My brunette is showing

I'm not old enough to be forgetting things like I do.

I've had genuine panic attacks from not being able to recall what I ate for lunch or if I locked the door on my way out of the house.

I truly forgot my birthday one year, and no, I wasn't soaking in a pool of self-pity that I reached the 22-25 age group. I just literally forgot after running around campus all day.

The worst part isn't even birthdays or anniversaries, which everyone is expected to forget eventually. It's all the little things - where I put the keys, the grocery list, the remote, did I put that check in the mail?

I recently used a pair of my trimming scissors to trim up my dog, Ryfle, who is somewhat of a pansy about the clippers being near his nose.

The last time he "allowed" me to trim the bridge of his nose, he jerked his head around and ended up with a chunk of hair missing. (I don't blame him for being hinky, I would be too if I had to look like a lopsided clown for four months.)

Thus, those scissors are vitally important to our clipping procedure - he refuses to allow me to use anything else.

Admittedly, I stole those scissors from Mom one day, years ago, and claimed them as my own. I like them - they work perfect for Ryfle's bangs, as well as my own.

So when they went missing several weeks ago, I was not pleased, but I knew it was my fault. After I finished with Ryfle, I put them down somewhere, gave him a bath and forgot to return them to the bathroom.

Then I forgot about them for a couple weeks, and by the time I remembered, they were long gone. I looked everywhere I thought they might be, because by that time, I also forgot where I initially put them down.

My beloved scissors were missing in action for a good three months, until one night while shuffling around the house once again, complaining they were misplaced, Mom conveniently tells me right where they are.

I have serious doubts about her innocence in all that scissor business, but I'll let it slide.

The real problem is, I get obsessed when I've lost something, and although I can't remember where it is to save my life, I sure remember it's lost. It would be better if I just forgot the whole ordeal but ... no.

In moments of crazed delusion, I actually consider the possibility of mischievous sprites stealing my possessions while I'm asleep and flitting away to hide them, so they can enjoy my frantic disheveling of the room later.

I get so angry sometimes that I just start losing grip with reality. For some reason, I insist that the item must be in one exact location, no matter how fuzzy my memory is on where it was last.

During my search, I'll check this location over and over again, wondering why it isn't there the next time I look. And of course, each time I make the rounds, my eyes pop out of my head a little and my hands start shaking.

The last time I lost my keys, I dumped my purse three times. Why the first two times didn't satisfy my suspicions, I have no idea. The same things fell out and went back in each time.

If I saw someone else going back to the same place every time to look, with that wild look in their eyes, I'd think they had gone nutty.

In the end, I will now and forever attribute my forgetfulness of late to the concussion I received in eighth grade.

All I really remember that day is the paramedics packing my frozen body off the ice block that Snow Creek apparently considered a triumph in artificial snow production.

Seeing the huge knot on my head, (oh yes, I plowed head-first into the ground), the paramedic asked me what day it was. I recall having a small panic attack as I tried to remember, until finally I said, "Saturday?"

I also recall ornery Mr. Royer walking beside the stretcher and laughing. "Oh, she's fine then. She never knows what day it is."

I think I even forgot to pay him back later for teasing me while half-conscious.

All this forgetfulness because of a little bump on the ice - why didn't I stay on the bunny slope?

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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or at katyblair@npgco.com.

40 minutes or it's free

I just want to get in and get out. Is that really so much to ask?

The simple truth is that I don't want to deal with long lines when I go shopping, especially for three items. I get impatient - glaring at the people holding up the line, glaring at the people behind me glaring at me like I should do something about the holdup, glaring at the nearest employee not doing anything to speed things up. Glaring at everyone in general.

I'm not even going to broach the issues surrounding the ratio of customers to employees working the registers. It's a battle lost for ages.

So what do they do to help the lines along? Enter Fast Lane Self Checkout!

Yeah, right - more like "You're going to be here a while checkout." I'll tell you why.

My recent shopping experience concluded with the same results. I walked around, desperately trying to figure out what I needed, and when all was done, I had a headache.

Who knew shopping could be so stressful for a woman?

So with my headache, I marched up to the checkout area, scanning the line situation. Of course, the few that were in operation were all backed up.

As I have become a self checkout enthusiast - proficient in the art of scanning bar codes, I might say - I headed straight for my area of expertise.

Sure, there were a few people waiting, but it's self checkout - I assumed that people in that line knew how to wrap things up quick-like.

