Wednesday, May 25, 2005
My Secret Shame
I do not have a Dominick’s Fresh Value Card.
It’s foolish, really, I know. I shop there every single week. I am sure I could save enough to feed an entire African village, or buy myself the new Mariah Carey CD, depending on my level of insanity. But I simply do not have the energy to make everyone wait while I fill out the paperwork. I have been the one in line behind the paperwork-filler-outer before, and my heart filled with cold black hatred. I honestly believe that people would be justified in pelting me with produce should I decide to undertake the Fresh Value ritual hazing while they’re waiting to scan out their Lean Cuisines. And though I feel I am man enough to weather a shower of string beans, chances are the mangoes would really hurt.
But now there’s a little psychodrama that plays out at the checkout every week. The employees of Dominick’s are, it seems, utterly incapable of understanding how someone can live without the prospect of Fresh Values coming his way. They shake their heads, sigh, and cluck their tongues at my failure to save seven cents on my Kraft slices. They point meaningfully at the spot on the receipt where, in bold print, it notifies me how much I could have saved on this trip. And occasionally, they go so far as to actually disbelieve my claim of non-membership, repeatedly exhorting me to enter my home phone number to earn my shot at two for one twinkies. I half expect them to call security on my valueless ass.
Maybe they’ll sign me up for the club at the service desk. Otherwise, I think my only option at this point is to move.
I do not have a Dominick’s Fresh Value Card.
It’s foolish, really, I know. I shop there every single week. I am sure I could save enough to feed an entire African village, or buy myself the new Mariah Carey CD, depending on my level of insanity. But I simply do not have the energy to make everyone wait while I fill out the paperwork. I have been the one in line behind the paperwork-filler-outer before, and my heart filled with cold black hatred. I honestly believe that people would be justified in pelting me with produce should I decide to undertake the Fresh Value ritual hazing while they’re waiting to scan out their Lean Cuisines. And though I feel I am man enough to weather a shower of string beans, chances are the mangoes would really hurt.
But now there’s a little psychodrama that plays out at the checkout every week. The employees of Dominick’s are, it seems, utterly incapable of understanding how someone can live without the prospect of Fresh Values coming his way. They shake their heads, sigh, and cluck their tongues at my failure to save seven cents on my Kraft slices. They point meaningfully at the spot on the receipt where, in bold print, it notifies me how much I could have saved on this trip. And occasionally, they go so far as to actually disbelieve my claim of non-membership, repeatedly exhorting me to enter my home phone number to earn my shot at two for one twinkies. I half expect them to call security on my valueless ass.
Maybe they’ll sign me up for the club at the service desk. Otherwise, I think my only option at this point is to move.
