If people were allowed to pump in Oregon

I find it interesting how isolated incidents throughout my day occasionally trigger the blog reflex. Either that or the "character in my first novel (?)" reflex. On our way out of Sacramento yeserday, two of my sisters and I stopped by an Albertsons to buy snacks for the road. I got a large Rockstar, a Holiday Spice P---i, and a box/bag of Zours. I figured at 3:30 p.m. on a holiday, I should be able to get out quick. I figured I would take my first shot at a self-checkout lane. Never done it anywhere before.

There were four of these lanes, in the four corners of a square shaped expanse. First problem was trying to figure out where to wait. Form one line and wait for one to open? This resulted in our line quickly blocking the store's main artery between the check-out lanes and the isles. Okay, so I ambled up behind a lady that looked like she might be done quickly.

And it felt like an underwear dream. Everyone behind me in line was back where we started, looking at me as if I had wandered into some sort of a DMZ. Okaaaay, back to safety. In about five minutes or so, no one had moved. I was first in line when I got there, and the same four people are still there. Well, three. One was a manager dinking around in Windows XP on the touch screen. The other three--all three--had an abundance of produce. The only items in the whole bloody store that don't have bar codes on them. This required these people to select "produce," and then spell the beginning of their food, and then pick a picture from the likely matches the screen brought up. And these people apparently thought there are more than ten varieties of broccoli, because they just couldn't do it. It was like Oregonians trying to pump their own gas, but parking at the curb and using one-gallon cans to transfer the fuel from the pump to their tank. Only when you're behind these people in line...