Here's one problem: Not only do they let just anyone into self checkout, but they also let anything. "Fast Lane" doesn't mean buy half the store. The general rule of thumb is 20 items or less, that is it!

The woman attempting to use the scanner when I arrived had a full cart.

Obnoxious as that was, I held my composure and took my place in line. After about 15 minutes and a time-consuming issue trying to write a check at the self checkout, which doesn't process checks without employee involvement, Satan incarnate finally concluded her soccer mom-charade and left with a heaping cart.

The next woman stepped up, and I thought for sure she was going to bat. She looked as eager to leave the store as I did.

She went a little slow, but then again, my standards are probably a little high. I speed-check, no time to waste.

Was it toilet paper or paper towels? I can't remember, but she could not find that bar code. I mean, it was a polar bear in a blizzard to her.

So scan, scan and scan some more. I don't know how many times she swiped that package with no resounding beep to comfort her, or anyone else for that matter.

After about 10 attempts, I was ready to jump in and show her the bar code. Heck, I was ready to scan the rest of her cart, put her inside and push it out the doors, careening all the way to her car.

Too far, I know, but I felt insanity closing upon me. I was frantic inside. She just kept swiping.

Swipe. Swipe. How many times can a person do that before they realize it's not going to work?

I don't think she even had the bar code near the scanner, she was just scanning the bottom as if it had to be in that one location.

I think I was having an aneurysm when she finally got that paper scanned. She was happily sacking it, all proud that she finally overcame the machine, and I was clinging to the railing, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth.

Needless to say, a 40-minute wait at the Fast Lane Self Checkout spurred me to finish my business quickly.

I furiously scanned, sacked, swiped, punched in my PIN and ripped that receipt. Marriages in Hollywood have lasted longer than that checkout.

My advice for all of you amateurs trying to play with the big dogs - stay on the porch. Fast Lane Self Checkout is for the serious shoppers only. You slow them up, and you may just find your mugshot on the "Slow Shoppers Most Wanted" bulletin board.

I've been watching a lot of The Shield lately. You take your chances in that fast lane and get caught, well ... I wouldn't resist arrest if I were you.

That's no lie.

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Katy Blair, an Effingham native and Globe reporter, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Plastic makes for pensive shopping

I just know it - Coldplay is out to get me. So is Will Ferrell.

Obviously, I'm a big Will Ferrell fan, so, needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to get his latest movie, Semi Pro. I was equally excited for the new Coldplay album, Viva La Vida.

I was less enthused when I got home.

Not because of the quality, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed both. My significant other can attest to that, as last time we watched the movie, I was writhing with hysterical laughter.

In fact, I laughed so hard, I began that silent laughter - eyes closed, mouth wide open, maybe a little hiss or two. You know the one, where you have to stop yourself because you're no longer breathing.

No, it wasn't the product. It was the package.

Oh yes, that shiny plastic with its colorful stickers, gleaming from its conveniently placed spot on the shelf.

Of course, I can't avoid the plastic so tightly wound around my grand prize, so I reassure my delusions that this purchase is a good idea, no matter what.

When I get home, it's just me and that plastic

With a sigh, I pull it out of the bag.

First, I assess my nail situation - is there enough to do the job? Finding a sharp utensil is out of the question. My nails are right here, and sharp things are elsewhere. It's just too much work.

Furthermore, using scissors on this task is almost an insult. I can do it myself - I don't need no stinking scissors, as my father might say.

Besides that, scissors are never readily available. I can only find them when I have absolutely no use for them.

In fact, sometimes when I stumble upon them in the house, I'll frantically search for one of those pre-approved credit cards and chop it to oblivion. Just out of spite that I can't find them when I actually need them.

So I know I'm going to immediately regret this decision, but I choose to open that package with my recently filed-down nails and brute strength alone.

Here we go.

The first step is location - where are the edges sealed together? It's impossible to find an easy way to tear open that clear nonsense. There is no way I'm going to figure out which edge of the plastic is on top and which is on bottom.

So I'm running my fingers over the seal, trying to get a nail underneath, hoping I'll make it work this time and it will all be over with. It's unfortunate that I am always wrong.

Sure, I manage to break the glue and get a little corner of the seal sticking up, but this is several minutes after the scissors would have been done with the whole thing.

