What do you think, have I found the title for my autobiography, or what?
This is reason 3,001 why I don't bake. I remembered on the way home that I had to bring brownies into work tomorrow. Because the grocery store is So Far Away, I went to Store 24, so I pretty much felt guilty before I walked in the door. At a place like that there's always that sense that anything you're purchasing could've been sitting on the shelves since the same store was illegally selling me Marlboro Lights in high school.
But they had brownie mix and I looked at the back of the box to see what else I needed: vegetable oil, eggs, water. I must have read the ingredients under my breath because a woman walking behind me said, "You don't know how to make brownies?" I turned, smiling, assuming she wasn't a horrific bitch, but she was. Woman was totally sneering at me. Excuse you, Betty Crocker. I should've told her I was making them for disabled kids. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow, hope she comes back in as well, and have a "well, the jerk store called and they're running out of YOU!" moment.
Then I'm in line, and the guy behind the counter turned the egg carton on its side the long way and stacked it in the bag. Maybe I'm overly egg protective, but I said, "Oh, actually, can I get the eggs in their own bag?" The guy said sure and couldn't have been nicer. And then the woman behind me (a different woman!) said, to no one in particular, "Now she needs a separate bag for her eggs!"
Now I need a separate bag? Now? As though the bag is yet another thing in my exhaustive list of demands?
I left and have decided that from now on I'm buying my brownies at Rosie's, like any other respectable non-baker. Clearly the magic of the season has touched us all.