When self-service isn't

Once again, Valentine's Day lurks around the corner, snickering evilly, knowing that I have failed to come up with any grand romantic gesture to prove my love and pass The Test. Fortunately, My Lovely Bride grades on a curve (or claims to do); but I still like to do something, usually involving roses.

So it was that I ventured out this morning in the wind and freezing fog to Kroger. I was pleased with the timing of my trip, as the level of insanity in the aisles was relatively low. No screaming children. No elderly person ramming me with her Hoveround®. No thuggish individual throwing elbows next to the flower displays. One unsupervised sprog running in circles in the middle of the card section, but I was able to successfully reroute and reach my goal without mishap.

I found what I was after without much deliberation, and as I had only a few items I headed for one of the self-checkout stations. As I started to wave my bar coded flowers across the scanner, a diminutive but quite enthusiastic Indian gentleman appeared in a small puff of smoke and tugged the bethorned stems from my grasp.

"Hey…" I began.

Undeterred, he had my stuff scanned and bagged in the blink of an eye – and probably would have swiped my credit card for me, if I had let him. Next thing I knew, I was half way across the parking lot to my car. That's when I discovered that my genie hadn't put everything in the bag I was carrying.

I dashed back inside and was relieved to find the rest of my stuff still sitting at the check-out. No one tackled me as I picked it up the bag and headed for the door. Mission accomplished.

Next time, I think I'll just go through one of the full-service lanes, where the employees are less helpful.