Ever so gently, I pinch the corner between my fingers and begin to peel it back. Feeling success so close at hand, a triumphant smile spreads across my once-troubled face.

Oh no, this fight isn't over so easily. To my horror, the plastic tears the wrong way and I look down to see only a sliver of it in my fingers, like a tiny glass shard.

The smile quickly dissipates. I take a deep breath, maybe two, and think to myself, "This is OK. You can do it, just peel slower."

So I get my nail under the opening and start peeling once again.

How can each effort produce such an insignificant amount of progress? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills at this point.

Finally, in a desperate act of self-preservation, I scramble with the case. Clawing, biting and screaming are all fair game; anything to get that plastic out of my life.

After several more minutes, and one or two people discovering me in a crazed state, offering to help, and receiving a low growl through my clenched teeth as a response, I break the plastic in a T-shirt ripping, Hulk-like manner.

I'm now laughing maniacally with the CD in one hand, raised triumphantly, and those nearby are staring in shock as they just witnessed a mental breakdown.

As I prepare myself to open the hard-earned prize, light shining on me and music playing gloriously, I hear a chuckle. Whether it's inside my head or someone in the room, I don't know because I'm past the point of no return.

I hear a quiet voice say, "Did you forget about the tape on the sides of the case?"

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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Eardrums and underwear

Here's a little-known fact about me - I have a bad ear.

As a Marching Jayhawk, I spent four years in the stands of Memorial Stadium, screaming like an idiot, waving my trumpet about.

I also spent those four years between the drumline, a bunch of highly-talented, arrogant noisemakers, and a friend, who liked to scream into my ear while also convulsing and waving his trumpet about, after each and every yard we gained.

My ear was accosted one hot Saturday afternoon by Scott, who lost his composure after something I probably couldn't even explain, despite the many years of Dad trying to teach me the rules of men senselessly beating on each other.

I don't think I will ever fully understand why he says it was "fun" to punch each other at the bottom of a tackle pile.

Beyond that, I still don't understand the rules and my ear has never been the same since Scott's girlish squeal bounced off my eardrum- football has done me no good.

And yet, I watch it on television every year, enduring the confusion and trying to enjoy the spirit. But that bad ear haunts me.

The camera cuts to the "talking heads" and then to a commercial, so Dad and I will begin discussing a play someone just screwed up, badmouthing a player or two, until we're at the point of yelling and Mom has to bang on a pot to get our attention.

Meanwhile, I can feel this strange frustration slowly creep upon me. I'm starting to get a headache and I can feel my neck tense at the strain in my voice.

What could it be, you ask?

The commercials.

Everything is fine until the commercials come on. We're having a jolly time discussing plays, I'm learning things, it's all good.

Then all of a sudden, the dog runs from the room with his tail between his legs. I'm not surprised - Cuba Gooding Jr. is yelling at him about how he's wearing Michael Jordan's underwear.

He won't be coming back because now people obviously afflicted with Tourette's syndrome are yelling, "It's my money and I want it now!"

The truth of the matter is, they don't even have to be yelling in the commercial. The commercial itself is so loud, I can hear the silence - it's buzzing at me.

Conversation has gone from discussing plays to complaining about how loud the commercials are when the plays are over.

The worst thing is, we don't realize how loud we are talking until the game is almost back on.

There we are, sitting three feet apart, practically yelling over Cuba's voice. It's as frustrating as if he were jumping around in the room, waving his hand in my face and singing, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you!"

I just feel like slapping him and shouting, "Shut up!" until I realize he's on the TV.

Sure, we can turn the volume down, but that requires a lot of planning ahead. Otherwise, we'll be blasted as soon as the green field disappears from the screen.

These days, we can't just enjoy the game. We have to be on guard.

Dad sits upright - remote in hand - ready to hit the mute button.

I watch intently, knowing the commercial is approaching, ready to cover my poor ear that's too sensitive to stand the decibels at which cavemen complain about their various injustices.

To make matters worse, it seems the television companies always pile on commercials near the end of a show, especially movies. For every 5 minutes of The Matrix, there are 20 minutes of loud commercials.

And why do the guys get all the good commercials? During 50 First Dates, you know you'll see at least one during every commercial break where a woman jumps into a lake because she's got the perfect tampon.

But for commercial breaks during testosterone-charged movies like The Matrix, there are action-packed, inventive commercials with tricked-out Mustangs recklessly engaged in off road, high-speed chases, and shower robots that meticulously shave your face.

