"At the Car Wash"

In which your humble narrator observes an extravaganza of antiseptic compulsion at the grocery store.

Wife's sister is in town this weekend for a visit so I used the opportunity to go to the nice grocery store all by myself this morning at about 8:30. I like grocery shopping, especially at the fancy-people's grocery a few blocks from our house. It's a far cry from the grime-encrusted Krogers of my youth. The cashiers are competent. Everything is clean and shiny. The deli salads are all garnished and they must front all the shelves every night. Since I aspire to, one day, be a fancy-person myself, I like to go and pretend that I have unlimited time and don't have to look at the price of everything.

So I walk to the store with my environmentally-conscious, boutique liberal, green (literally!) reusable shopping bags and I get to the door. It automatically whooshes open (I will never tire of automatic doors) and I proceed to go get a cart. At the fancy-people's grocery they have those awful, teeny child-size "shopper in training" carts for the little children whose parents allow that sort of thing. More than one child has slammed into my shins over the years that I've shopped at this store. The Evil Mommy usually, shrugs, smirks and maybe mumbles an apology. I hate those little carts.

I also hate the "fun" carts that have a sort of plastic race car under the basket so your little hellion can pretend to be driving around the grocery while you shop. This brings us back to our story. There's a Evil Daddy and a little boy who have gotten one of the race car carts and dragged it into the middle of the aisle. They are both kneeling on the floor next to the car, rubbing it down with a stack of antiseptic wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

And the Evil Daddy says, "this is just like going to the car wash!"