She walked slowly,  strolled, to be exact, ensconced in conversation, one hand holding cell phone to ear, while her free hand pushed the cart at a painfully sluggish pace.  I could not get around her, because she walked too closely to the middle of the aisle.  My "Excuse me's" went ignored, as she babbled away, stopping every few feet to inspect an end cap display of oversized beach towels or outdoor patio condiment holders.   

My three children are restless.  I have lured them here on a sunny weekday afternoon with the promise of sampling the coveted tortellini in pesto sauce, veggie straws, and sliced up bits of bagel.  Except, the sample stands,  fixtures of the wholesale club store at lunchtime, have been packed away, as the midday crowd has shopped and gone home.

"There has to be a sample in this store somewhere," my littlest Diva insists.  "Find it Mommy, find it."

"Find it, Mommy, find it," the other two kids pipe in, chanting this phrase repeatedly, like a mantra.

My shopping list becomes secondary in importance to finding samples.  I make a break from behind the slow woman on the phone, and turn off onto a side aisle that leads to the other side of the store.  Maybe, we'll get lucky. 

I head toward the frozen food section but see nothing of interest.   Two aisles down, I spot a lone sample stand, with an employee peddling biscotti.

"Cookies, guys, cookies!" I say, excitedly. 

"Cookies!" they repeat in unison, joy welling up in their voices.

I stop behind an elderly couple at the biscotti stand, waiting my turn.  There is only one sample left, three cut up biscotti pieces in a muffin cup, an even split among my kids.  Except a spray-tanned hand with bedazzled fingernails reaches out from behind me, and takes it.  I turn around to see the aisle hog on the cell phone, still engaged in her conversation, walk away with the last sample of biscotti.  My biscotti!    

"Hey," I scream out to the woman.  "Hey!" But she doesn't hear me, as she chats away on her phone, and disappears around a corner.

I turn to the sample lady.  "Are you putting more out?"

"No, dear, that was my last bag.  Time for me to go home."

"But…but…she cut the line."  I point to the general direction of the cookie thief, who is now completely out of sight. 

"Welcome to New Jersey, "  The sample lady shrugs, unlatches the breaks on the cart and rolls it away.       

"Mom, what about our cookies?" My oldest daughter asks. 

"Cookie! Cookies!" My children chant.  

I wish Balthazar were here. He would know exactly what to do.  He would execute a one-liner so clever, it would make the cookie thief cower in shame.  "Hey, you in the QVC easy pay wind suit!  How's it feel to steal biscotti from babies?"  Or, he would make such a fuss to the management that they would send him home with an entire bag of biscotti as an apology. 

Balthazar, I scream in my mind, if you can hear me telepathically, send me a sign!  I need your help!

But Balthazar can't hear me telepathically, and even if he could, he wouldn't pay attention, since, chances are, he's partying in a penthouse Jacuzzi in Vegas with a bunch of supermodels.

Besides, Balthazar wouldn't be caught dead in the wholesale club store.  He probably eats out every night, with his home fridge stocked with nothing more than freshly squeezed orange juice and rare brands of imported beer.

On second thought, I don't want Balthazar to see me telepathically, pushing around my oversized cart, loaded with pasta, frozen fish sticks and an econo-pack of toilet paper.  He'll think I'm pathetic.

I start shaking my head around in all directions,  as if conducting an exorcism, to try to get ANY thoughts of Balthazar, especially ones that involve telepathic communication out of my head.

"What are you doing mommy?" my son asks.  

"Getting rid of Balthazar," I reply.

"Who's Balthazar?" he asks.  

"It's that Fisher Price little people doll Mommy takes pictures of,"  says my youngest little Diva.

"No, actually he's a …It's complicated, " I stammer.

"Is Balthazar here?" my son asks.  

"No, he would never shop here." I say.  "He's too cool for the wholesale club store."

The children stare at me in confusion.

Come on.  Let's get out of here and get ices at Rita's.   

"Ices! Ices!" my kids chant in unison. 

At checkout, I put my goods onto the conveyer, as the kids continue their chant.

The cookie thief, still on the phone, unloads the items on her cart behind mine, oblivious to the fact that she has stolen our biscotti or hogged up entire aisles. 

"I can't hear you," she complains into the phone, as she pushes her stiff, bleach streaked hair away from her ear. "I got these loud kids in front of me."   She stares at my children with disapproval, and then darts her eyes to me, the "mother who can't control her children."    

She covers her free ear and shouts into her phone, "I can't hear a friggin' thing you're sayin'.  These people in front of me are from hell.  I'll call you later. "

Our eyes lock.  I smile at her and she glares back.  I am reminded in this moment that when we allow our moods to be at the mercy of life's little inconveniences, we are setting ourselves up for misery.   

I take my change from the checkout person and say, "Come on, guys,"  to my kids.

As we head toward the exit, I can hear the cookie thief complain to the checkout person about my kids.  She'll still be whining about them at dinner time,  but I have the choice to shrug her off right now. 

Knowing that you have that choice is a gift.    

Although I still want to know what Balthazar would have said to her.  It would have been brilliant.

Namaste, Divas!

© 2012 Ilene Evans