trying to find a lane not already clogged.
A clerk dragged my cart into an express-lane, and then promptly missed my “Shopper’s-Club,” even though I put it right in front of her nose.
It meant using “customer-service;” we’re talking about 60¢.
The Pittsford-Plaza Weggers only has one entrance — who knows what happens if the power goes. To get out you have to thread all the angry Grannys coming in.
Then you have to get across the vast parking-lot without getting T-boned by a Hummer searching for a parking-space.
A black Scion phone-booth was in the fire-lane; four-ways flashing — “no parking; fire-lane.” No one was in it, or anywhere near.
posted by BobbaLew at 3:36 PM
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