Val is an Eccentric-Frugal-Shopper Magnet

Just when I think it's safe to go back in the Save A Lot, another curious incident of the weirdo in the daytime befalls me.

Seriously. I don't ask for much. Time to write. A 44 oz. Diet Coke every day. World peace. And the opportunity to dash into Save A Lot unmolested both physically and emotionally by crackpots.

Hick is planning to use his new auction grill, Gassy G, tonight and tomorrow. He asked me to pick up some meat. Yeah. Our little Hick is growing up. He understands that I would rather make a trip to town than haul some Auction Meat out of the deep freeze.

I buy my meat at Save A Lot. They have their own butcher, you know. And they don't inject their meat with water like Walmart. They don't slap a new date sticker on it like it's good for one more day, and mark it down. They run a clean shop with tasty carcass cuts, and make their own bratwurst, which my mom loves as much as the slaw she puts on it. They also have packaged meat like jumbo hot dogs. I was sent for hamburger, pork steaks, and jumbo hot dogs.

There I was, minding my own business on the cold-cut section of the meat aisle that runs across the back of the store. I was piloting my cart with bananas, tomatoes, and pickles already ensconced in that child seat area. A blond woman hustled up from the opposite end of the meat counter. She came at me like a teenage car-texter out for her first solo drive. I was elbow deep in the jumbo hot dogs, making sure the dates were good. I've never had a problem with that in Save A Lot, but I have at the grocery store three blocks away, so I always check. I pushed my cart away from the cooler, thinking Blondie might want some cured processed meat. And she did.

Could Blondie simply grab her meat and walk away? If you're a regular visitor to Val's Cat-Unbagging Emporium, I'm sure you know the answer to that rhetorical question. Not-Heaven NO! Blondie was jonesin' for some small talk. Some hyper, coked-up, energy-drinked-up, guilty-conscienced, overcompensating-for-undiagnosed-bulimia, Cheri-Oteri-without-the-cheerleader-uniform-and-Collette-Reardon-makeup, small talk to throw Val off her fresh-jumbo-hot-dog-seeking mission.

"I should get those. To give them to my dog. He won't eat the healthy food I buy him. These little ones are gone in no time. They even have to be microwaved, not cold."

WTNH? That's my new exclamation. What The Not-Heaven? Do you think it'll catch on? Like "fetch" did for Gretchen Wieners?

Now keep in mind, Blondie had that pack of tiny hot dogs in her hand the whole time. She was not rooting me out to put them back, or pick up more, or grab the jumbos. Just waggling that wiener-pack and babbling like I was some hot-dog guru with my own reality show. Did I look like a person who would care about what she feeds her dog? Was she overcompensating for being a dog-lover (and I mean that in the way Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch were hot-tub lovers). Did I look like the dog police? Like somebody who gave a pile of dog crap what her dog prefers for snacks? Like a blogger in need of a post?

WTNH, lady. You're telling me that the food I'm buying for my family is something you should give your dog? And I'm supposed to smile and chat? You've pointed out that your dog won't eat HEALTHY food, so you should give him this? Why don't you smear a little Grey Poupon on it, you snob? Serve it out of a crystal goblet like those cat food commercial ladies. A real Fancy Feast for Fido. You'd think I had scooped up a bucketful of offal from the slaughterhouse floor with a pooper scooper, the way Blondie was on me like flies on dog poo without a baggie half full of water and six pennies nearby.

I need to carry a little voice recorder. I fear people will think I am exaggerating.