The day before Easter, I was at the supermarket which was crowded with ham and chocolate bunny shoppers. Among the other customers was a mom who had a three-year girl in the cart’s seat and a five-year-old boy riding in the basket. Every ten seconds or so, the boy reached up and poked his sister in the back causing her to emit a soul-piercing shriek at the top of her considerable lungs. Mom, who was presumably suffering from adaptive catatonia, or alternatively had just undergone an elective lobotomy, never said a single word. Dead-faced, she plodded on.
But like the Mom at Easter pushing the cart with Lungs and the Mini Marquis de Sade, my mantra changed: Just get the damn food in the cart and get out of there. Preferably before everyone hates you.