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.

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.