Times Are Tough For All Of Us, Put Down the Cheese

I don't know what's become of the world, but something has to give! I'll start there,

My name is Karen. Yeah, I know, but it's not like that. My name is actually Karen, Mrs. Karen Lorainne Jasper III nee Woodhouse. I'm Karen, not a Karen, and I saw something today that just rotted my socks!

It was around noon, maybe a bit later. I was at the local ShoppeLess, grabbing a few things. Braxton and Bentley, my twins were out of yogurt tubes and organic apples. They're 8. You know how kids can be. So fussy.

I also had to get some other things. My husband, James Braxton wanted a rack of lamb for supper. I didn't get it. I'm not paying $40 for that. There's not enough in the budget. Thankfully, roasts were on sale. I can make that stretch.

Stretch. That's the word of the day, isn't it? It's the word of every single day lately. Make it stretch, the food, the paycheque, anything you have.

A few years ago we were doing well. We had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. If James Braxton, or Jimi B, as I call him, wanted lamb, it was nothing to run to the store and grab it. If the boys wanted a new outfit, a toy, a bike, no problem. If I wanted my hair or nails done, I went without a thought.

Now, not so much. Apparently, $140,000 a year just doesn't go as far as it used it. Mind you, I can't complain, we're very fortunate. Hashtag blessed and all that.

The day started out as my usual shopping trips do, I started at produce and made my way through meat and then milk. I noticed a woman first, thin, with a wild head of curls. Her ass was way too big for her tiny waist and she had that way about her.

You know what I mean. The way she walked. Stood. The way she picked up various items and placed them back. Haughty. She wasn't bad looking, I'll give her that. But she sure thought she was more than she was. I knew exactly what she was. Her type are a dime a dozen, no decency, no morals, no standards. We all know. Getting by on whatever looks they think they have left, looking down their noses at the rest of us.

Then there was this old guy. He was a mess. I swear I could smell him from where I was, and that had to be about 40 feet away. He had a long coat and he was milling around near the margarine and cheese. He felt off.

I moved closer.

That's when I saw it. He looked all around, his beady, clouded eyes darting all around, making sure no one was watching. He pocketed a block of cheese, Cracker Barrel Medium Cheddar. I saw it all.

I looked over at Ms. Thing. She saw it too. I know she did. We locked eyes. She still had that snotty look.

She said something to the old fart. They walked away together.

Good, she was reporting him. As she should. Theft makes prices go up for all of us. Get a job. Sign on to the pension. Don't eat cheese if you can't afford it. There are food banks for the destitute, you know. My taxes pay for that.

The dairy manager came out just as they were walking away. As a service to the store, the store I've been a loyal customer of for well over 30 years, I alerted him to the happenings. I don't believe in theft. No matter how hard I ever had it, and I've had many a tough time, I've never stolen!

Society needs rules.

I didn't see the old man or little Miss Hot Pants for a while. I had shopping to do. But guess who was at the checkout when I was done?

Yeah, them.

Thankfully, the dairy manager, his name is Bob, called the police. I asked him to. Well, I more suggested. It was his call, his decision in the end.

The old man was crying. Said something about being a veteran, working 50 years, blah, blah, blah. I'm not heartless, but seriously, where's his money then?

He had a red nose and cheeks. Booze, I bet.

I have a lot of respect for our military. My great, great, great grandfather was in the army or something. Some sort of war, I don't know. I sympathize. But there is right and wrong.

And then she spoke up. You know who I mean, the curly-headed, thinks she's something special, hot to trot nosebag. Yeah, didn't she put her pug beak in. She was standing right in front of me.

The cops were about to take the wailing oldtimer out. They weren't interested in his pleas of wanting to just have the taste of cheese in his toothless mouth.

Come on, who ever said that? Nobody wants cheese that bad. Play the violin...gag!

"Officers," she cooed like she was set on seducing both cops, the man and the woman, "this man is my grampy. He's got Dementia and picked up the cheese by mistake. I'll pay for it."

I call B.S.! That man was no more relation to her than I was. He squirmed and mumbled and she quieted him.

"It's okay, Grandpa," she grinned, "I'll get your cheese."

He got the con and nodded.

And the police fell for it!

Can you imagine? The police, sworn officers of the law, fell for her con. They couldn't see past that butt, that giant butt in those short shorts and her long eyelashes, which she batted over those blue eyes.

Putty.

That's what they were, putty in her hands. And in his.

I don't know what this world's coming to when some old man can steal cheese and get away with it with the aid of a random middle-aged woman who wishes she was still cute.

That's the problem with the world today. Standards. There are no more standards.

I left. I was livid! James Braxon was home when I got there and I told him everything. He was as incensed as I was. We've worked for everything we have!

We put away the groceries, the apples, the fruit snacks, the roast and the yogurt tubes. Oh and the brie.

I froze. I forgot putting that in my bag. I looked at my receipt. Nope. No brie.

I'd forgotten it. Or the clerk forgot to ring it in. I'm not certain. Oh well, that's $14 I don't have to spend. Pretty lucky, I'd say.