I know that my boyfriend is praying there isn't an Axe commercial with gorgeous, half-naked women in it, or he'll feel my icy glare pierce his flesh from across the room as he watches blonde, busty well-groomed heathens tramp about.

So not only do I hate how loud the commercials are, but now I'm jealous, too.

What with commercial envy and Cuba constantly going on about those underwear, I can only think of one nagging, ever present complaint while watching television: "Loud noises!"

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Katy Blair is a Globe reporter and Effingham native. She can be reached at 376-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

"Say my name, say my name'

Sure, I speak Russian.

Most people who know me hear a Russian word or two on occasion. But that's all I speak - English and Russian. I'm sure you could guess in which of the two I'm completely fluent.

So when I call customer service, for just about any company that I have dealings with, I want to speak my fluent language. Instead, I end up trying to comprehend some jibber-jabber from Bholpal, which makes me completely hesitant to even call customer service in the first place.

In fact, when a problem comes up that will require a call to customer service, I first just try to ignore it. What's a couple hundred dollars next to dealing with CS? Just shrug it off and don't make eye contact with that bill lying there on the table, mocking you with such vivacity.

Except, I can't. As a penny-pinching American driving a Ford truck at $4 a gallon, I cannot simply ignore that money that I worked so tirelessly to earn.

The dread slowly creeps into my mind as I look at that credit card statement, with the obvious miscalculation that should have been caught by the company.

It's like pulling teeth. Or limbs.

So to the number on the back I go, slowing dialing 1,8,0,0, palms sweating at the thought of the inevitable argument I'm about to endure.

The first responder is a success - a woman from Georgia. There's a slight drawl in her speech, but definitely something I can understand.

It can't be that easy though, and I know it. She can't help me, so on to the next customer service department I go.

I just want to say "No! Please, don't transfer me!" But I hold my composure and stop short of sobbing before I hear the line go silent.

What comes next is a true test of whether I should own any weapons - kitchen knives included.

"With who is speaking?"

"This is Katherine Blair."

"Katereene Vlare?"

"No, Katherine Blair."

"Oh, Kaverib Plare."

"No. Kath-er-in Bla-air."

"OK, Mez Kaberin Blahar, I am showing of no problems with your account. Have a goot day."

(This is after asking her three times to repeat what she had said because she spoke too fast.)

"No, it's Katherine Blair, and there is a problem. There's a charge on my card that I didn't make and I want to know why it's there."

"OK Mez Blahar, I look into charge. One moment. Mez Blahar? I see no charge of what you say. Do you have de card?"

"Yes."

"If dee card was not taken from you, den you made purchase. Correct?"

At this point, I just want to reach through the phone and shake her until she realizes the logical deduction she obviously missed. Giving me a new last name is one thing, but such a ridiculous inquiry is beyond my capacity for self-restraint.

Would I really be calling if I had made the purchase? Really?

And the question that comes to mind is, if I'm an American dealing with American companies, why must I be transferred to some customer service agent in India to solve my problems? Shouldn't I be allowed to communicate my problems with someone that knows how to say my last name?

The only question getting answered is whether this experience will thrust me into the arms of insanity. Now, I'm 100 percent certain - I belong in the loony bin.

The worst part is that I know I look like a crazy person. I'm flailing my arms about, pointing to the woman on the line even though she's obviously not standing in front of me.

Even my dog, the nervous epileptic who refuses go to the bathroom in his own yard, is staring at me with a look that says, "Stick a fork in 'er!"

So what do I do? I resign myself to the fact that I will get no help through this conversation, and through my teeth, say thank you and punch that 'end call' button down as hard as I can.

That will show her.

I also consider viciously catapulting my cell phone, but knowing that I will immediately regret that decision, throw it into a blanket on the sofa instead.

In my rage, I don't realize how ridiculous I look while throwing my phone into something soft and cushy. The dull thud it makes on impact doesn't quite have the satisfactory ring of something smashing into a wall, but at least I don't have to buy a new phone.

So the next time I speak with someone trying to unceremoniously endow me with a new name, I'm going to take a deep breath and say something wise and insightful, right before I hang up and avoid the whole process.

In the words of one of the worldly intellectuals of our day, Ron Burgundy: "I don't speak Spanish. In English, please."

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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or katyblair@npgco.com.

