This one's for the don

Rather, the son of the Don.

It should be easy enough to detail the various excruciating experiences brought about through interpersonal exchanges that take place daily, and if it please the ancestors I will be happy to.

Today's complaint? Cashiers. Jake, Jason, and I embarked on an exciting journey to Target and Trader Joe's today, partially in preparation for the arrival of The Boyfriend on Tuesday. After stumbling around the opulent Albany Target for a while searching desperately for some sign of blinds (they were cleverly hidden between Bath and Small Electronics, which I suppose may actually be a philosophically accurate placement) and picking up some extra towels, we made our way to the register and one cheery-looking cashier. I don't know what's happened in her life, but at some point betweeen dropping the crack pipe and picking up the barcode scanner she developed an immunity to cheery smiles and gentle demeanor. From what I've heard, though, Target is an abysmal place to work where instead of time clocks you record daily hours with your own blood, ensuring both a docile, lightheaded employee and a legal contract within Satan's jurisdiction. Nevertheless, we plowed forth.

Trader Joe's. I don't think they have these in Indiana, but imagine for a second the yuppiest grossest liberal you can who isn't bourgeois enough to pay the additional 85% premium required by Whole Foods (the Feel Unjustifiably Satisfied with Yourself tax). Take this person's sense of direction away completely, and make him/her incapable of writing a grocery list. Now, imagine 25 of these people per square foot with wobbly carts, narrow aisles, and no room for register lines, and you will have an idea of what Trader Joe's is like. Unfortunately, the brand's products taste pretty great, so it keeps unfortunate college students with an actual conception of time and space coming back to brave the fray of self-satisfied upper-middle-class borderline-hippies. Once I managed to maneuver my way through the clueless shoppers and pick up my victuals, I gleefully stood in line for five eternities (I thought at first that the employee was doing his job and moving people through, but it turned out the only forward progress we made was due to people toward the front dying off), and finally made it to the register. This fellow seemed about as chipper as his distant in-law we met at Target, and really put the cherry on top of the whole TJ's experience. Trying to make a stronger effort than I had at the 'arget, I complimented a particularly well-packed bag, filled to the brim puzzle-style, even on top, and not too heavy. He grunted an assent without moving his unhappy green eyes, made emotionless by hour after hour, day after day of seeing, smelling and waiting on yuppie after yuppie.

At the same time, would it kill you to feign a little delight at being told you've done a good job? Honestly -- the only thing worse than having to stomach the attitude of a detached yuppie is succumbing to it yourself.