“Oh, oh. This isn’t good.”
The hubs and I are carrying in groceries. I stop before heaving the bags onto the kitchen table.
“Are you OK? Dizzy?” he inquires.
It’s something we ask now because we’re getting up in years, and up in blood pressure numbers, up in the chance of falling.
I heft a couple of plastic bags onto the table. One lands with a heavy thunk the other flies across the wood surface, stopping short of toppling off the opposite edge.
“No, nothing like that.” I say.
We have a total of six bags filled with items including paper products, beverages, canned goods, packaged goods like pasta, cereal and the like. Some of these items are quite heavy; some of them are quite light. The logical thing to do would be to mix them into the bags for even weight distribution.
“I feel an old person-rant coming on,” I confess.
“Good. It’s about time you start acting our age.”
My age is not our age, but I let than one pass.
“They put all the canned goods and beverages in one bag, and all the paper products in another—again.” I pause for a heavy sigh. “Is it rocket science?”
“No, it’s common sense,” the hubs says. “Not much of that going around these days.” He sets his bags on the table and chortles as he walks away.
Last week, my 10-year-old granddaughter asked me if I learned common sense in school. I think I see the problem here. Maybe I’ll start a side gig teaching the young’uns how to properly pack a grocery bag. I might need a business card to hand out at all the places.
"Old Bag Teaches Young Baggers: Have common sense, will travel."
“Because it’s all about those bags, ‘bout those bags, no trouble — I’m bringin’ common sense baaack!” I boogie around the kitchen to the Meghan Trainor melody.
“Are you talking to me? I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” hubs shouts from his recliner.
About a week ago, we went to a rather pricey supper club restaurant for dinner. The too-young-to-serve-alcohol waitress asked if we wanted to start with something from the bar, then looked at me with a blank stare when I asked her a question about my preferred cocktail.
I think if you hire teenagers to work in your supper club, and the words "authentic" and "mixed cocktails" are part of your marketing, then you should take the time to train the young waitstaff in cocktail ingredients and lingo so they can answer questions.
I should have told her to go ask the bartender before I ordered. I didn’t. Instead, I assumed she was a competent server and told her exactly what I wanted in the drink. I did not get the drink I ordered, but still was charged the higher price for the version I specifically did not want.
We both asked for a glass of water. When the water came, we asked for ice to put in it. I don’t know, maybe they were running out and had to conserve it for the authenic cocktails.
I ordered broiled walleye and it was delicious, but I had to ask for a lemon slice to squeeze on the filet. I don’t eat tartar sauce or I’d have had to ask for that, too.
There was apparently a surplus of a summer vegetable in somebody’s garden because it came as an additional side with both our meals. It was much appreciated, but we had to ask for butter.
I can appreciate watching the bottom line, but if a slice of lemon with parsley garnish on every fish dinner, whether it gets squeezed or not, is going to put you in the red, maybe you’re in the wrong business. Supper club prices should equal supper club quality.
If it’s environmental responsibility and reduced waste you’re going for, great. Train your wait staff to ask customers if they want lemon or tartar sauce with their fish, or butter with their vegetables. But you might want to ditch the enormous, landfill clogging styrofoam carry-out containers and opt for a new biodegradable options to be consistent.
Personally, I miss the wax-coated doggie bags.
Judith Liebaert writes for Positively Superior and the Duluthian. She is the author of “Sins Of The Fathers,” a crime novel set in Superior and inspired by a true cold case. Find her online at judithliebaert.com.