A Certain Age

I had a hair appointment this past Thursday. It was nice, because, well, because of a lot of things. Mainly because I'd been juggling so much it had been over 2 months since I'd had a haircut. My hair was abysmal. If I straightened it, it was so long that it just laid flat to my head, not unlike Alfalfa of the Little Rascals. If I didn't straighten it, it looked like a giant cotton candy stuck to the paper cone that was my head.

It was also nice because I finally got some color in my hair. I don't color my hair much, only when the gray starts going wild, and when it does it goes wild in one space. Right above my left eyebrow. So yes, I look like the Bride of Frankenstein when it goes wild.

And it was wild.

I've now got a kicky cut and some kicky color, sans gray.

However, let's go on to other things for a second.

I haven't been carded while buying alcohol in approximately 15 years. It's rather disheartening, although if I was working behind a counter I certainly wouldn't ask me for ID. The liquor store people know me, know me all too well, some would say, and so they just ask for my money and put the vodka or Jager or Goldschlager in a bag and say happy drinking. In grocery stores, it's different.

You know, nowadays when you buy alcohol in the grocery store the little light-up price window on the register lights up and says "ask for identification," but the counter people never do. For me, anyway. They just quickly punch in a date and that's that. I always figured the checker-outer punched in their own birthdate, or if it's our local grocery, where everyone who works there is in high school, they punched in 1/1/whatever the legal year is.

Last Monday, I had to go by the grocery after a long day at work. And while I was picking out my items, I thought, "My, my, I sure would like to have some Star Hill Amber Ale." And so when I passed by it, well, I didn't pass it by. I put a six pack in the buggy.

Since I didn't have any produce and had a rather small take, I decided to hit the self check-out and get out of the store quickly. I normally don't do this because the self check-out hates me. No matter what I scan and put in the bag, the disembodied female voice of the self check-out says, "Please place your item in the bag," and won't continue. And I, a grown woman able to drive and vote and buy beer and everything, stand there and argue with the disembodied voice.

"It's in the bag, you biddy!" I'll yell back, either amusing or frightening the people in line behind me.

Finally the clerk in charge of the self check-out will push a button and I'll continue till the voice scolds me again.

If you're buying beer or wine at the self check-out, the drill is about the same as at the regular. You get a screen on your computer saying "show ID to the clerk," but you never have to. I don't, anyway. By the time you've found your clerk, he or she has punched in that golden date that lets you continue until the disembodied voice tells you to put your already bagged beer or wine in the bag.

So Monday, I was ringing up items and yelling at the voice, and when I scanned my beer and got the ID screen, a young girl acting as clerk punched in the date that let me continue. And I got my items scanned, bagged, and got the hell out of there.

It was only that Wednesday I realized I hadn't recorded the purchase in my checkbook, for I'd used my debit card and was so tired from arguing with the disembodied voice I didn't take the time at the checkout to write down the amount I'd spent. So I got out my checkbook, found the receipt, and looked for the total I'd spent, which was $30.30, but that doesn't matter in this story.

What matters is that as I was looking at the receipt, I saw the "proof of age" date the young clerk had punched in so I could buy beer.

















10/10/1920?? Boy, I know I still had the Bride of Frankenstein gray streak at that point, but if I was looking 88 years old that day, well, I've got problems a hair-coloring won't fix.

I don't know, maybe they just make dates up. Or maybe I did look 88 years old.

I told my dad that the next time he wants to argue with me, to watch out. I may be 10 years older than he is, but I can still kick his ass.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Visited Granny tonight at the hospital. She must be feeling a little better because she's getting feisty.