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You know it when you wind up behind one. I'm referring to the little old lady at the cashier with the bottomless handbag. "Oh, hee, hee, I know it's somewhere" or an endless stream-of-consciousness babble of pleasantries about the weather, the store, the items, the attendant or even themselves. Patiently you wait. Then less patiently. Then foot-tappingly irritated, all the way up the spectrum to collar-bursting-fire-breathing-fists-clenched-in-fury.

Still she's a'rootin' around in her cornucopia of doom.

Experienced one of those this morning. Even after she'd been waited on, transaction complete, finished, the employee making apologetic eye contact at the next gentleman in line, Granma Goddamn Mose wasn't gonna move an inch until everything was settled juuuust right in that bag of hers.

Keep in mind, it's not exclusive to the blue-hair brigade, I've seen plenty of middle aged women with the same bad habit. The harbinger is typically the checkbook, something that makes me wince. Another telltale is often the tri-fold, oversized wallet, often in Coach, Louis Vitton or Gucci. Taking up the entire payment counter they'll spread out deliberately, as if ready for their moment in front of the camera. Anything handed back during the transaction must be slowly and systematically replaced, receipts refiled and every button, snap or zipper put back just so. While you wait. Forever.

What's worse they fucking know they're holding you (and everyone else) up. And? They're enjoying it. While your teeth grind through any remaining enamel, they'll politely smile and finally start to move away. Pause theatrically to say good bye or "see you again soon" to the cashier. Then, at last, leave.

Next?