Fast food is becoming fast frustration

What is it about fast food? We all know it's death on a bun, not to mention a crater in your wallet, and yet we do it anyway.

And with the way customers get so angry, why isn't crime sky-high at McDonald's? I'm just waiting for the day that some poor soul on the brink takes a baseball bat to the drive-thru speaker system.

Before you get to the speaker, however, you must deal with the lines. Of course, there are always two for one drive-thru menu.

Not only do you have to monitor vehicles leaving their parking spots, but you've got to protect your spot in line, or some soccer mom in a van full of kids is going to steal it while you are cussing the guy impatiently tapping his brake to get backed out.

If you do manage to keep your place, you are still completely irritated by the experience once you hit the menu. And the soccer mom is glaring because you should have done the chivalrous thing and let her go first to quiet the screaming children.

Then there is the pressure of making a quick decision because everyone in line is staring at you through their windows and practicing some deep sighing exercises.

In your haste, you barely pay attention to what you are ordering.

Now the angry train can go one of two ways. Either the employee running the headset doesn't repeat your order back to you, or through the garble, you couldn't understand "cheeseburger" from "salad" if you wasted the time to get out and put your ear to the speaker, which you won't because the people behind you are starting to inch up to your bumper.

Shooting a dirty look towards the mom behind you, you resign yourself to driving ahead, despite the inevitable order confusion you know is underway.

Pickles? Of course not. Even if they got it right, you'll only get one, maybe two on that burger. And no onions? Forget it. What they will do is get ketchup everywhere.

Hereafter, the food can no longer be considered "fast" since you'll be pulling over to clean up the mess on the steering wheel and all over your pants.

That's if they gave you any napkins.

So up to the window you drive, already defeated. Fork over your hard-earned cash and watch the bustle inside while you feel doom approaching.

The woman behind you is already riding your bumper again, hot at the handles to get those miraculous Happy Meals that she so desperately hopes will solve all her problems for the next 20 minutes.

With the way she's leaning into her steering wheel and foaming at the mouth, you are slightly afraid to survey your bag's contents when it gets rammed into your outstretched hand.

You hear a very loud bang, and look up to see the drive-thru window already closed. You are too late.

Drive off, my friend. Only carnage awaits you if, upon receiving your food, you hesitate for more than 30 seconds.

Your brake lights begin to gleam red in the eyes of the soccer mom behind you. She needs that food more than you do.

With a heavy hand, you pull out the French fries - a meager portion for such a tall, regal box. That box wouldn't look so proud and shining if it, too, saw the sadly limp fries that you now gaze upon.

No burger? Having reassured yourself of what you ordered 20 times by now, you are sure you yelled "cheeseburger", not chicken nuggets. You don't even like chicken nuggets, but it's beyond your course for recall.

And you know why?

Because you don't want to take back your food, as meekly as possible, and be afraid from the first bite to last that the disgruntled grill cook has defiled it in some way.

The damage is done, you say, never again. But you'll be back.

Just wait until there's nothing to eat at home, or you are rushing around town with no time for real food, or the kids are whining in the backseat. You'll see.

They always come back.

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Katy Blair, an Effingham native, is a Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or katyblair@npgco.com.

Fast lane confusion

Here's something we all have in common. Or at least those of us who speed through life, unaware that some people actually do stop and smell the roses.

Slow drivers in the fast lane. Why?

Let's break this down. Someone is driving slowly. People driving fast are in the fast lane. Why would anyone drive in the fast lane if they know they are driving slowly? That's not a rhetorical question; I would absolutely love to entertain a response to that.

There is nothing, and I absolutely mean nothing, more frustrating than citizen policing. Sometimes I wonder if they have actually made themselves little fake badges out of construction paper and glitter glue.

And you know when you've got one.

Everyone in the fast lane is cruising along nicely, drafting each other through early morning Kansas City traffic like it's Daytona 500. Before long you see cars, trucks, 18-wheelers (oh yes, even them) swerving into the right lane, and they are angry. You can tell, because they immediately return to the left lane, barely clearing the slowpoke's bumper. Fingers fly, honking ensues; it's a veritable mess of metal and hotheadedness.

As your turn nears, you contemplate how you will approach the situation. Should you immediately get over and bypass the chug-a-lug holding up your Nextel Cup? Or should you take it upon yourself to tailgate that 1983 Hunkajunk until they get over, for the sake of all fast-laners?

