Where are you going? And, did you really come all the way from NY to get there?

Bluffton Today column
June 30, 2010

I know that I - the Jersey Girl - have obviously adjusted to life in the south when even I start to get annoyed by all of the New York, New Jersey, and Ohio license plates. The annoyance is furthered by the fact that said license plates are most often attached to a vehicle that a. is going too slow in the left lane, b. is unfamiliar with the fact that we can make u-turns anywhere we want to down here, or c. has just cut me off.

My most recent encounter was totally my fault. I mean, what am I thinking trying to brave Wal-Mart on a Sunday? I have a very strict “No Wal-Mart On Weekends” policy. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t discriminate. I avoid Wal-Mart on all days ending in “y.” However, if it wasn’t for my brother-in-law, who I suspect broke my beach chair; I wouldn’t have had to schlep to Wal-Mart en-route to the Island for a day of sun.

But, I digress. Now that I have been successfully cut off by the New York plates, I search for a parking spot. And there are plenty. Unfortunately, most are adjacent to some “Northern plate” that has crossed over the line, rendering said spot inhabitable. But no worries, I don’t mind parking 200 yards from the entrance, and walking in 105 degree heat past a dozen empty spaces, my time isn’t valuable.

Upon entering Wal-Mart I am struck by the realization that I may have actually walked onto the set for MTV’s Jersey Shore or The Real Housewives of New York. Oh my GAWD! Where did all these people come from? And how did I-95 accommodate the onslaught?

Once I navigate through the sea of boogie boards, water noodles, coolers, beach chairs, Pringles, popsicles, and other paraphernalia I finally reach the check-out lines.

Holy mackerel, you would think Bon Jovi was giving a free concert at the food court. The lines are a few dozen deep. So, I made a game time decision and went to the self checkout lane. Self checkout never ends well, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I made my move.

As suspected (based on years of self-checkout blunders) the woman in front of me caused quite a little back up. She had a number of large items that wouldn’t fit in a bag. So, of course, the register squawked out its automated commands “please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag, please place the item in a bag.” And then finally, “please wait for assistance.”

This is when my eye-rolling and incessant bouncing from one foot to the other activity commences. I am equally as frustrated by the “automated” process and the woman who couldn’t control her own items. But, help did arrive in the form of a Wal-Mart employee who got things moving again.

Alas, it is my turn. Bottle of water scanned. Success. Now how about this beach chair … that features one, two, three stickers and/or tags all possessing bar codes. None of which scan successfully. (I start to sweat a little.) “Please scan your next item. Please scan your next item.” (Panic sets in.) The automated screens begins to flash, “Manually input the sku number.” (Is it hot in here?) Which sku number? There are three!

And suddenly I am the woman in front of me who can’t control her own items.

After an agonizing check out, I make the slow march back to my car, past twelve empty spaces (thanks again New York!) in the broiling heat, with head hung low, and new beach chair dragging. My spirit deflated, I get back in the car to head to the beach.

I am startled from my depression by the sound of screeching tires. Beep! Beep!

As I look to my left, I see the unmistakable red, white and blue of New York plates, running a stop sign and about to broadside me. And suddenly, all is right in my world again.