Pass the cheese and don't piss me off.

People truly astound me. We toddle about our everyday existence quick to bitch and wanting to be loved. I witnessed the following in line at a Walmart deli (did you know that Walmarts have supermarkets in them now? And that, in terms of overall sales, Walmart is the NUMBER ONE largest company in the world? Number ONE -- this means bigger than Exxon, bigger than Turner Broadcasting, bigger than Microsoft for pete's sake!)

SIDEBAR:[okay, just who IS "Pete" and why should I care about his welfare? Obviously is it a mutation in the intention of piety. You can't say "...for Christ's sake!", and still be holy, so it's fortunate that over the past several decades devout Southern Baptists have provided all sorts of creative and colorful alternatives to using the lord's name in vain. Even "I swear!" is technically swearing and therefore changed to, "I Swanee!" (If you're not from the South Eastern US, trust me on this...it's true.) So, my question is -- is Pete a code name for Christ? If I pray to Pete will God answer? Everyone prays right to the BigGuy, is using the secret nickname like having a less-used private phone line. Will Jesus pick up on the second ring?)]

Okay - back to the scene in Walmart...

Order has been disrupted here. The ticket machine is empty, its lid pried open in a cavernous maw, and no one seems to be working on the problem. A hesitant line forms. A heavy man in a stained bib-apron moves from meat case to slicer at a constant, unhurried pace. A woman near the front watches the deli man with some impatience. She wears a smart blue blazer which clearly says she's just come from work. She's a blonde in her forties with a pony tail tied sensibly with a matching blue schrunchy. She is too tan, an obvious smoker, with cool blue eyes and distracting pink lipstick. She grips a grocery list in a well-manicured hand and shifts her weight from left to right and back again.

"Ma'am?" The deli man looks questioningly at a dowdy housewife to the woman's left in front of the cheeses. She wears elastic-waist pants and a loud-print cotton shirt. She peers through plastic-framed glasses on a little gold chain. She removes them to speak.

"One pound of Tavern h--"

"Excuse me," the blonde steps forward, " I believe I was here first." Stand your ground, never acquiesce. People in this world will walk all over you.

"Oh...um, go ahead..." the housewife, mildly unsettled, leans on her shopping cart and forces a smile at the 8-year old who accompanies her, but who seems somehow not her child.

"Thank you." The blonde woman places her order.

The deli man is methodical, precise. "This thickness, Ma'am?"

"No, thinner please. Thanks." The blonde must be preparing for a party, a feast, a packed lunch for an entire fourth-grade field trip.

"Anything else, Ma'am?" He hands her fifth item.

She orders two pounds of sharp cheddar and piles her cart with the plastic packs of meat.

"This okay, Ma'am?" The scale reads 2.48 lbs.

"Well, no," she says, "I asked for 2 pounds, 2 pounds is all I want." She turns to the housewife, "Thank you for your patience," she says, with a little shake of her head.

The housewife raises her eyebrows, sighs, and with the barest chin lift turns away .

We growing band of waiters-in-line have not yet realized it, but it has begun.

"Hey -- do you have a problem with me?!"

The housewife, unprepared, finds herself without words. She waves a dismissive hand. The women are less than two feet apart.

"Don't you shake your hand at me! How dare you wave your hand... Look, I don't have time for you. I have a...a babysitter, I work THREE jobs, I --"

The hand flies up again, as if of its own will, and the housewife, a little horrified, cuts her off, "You just need someone to talk to."

"I... what??" They begin to speak over each, though both strangely refuse to shout. A tense muttering fills the air. "My god, you're a piece of work. First you tried to cut in line, then you can't even have the...the decency, the...the courtesy or patience when someone like me is trying so hard..."

"I'm not talking to you. I'm just not. Not talking..." The housewife attempts a breathy laugh, then turns to the meat counter and tugs on the chain to her glasses.

"Yeah, you better..." It is unclear what the blonde means to say. It's like a stare down between animals in the wild, where one finally lowers its head or averts its eyes. The blonde is the dominant cat who proudly claims the higher perch. "People like you...unbelievable..."

"I'm not. I'm just not..." The housewife holds a tight-lipped smile and, in a gawky gesture of playfulness, taps the child on the nose.

