Hillbilly Mom: The Face Of Everywoman

Like our ever-expanding universe, my hatred for The Devil's Playground knows no bounds. It is an all-encompassing hatred, from the narrow aisles of the pharmacological department where no two carts can pass, to the wide open spaces of the new gulf between hardware and bicycles, which could give a claustrophobic sudden onset agoraphobia. That place pisses me off.

There I was, minding my own business, shopping from a list of randomness because every week The Devil has seen fit to move items to different aisles from the previous week. I gave up on the rubbing alcohol, because I could not even find the band-aids, and though I found the sewing aisle after backtracking across half the Playground, there were no sewing kits. Only separate packs of needles and threads and pins. Not that I am a seamstress, mind you, but an occasional button runs away in the wash, and sometimes a hem unravels, and duct tape is only an option for Master Tailor H. I hiked two aisles out of my way to bypass a chubster on a motorized cart, just to get to the toilet paper. I tried to murder three women having a family reunion in the middle of the soap aisle. FYI, it's not true that looks can kill. A man and woman arguing over orange juice caused a bottleneck by the Dr. Thunder display. I had stopped to get a 12-pack for #1's school lunches (the soda machines having been dismantled due to some new government regulation), and was nearly flattened by an adult punk racing around like he was on Supermarket Sweep, emitting "Beep-beep" noises. Oh, and he hopped up on his cart to coast down to the milk cooler. What a freakin' doofus. He reminded me of that Frat Boy that pulled my crank at the casino that time, resulting in me maybe or maybe not shouting, "F--- you! You f---ing f---er!"

It happened during a search mission on the frozen breakfast aisle. There I was, seeking Eggo NutriGrain Blueberry Waffles, when an addled old crone hollered, "Jane!" She was behind me, way down at the end of the aisle. The crone, not Jane. My name is not Jane. I went on wheeling my new cart with the flat tire, which shocked my hands on the metal handle every five thumps. The Devil really ought to do something about that. It could disrupt the rhythm of old people's hearts. You don't go messing with the electrical impulses of the human body, Devil. But more shocking than the shock I received every five seconds from my malfunctioning Devil-cart was the bellow of "JANE!" I figured that the addled old crone must have seen an old crone crony of hers from church, or perhaps from the Old People's Casino Shuttle, and perhaps Jane was hard of hearing, and about to displace some sausage biscuits from a high shelf onto her noggin, and continued with my shopping. I found my Eggos on the same aisle as last week, but four freezer doors down. What is the purpose of THAT, Devil?

At the checkout, I was engaging in small talk with my checker, when who should appear in my peripheral vision but the original addled old crone. "Is your name Jane?" she barked, blocking my cart with her own. "No. My name is not Jane." She sized me up. "Oh, come on!" Like I was actually Jane, and I was lying to her for sport, just to make a scene in front of The Devil and everyone. "Didn't you hear me call you in the frozen food? Why didn't you turn around?" I spoke slowly. "Well, because my name isn't Jane. I didn't think you were talking to me." She wouldn't let it go. "You look just like Jane. I haven't seen her for a while, but I know she is in from Canada." I assured her that I had never been to Canada. "My name is Hillbilly." She tilted her head sideways, and got a look in her eye like that chipmunk I tried to rescue from the cats, right before it bit me. "Hillbilly Kinnard?" My patience was wearing thin. "No... Hillbilly Mom." The addled old crone shook her head. "You look just like my friend, Jane Kinnard." She waited. I don't know what she expected me to do. Change my name? Pull out ID? Tell her that I was Jane Kinnard, and she had just been punked? All I could do was say, "I'm sorry. I am not Jane Kinnard."

The addled old crone pushed her cart away, muttering to herself. The checker said, "Don't you just hate it when someone mistakes you for someone else?" I told her I'd never had anyone practically accuse me of lying because I was not who they thought I was.

Dang! Whoever Jane Kinnard is, she'd better high-tail it back to Canada.