A Bird In The . . .House

We awoke to the sound of the cleaning lady opening the door followed by her exclamation, "Oiseau!"

One of the cats (I can guess which one - that gray rascal with the innocent face) brought a bird into the living room during the night.

By the time I pull some clothes on and get in there, she's removed the carcass. Gray feathers cover the floor.

"Le chat est mauvais," I tell her and she agrees. Now there's a sentence in French I'd never thought I'd need.

The words I do need and fail to grasp have to do with a green pepper. We're making spaghetti for dinner, using some of the tomatoes in our garden, but we need a few things from the supermarket. I want to go to the Super U because I saw some of the cutest underwear there. (By the way, ladies, we are being underserved in the choices of underwear styles available.)

We finish our shopping, which includes the aforementioned pepper, and proceed to the checkout. Except the pepper is missing something. The cashier tells us something and we look at each other, then at her. "Je ne comprends pas." I say. I should have said, Parlais- vous Anglais?" because she presses on in French. This conversation is going nowhere fast. She phones someone.

We take a guess rather than wait in the uncomfortable silence. Maybe it needs a sticker with the UPC code, or a price. I walk to the bin of peppers. Nope, no stickers. I memorize the price: 4.12 Euros per kilogram. I walk back and give this information to the cashier. Nothing doing. She's still pointing to the side of the pepper. By this time the line at the checkout is growing and the man behind us is tapping his finger impatiently.

Bernie's not going to stand here and be stared at, so he goes back to the pepper bin. It's growing increasingly difficult to maintain an assured, self-possessed outer appearance. Now the cashier is tapping her finger.

Bernie arrives, holding the pepper and shaking his head. The line of people stare at him. He tries to tell the cashier we don't want the pepper. No dice - we're going to have to see this thing through to the bitter end.

At last a nonchalant produce manager relieves Bernie of the pepper. Now he's off to the pepper bin. In a couple of minutes in which a lifetime passes, he returns with an impressive white sticker on the pepper.

THE DARN THING NEEDED TO BE WEIGHED! Neither of us had seen the scale.

Bernie, who always gets the money right, fumbles for bills and coins. I gaze steadily at the belt that is not moving groceries along now. We are way past the nervous smile and shrug stage.

I'm rummaging around in mental pockets, too, and can't find what I need. No one ever seemed to think I'd need to learn "Sorry for holding up the line."