My daughter and I went grocery shopping today. I’ve been waiting for blueberries to come into season – you know, get past the point where 17 blueberries in one layer in a cute little box cost $4.99. Cool, there’s a mountain of strawberries, with price tags for blueberries, raspberries, gooseberries and currants. But all I can see is strawberries. Strawberries to the left, to the right, in the middle.
“They’re in the middle, Mom,” my daughter says, casually tossing a couple of pints of blueberries in the cart. I corral a produce guy and point out that if he wants me to buy the expensive stuff, he should put it where I can reach it.
Just once, I want one of these guys to smack his forehead as if touched by the Almighty, and say, “My God, you’re right! I’ll fix that right now!” and take off at a run to get a bunch of guys to rearrange the whole berry mountain.
Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.