The deli man has finished the order. The blonde takes her 2 pounds of cheese and strives for sincerity, "Thank you very much." Then, "Excuse me," as she makes her way politely through the sea of waiting customers.

And she is gone. But the story is not over. In a vibrant display of humans wanting approval, quick to bitch and wanting to be loved, the housewife places her order.

"Krestedder's Tavern Ham? One pound, please."

But they don't have Krestedders. Try this one, the deli man suggests. She is unfamiliar with the brand.

She hesitates, then nods quickly. "Fine, sure. Great, thank you." She smiles and gives her first surreptitious glance to the gaggle of customers behind her, then occupies herself making funny faces at the child.

The deli man picks up various meats and replaces them. He is having trouble locating the right ham. The housewife watches him with an anxious, pasted-on smile. "That's all right," she blurts, "Just use whatever you have there," she pushes forth a breathy laugh, "Whichever!"

He flicks his gaze at her briefly, then finds the proper ham, and proceeds to the slicer.

"This okay, Ma'am?" He brandishes a flaccid slice of meat.

"Perfect! Great."

He turns slowly and begins slicing in slow, even strokes. As he works she engages the little boy, revealing obvious roots as a school teacher.

"Now," she bends a little toward him, "we have one more thing to get. Can you think of what it is?"

The boy seems to have suffered a home haircut performed with a dull pocketknife. He is calm and wide-eyed, patient as a cow. He shakes his head.

"It's for the soda..." she prompts, "...to keep it cold..."

"Um, ice?"

"Iii-ce!" She sings the word, "Very good! Very good." She laughs as though someone has told a joke. For just one moment I am concerned for her, on the brink of losing my certainty that, had she not met the blonde woman, she'd be acting more normal than this.

"You're right. We. Need. Ice." She nods once, then tousles the boy's hair. Awkwardness abounds. Her intent is penultimate niceness, her delivery is self-conscious, half-cracked nut.

The deli man continues to slice. She turns to him and yanks at her glasses chain again. She seems trying not to speak. She fails. "That's good!" She calls out with another wave of her hand, and although his body blocks any view of the pile of sliced ham, she continues, "Whatever you've got sliced there will be fine!"

The deli man turns slowly and gives her a look she's been asking for. It is his first real facial expression of the afternoon.

They look at each other. Silence, and then, "I'm not sure if I'm going to like it," she says, "...that's really the reason!" Now it gets weird.

"Do you want to taste it?" He holds up a slice of pink meat.

"That's okay!" Her voice has risen in pitch.

He shrugs, brings the meat to the scale.

"A pound and a half." He says. It's fifty percent more than she'd asked for.

"That's okay!"

He raises his brow and bags the meat.

"You're doing a terrific job," she smiles hard. "You have a hard job," she seems unable to make herself be quiet. "...Don't you worry about it. You're doing fine!"

The deli man, who could not seem more unconcerned, hands her the package over the counter.

But somehow, she can't quite leave. She lingers, her arm still outstretched holding the meat above the counter. In a rush she says, "The woman who yelled at you, yelled at me!!" She laughs, and there is a prolonged pause. Finally, she fades her laughter with a sigh. "C'mon Chief!" She turns to the child to find he has already moved their cart out from the counter and stands waiting.

Quick to bitch and wanting to be loved.

The only addendum I have to this tale is this:

I watched them walk away, trying to decide whether I can dredge any sympathy for this woman or if I think she's a total flake. I mean anxiety attacks happen to some people, and who am I to judge the excessive level of her embarrassment, though she did let fly the snotty response to the woman, what was really ticking in there? But then I noticed that "Chief" wore frilly white socks and blue sparkly sneakers. Dear god, someone gave that hideous haircut to a little girl? I am not big on prescribed gender differences. My little boy likes Barbies? Fine. My little girl wants GI Joes and wears pants only? Sure. My son - at an appropriate age, wants an earring? Who cares? But this bugs me because as a kid I was forced into an ultra-short boy haircut I detested and was mistaken for a boy many many times. It's not that the little girl has short hair, or doesn't like nail polish -- it's the horrendous hack-job, the carelessness which pisses me off. It is the fact that I am sure the little girl didn't choose the style, and am furthermore projecting my childhood frustrations on to her. And so it goes. (And - unless my child really really really wanted to - the frilly socks on a boy are a bit much. )