Paint the Town Red

Scenario: I am in K-mart (yeah, I know) attempting to buy red spray paint. I am attempting to do so, because in the Great State of California, spray paint is kept in little cases with bars, under lock and key. I suppose the spray paint has been very, very naughty.

Note: And no one ever has the key to spray paint prison, either. Not the supervisor with the crazy hair. Not the sweaty guy stocking the Christmas ornaments. Ah, customer service has the key. There's humor in that, I believe.

I am finally in line with my red spray paint and diet soda. The soda and the paint fall over and roll around each time the conveyor belt moves. I am chatting with the lady behind me. Because she is buying a new lamp shade. She wonders how I feel about it the shape of the lampshade. Will it look right with her brown area rug?

Note: I am not sure how the shape of the lampshade affects the color of her area rug. But I tell her it will look beautiful. You have excellent taste, I say. (Yes, we are still in K-mart. Excellent may have been an overstatement, but the woman, obviously a trophy wife in training, is delighted.)

Our happy moment is interrupted by the staccato voice of the middle-aged checker. He has a pleasing accent I cannot identify. But I am lousy at accents.

"Date of birth please, Ma'am."

Note: I am not proud of the following interaction. Trophy Wives should not be disagreeable with pleasant, staccato-voiced clerks at K-mart.

What? Clearly I am over the age of eighteen, I say. Clearly I am not a gang-banger, I say. Clearly I am making a Christmas poster for our church, for-crying-out-loud, I say.

Note: I am saying this in a manner of light-hearted banter. Pretty much.

"Date of birth please, Ma'am."

What? Put your birthday in the computer, I say. Or make one up, I say. Yes, make one up.

He is staring at me.

I need to be over the age of 18, eh? Well, that's what I"ll be.

"12/12/90"

Ah.