Thanks a lot, Freakazoid

You know how it is. You’re trying to squeeze about 47 tasks into a 25-minute window on any given work day and you run right smack into a raging psychopath at the supermarket.

Oh wait, that doesn’t happen to you a couple of times a week? Well, frankly, me neither, but it did last week, I tell ya. #YouKnewIWould

It’s really kind of a sporting challenge — a man versus self sort of thing, cramming a bunch of To-Dos in one very teeny block of To-Day.

I tell myself, “Self, we can do this if we just stay focused.”

So I zip out to my day job parking lot with my task list in one hand and credit card in the other. Then, just like the cutie patootie cousins Bo and Luke used to do on “The Dukes of Hazzard” back in the 1980s, I take a running jump and slide into the open window of my car. You know, to save time and look cool, obvi.

Okay, that’s only on warm days. Okay, there are no warm days in northeast Ohio, whatever. #IThinkSummerHasBeenCanceled

So, once I brave my way into the car during yet another freakish spring snow burst, it starts. The timer begins counting racking up my minutes as I defy myself to keep them under 27. Why 27?

Um, to represent the 27 different flavors of Pop Tarts? #MakingStuffUp

Look, it’s nonsensical and arbitrary but that’s how I roll. If you don’t believe me, come on over to my house and check out my clocks. Every last one is set 10 minutes fast. #NotKidding #CantChangeItNow #Issues

Anyway, there are those rare occasions (loved ones’ birthdays, off-location meetings or when I absolutely positively have to catch up on an episode of the “The Real Housewives of New York” #BigAppleIsMyFave) on which I’ll permit myself to take almost the full hour I’m allotted for lunch — but it ain’t my rule.

And I think we’ve established that my rules are pazzo, as my Pop says. That’s Italian for crazy, BTW. Which brings me to my grocery store experience last Monday.

After having successfully fed my teenager, petted my dog, paid some bills, started simmering a half a chicken and picking up a bracelet from jewelry repair all in under 19 minutes, I made the split second decision to push my limit.

“I only need eggs, milk and pickling spice,” I remember thinking as I ran in the front sliding doors of the market.

And just as I rounded minute 23 and put the last of my items in bags, there he was — Sergeant Scary. He was giving me the stink eye as he repeatedly swiped his card to no avail, since my transaction was not yet complete.

As I started to explain, he barked “Could ya hurry up?”

Little did he know.

“Oh I am, really…,” I said, but he didn’t hear because his four cyclops heads were busy yelling, “I scared her! I scared her!” which was neither a lie nor the reason I was running away from his Crypt-Keeper-looking self. It was my timer, which was rounding 25.

And as Captain Creepy laughed maniacally and said, “Shall I escort you out? Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!” I zipped back to work. Total time? 28:57.

Sigh.

I blame the freakazoid in checkout Lane 1 for the fail, thank you very much. And thank him I did. All they way back to work. With a single digit salute. Twenty-seven times. #NotGoingBackThere

Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist with about 27 issues. Okay, maybe more. Check them out at www.patriciakimerer.com

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