Get out of my dreams... Get into my van.

"And so he tells me if it gets any bigger, he's going to have to lance it.  Stick it with a pin so it can drain.  I know, I TOTALLY would feel bad about that too, so I'm just going to wait one more day I guess, but now it is starting to smell bad..."

   This is the lady behind me in line.  She is talking on her cell phone, and she is not trying to be quiet.   I try to tune her conversation out, I read the headline of one of those magazines in the rack there.  A Kardashian doing something-or-other.    A Kardashian in a bikini.  Someone cheated on this Kardashian.  This Kardashian is not going to waste any time getting even with her man.  I wonder what this Kardashian is doing on Friday?    The woman behind me in line is impossible to ignore, and is ruining my Kardashian fantasy.

  "So I just says to him, 'This sort of thing wouldn't happen to you if you didn't eat all that Taco Bell all the time!'  Right?  I mean, it don't matter how cheap they make those things, they ain't healthy!"

   I turn slowly to my left and examine her out of the corner of my eye.   Short.  Bad skin.  Not a thin woman, not a thin woman at all, if you know what I mean.   Sweat pants and a tank-top, and she was not going to the gym, I can assure you.   She is carrying a two-pound block of this grocery chain's proprietary recipe of mild cheddar, one large tomato, a half-gallon of ketchup and a bag of hot dog buns.  Not exactly the person I would trust to advocate a healthy diet.  I'm just saying.

   She catches me checking her out.  Eye contact.   I try to smile.   She senses it is not genuine, or does not admire my appearance either, because she makes a face and then turns away from me.

  "Yeah?   So, ANYWAY!  Like I said before, I'm at the store.    Uh huh.    The one on Lombard.  Right, THAT one.   Remind me later to tell you about the creep I saw today.."

  I turn on her again, less covertly this time, to see if she is talking about me.   She glances up at me,  smiles, and then looks away.  It was not a nice smile, I could recognize that.   I feel awkward and begin to fidget.  The line has not moved in the last four minutes because some other woman in her fifties has been arguing with the cashier about how the eggs were advertised as five cents less than they rang up as.  After a long explanation about her Club Card number (which she did not have), there was further discussion about her six lottery scratch-its.   I did not follow, but was annoyed anyway.  I had become the meat in a checkout-line-abomination-sandwich.    I had to pause for a moment and ask myself though - Am I the bad guy here?

   Somehow, mercifully, the woman in front of me was finally soothed and dispatched from the store.  I was up.    Efficiently entering my Club Card # while being rung up and politely chit-chatting with the cashier without engaging in outright conversation,  I was finished in seconds flat.    This isn't difficult, people!   I collected my bag and made my way out, but I was still troubled by the conversation of the young lady behind me, the one with all that ketchup.   I walked slow.   I thought some more.   I could not allow this aggression to stand.    I made my way outside, and installed myself just to the left of the automatic doors.   I leaned casually up against the brick wall there, one knee cocked up, striking a pose.   I waited.   I did not have to wait long.