Eau de Market Basket

I just returned home from working the "five to close" shift at the MB (!!!), feeling lonely and dejected because

a.) I'm missing my aunt's "Watch the Fireworks from my Back Porch" cookout.
b.) I am the ONLY one missing aforementioned cookout.
c.) Someone nearby is setting off fireworks which I can hear but cannot see, which only serves to rub the "ha-ha, loser, you had work" salt in my figurative wound.

So I walked into the house, happy at least to see that the cat was waiting for me at the door. So I sat down on the stairs, the epitome of one who is, as previously mentioned, lonely and dejected, and said to the cat, "Come sit with me, Katie. I'm lonely and I need SOMEONE to hang out with." (On the way home from work, I seriously considered finding some dolls and large stuffed animals in the attic, setting them up around the kitchen table, cooking myself a veggie burger, and having an imaginary cookout. You think I'm kidding. I'm really not. But that was too pathetic, not to mention borderline psychotic. )

Anyway, the cat did her whole "I do not follow your foolish whims, lower life form. I am a CAT" stare but eventually hopped up on the step next to me and let me pat her a little. I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. This is the cat who refuses to visit me when I am deathly ill and am using up my last ounces of energy to snap my fingers and cluck my tongue and whistle, all in hopes of enticing the cat to visit so I don't feel like a complete doof. Her usual response is to sit innocently in the hallway just outside the door, looking at me as if to say, "I wish I knew what you were trying to say to me. I haven't the faintest idea what you're getting at. Toodles, off to cry until someone feeds me."

So anyway, the cat was standing next to me, allowing me to pat her, then she gave my work-issued smock a sniff and subtly began to edge away. I know why: the smell of Market Basket. (It's not the smell of me. Underneath the smock, I smell flowery and shower-fresh.)

I always knew that Market Basket has a very distinct smell. It's sort of metallic, which I suppose comes from the canned goods, money, etc. But my cat, who has smelled both cans and money before, wouldn't shy away from them. So I must conclude that there is more to the MB's odor than meets the nose. I have broken it down as follows:

Base scent: Metal (coins, cans, carriages, doors, checkout console-thingies, etc.)
With overtones of: Depression, dismay, boredom, false perkiness, grocery items, and soul-crushing defeat
And undertones of: Mild physical pain (from the standing, dontcha know), resentment (of both customers and anyone who ISN'T working at Market Basket), and (surprise!) slight amusement (at the ridiculousness of a good number of the things that go down while one is on duty)

Hmmm, speaking of smell....it seems that a skunk has decided to traipse through my yard. I'm so glad it's summer and ALL THE WINDOWS ARE OPEN. Deee-lish.

As I write this, I'm venting to Jess via AIM, because not only is she my best friend (despite my uncanny ability to turn HER complaints into complaints of my own...because I'm a narcissist and that's what we do best), but she also works at Soul Crushers, Inc. (aka the MB). As such, she is very sympathetic, even when I ramble on for ages without allowing her to get an IM in edgewise:

Me: and then i felt stupid later because i was putting hamburger and hot dog rolls in a bag myself (b/c they're bread and you know how you bag it yourself) and i went to go put the hamburger rolls in with the hot dog ones and i was like (in my head) hmm, that won't all fit. so I took out the hamburger rolls and grabbed the bag with just the two packages of hot dog rolls and the customer dude took the bag and went...
Me: "renee, I'm just gonna rearrange these because i don't want squished hot dog rolls."
Me: okay. bastard.
Me: i mean, a.) how exactly will two packages of hot dog rolls squish EACH OTHER?
Jess: people like that are annoying.
Me: b.) you don't need to ANNOUNCE it to me. I mean, i know I'm an employee and you're a customer so you can just piss all over me if you feel like it, but it's RUDE.
Me: and c.) YOU DON'T KNOW ME. DON'T CALL ME BY NAME JUST BECAUSE MY TAG SAYS IT.
Me: that's in case you're being accidentally fed into the cardboard compactor in the back and you need to know my name so you can shout "RENEE! HELP ME! I'M BEING FED INTO THE CARDBOARD COMPACTOR!" and specifically get my attention.
Jess: because that happens all the time. xD but I get what you're saying.
Me: oh, it WOULD have happened if i had anything to say about it.
Me: except in that scenario, the customer would be screaming, "RENEE! NO! I'M SORRY! PLEASE DON'T FEED ME TO THE CARDBOARD COMPACTOR!"

That's right. Beg for mercy. Do it. Remember who you're dealing with. This chick is crazy. We're talking "assigns-a-smell-to-her-place-of-employment, contemplates-imaginary-parties-with-imaginary-guests, fantasizes-about-feeding-customers-to-the-cardboard-compactor" CRAZY.

And then she blogs about it.

That's either very healthy (cathartic) or very disturbing ("Publicizes fantasy life," my future shrink will perhaps note.)

At any rate, it's ME. Peace out (for now).