Tattooed Ladies & Trader Joe’s

I just got back from a brief rendezvous with Trader Joe’s. It’s a grocery store chain out of Monrovia, CA. That would be California for those unfamiliar with the Postal Service abbreviations for the 50 states. (I still haven’t figured out why the newspapers continue to abbreviate Alabama “Ala.,” Massachusetts “Mass,” or Vermont “Ver.”)

Anyway, I wanted some sourdough bread, brie and a bottle of wine. Eat and relax, you see. Because by this time, of course, I was already off work and back in Santa Rosa.

Before I arrived home, I stopped to fill up. That would be my tires, with air. For a 44 lb rating tire, they all four were holding between 22 and 27 lbs. Way under-inflated.

Once I was home, I found out my key didn’t work anymore! What a shocker! Curious, I went to the office to find out what was going on, and get it taken care of. The clerk said to me “we had you checking out today, so we re-keyed your room.”

‘Yeah, right,’ I thought to myself.

She looked as if she couldn’t have been more than 25 years of age, with straight, jet black hair, and a doubly pierced nose and tattooed breast. Yes, breast. Even though she wore a short-sleeved, button-up shirt with the company logo, her freakin’ tattoo was ALL across her chest so that it was clearly visible, even with her shirt buttoned up to the second button from the top, and wearing a tee-shirt.

It was red in color, and appeared to be a heart of some kind, which centered around her cleavage. I tried not to stare, and don’t think I did, but I couldn’t help but wonder to myself, ‘what was she thinking when she got that tattoo?’ She was an otherwise attractive girl. Why would she want to mess up her skin and permanently mark herself, and spend her hard-earned money to do so? ‘What a damn waste!’ I thought to myself.

I considered inquiring about her tattoo, and then, when she started asking me “Do you have a contact phone number for the company?” I thought something truly strange was going on.

I mean, the company had made all my arrangements, to include air travel here, lodging here and rental-car arrangements so that all I had to do was go to the counter and tell ’em my name and show some identification.

“What number do you have?,” I asked in return.

“Area code five-one-three…”

“That’s it,” I interrupted. “That’s an Ohio area code. Just call the firm if you need any clarification or additional information. Of course, they’re not there now, nor will they be tomorrow. So, call Tuesday if you want.”

Directing the conversation my way, I asked, “I’ve heard there’s a Trader Joe’s nearby. How do I get there from here?”

Trader Joe’s is a California based specialty grocery store chain that operates in 25 states. Apparently, Consumer Reports recently ranked them as the second-best grocery store chain, while MSN Money’s recent third annual Customer Service Hall of Fame ranks them second in customer service. And for a specialty store, their prices are amazingly low.

She gave me directions, and it was so close, I probably could have walked.

So, in Trader Joe’s, while at the check-out stand, in my scrubs, stethoscope in my back pocket (as it usually is), while paying for my purchase (bottle of Spanish wine, little over half pound of French brie, and pound-and-a-half of California sourdough bread TOTAL=$12.07), I glanced up and saw the fully tattooed legs of a beautiful young woman as she walked around a corner aisle. Well… otherwise beautiful young woman.

The thought that raced through my mind was, “freak.”

Damn! What is it with these women (and men) that ruin their bodies like that?