The fast lane exists for a reason. It is for driving fast. That's all. Not for slowing people down for their supposed "own good." Not for stealthily blocking people in so they have neither lane to advance in their checkered flag position.

If you're on Interstate 70 in the fast lane and you're going 69 miles per hour, you are wrong. Go directly to jail.

Let's make this palpable by discussing the repercussions if you were to drive slow in the fast lane, hypothetically.

People don't like you.

You cause accidents.

I can't rock it out to David Bowie going 60 mph - it just isn't the same.

And the granddaddy of them all - drivers become increasingly angry following you, resulting in high blood pressure, blurred vision, depression, fever, tremors, hallucinations, spontaneous combustion and a myriad of other symptoms that will eventually conclude with road rage and your getting rear ended.

Moreover, the complaints thus far are completely superseded by the fact that there are posted signs instructing all drivers to allow the left lane for faster traffic. It's not just a common courtesy folks, it's the law. The United States Uniform Vehicle Code states:

"Upon all roadways any vehicle proceeding at less than the normal speed of traffic at the time and place and under the conditions then existing shall be driven in the right-hand lane then available for traffic ..."

And did you know that there are several states that have made it illegal to "enforce the speed limit" in the fast lane? Florida is currently considering a bill titled "Road Rage Reduction Act." It was written specifically to combat tailgating and lower traffic accidents.

Don't you dare presume because you are from Idaho and rarely spend time in Kansas, that I will believe you just "don't know" about the fast lane rule. You know. And I know that you know. And you know that I know that you know.

In closing, I would like to call my fellow speed demons to action. We, as a community, must act against these lawbreakers. The fast lane is there for a reason. We who live by the rule of the road, "I wanna go fast!" have a right - no, a duty - to demand justice.

"If you ain't first, you're last."

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Katy Blair, an Effingham native and Globe reporter, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Cart conundrum turns shopping trip into contortion challenge

Shopping carts. That's all I need to say. You know what I'm talking about.

Let's start with the basic ordeal that everyone suffers with shopping carts. Why are they always broken? Wal-Mart is a multi-million dollar corporation, can they not afford upkeep on their equipment? Running into someone in the middle of Wal-Mart because the starboard wheel is cocked at a resilient 45 degrees is not my idea of a pleasant shopping experience. No one enjoys that.

The worst part is, these carts (most evidently shipped in from Satan's lair) get me every time. I can grab one on my way in the building, and before I pass the Wal-Mart greeter, looking smug for some odd reason, I know I've picked a bad apple.

Now there's a decision to be made. As if I'm not busy enough trying desperately to remember what was on the list that I left on the kitchen counter.

Do I return the cart to its defective friends, wrestling it backward and risk getting one that is worse? Nah, I won't be in here long, right?

Right.

Instead of making my life a little easier, I press forward with my defective hunk of rusted metal. You know how this goes. One hand is on the phone because I'm talking to my sister, who is having one of those days, and the other is on the cart.

The cart with one wheel cocked sideways.

What a site to behold as I careen down the aisles, knocking items off the shelves, boxes and bottles scattering everywhere. Children get "deer in the headlight" looks, not knowing which way to avoid me because my cart is snaking both sides of the aisle.

With all of the commotion, I'm just wandering at this point because I can't think of a single thing I came in for. I'm trying to hurry because I'm embarrassing myself.

In an effort to expediate the awkward process, I just start grabbing things senselessly, assuring myself that I'm getting the right stuff.

All the while, I'm trying to ignore this growing pain in my wrist. I know exactly what it is, but I sacrifice stampeding a small child near the cereal to assess the situation.

The cart is going right, I'm desperately forcing it left, and as I gaze at my hand tightly gripping the handlebar I think, "It really shouldn't bend like that." Meanwhile, Tricia is still on the phone, saying she is tired of the cat beating up the chihuahua, and I'm trying to remember if it was mozzarella or cheddar that I needed, thinking I should seriously consider a career in contortion with the way I'm manipulating my wrist into such unnatural positions, and would that pay off my student loans?

Multitasking to the extreme.

That's how you spend an entire paycheck at Wal-Mart. Go in for five things, come out with a cart full of debt. All because of a phone call and a faulty wheel.

The worst part is yet to come, however, because it isn't until I get home that I realize a hard truth - I purchased toilet paper that feels suspiciously similar to tree bark.

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Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, may be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 213, or at katyblair@npgco.com.