I was at the grocery store picking up my weekly stash. And by stash I mean shaved lunch meats. I have now taken to spoiling the kids with shaved ham and turkey from the deli and no sandwich can now be made with anything else. I don’t blame them. Shaved meat is the best.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Well, there was a man in front of me waiting for his sliced cheeses and it was a few days after Halloween. Next to him was another woman also in front of me (apparently I am slow on the draw) who was also waiting for some deli items. In her cart, a three year old little girl anxiously twisted in the uncomfortable metal seat.

The man smiled at her. “I bet I know what you were for Halloween,” he proclaimed.

The little girl shyly ducked her head.

“Were you Elsa?”

The little girl would not look up. Her mother answered for her. “Yes! She was!”

“I thought so,” said the man. “That is who my daughter was for Halloween, too.”

The woman working behind the counter at the deli piped up, “My granddaughter was Elsa, too.”

The man waited for the mother and daughter to leave before he told the woman the following story:

“My brother and his neighbors live on a cul-de-sac that gets tons of trick or treaters. They decided to play a drinking game. Every time they would see an Elsa, they would take a drink. He told me they had to quit after fifteen minutes because they were getting so drunk. Everyone was dressed up as Elsa.”

And now I want Halloween to happen all over again so I can play this game..

I was at the grocery store on a different day. Pretty much, if I am not at home, I am either waiting for the kids somewhere or at the grocery store. I only overheard one sentence of a conversation but it was very intriguing:

“Timothy asked me to pour his ashes in the propane tank.”

My husband and I were walking up to our favorite Cuban restaurant, outside an elderly couple was having a mild argument as they sat and sipped their coffee.

“You are always rewarding her bad behavior,” the woman said as her voice rose a little higher.

I thought in my head at that moment, I really, really did: So does my husband.

And right then, my husband turned to me and said, “sounds like me with you.”

We laughed over that and then went to eat breakfast.

Sometimes the truth doesn’t hurt.

I was at the grocery store. Again. Always.

I was loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt. An old woman in her mid-to-late eighties was ahead of me in line. Ninny Threadgoode could have been her twin. She was a frail little thing dressed in a gorgeous embroidered sweater (which I later complimented her on).

She peered over at me and asked, “Is that a baby in your cart?”

I looked to see what she could be talking about. It was my purse.

I smiled at her and said, “No. It is just my gigantic purse.”

She made a comment about needing to get her eyes checked.

On her side of the conveyor belt, loose fruits and vegetables rolled along with the movement. I had never seen anyone not put their fruits and vegetables in separate bags. She noticed me staring at her fruit.

“I have to buy organic,” she said. “It is the only thing that sits right with me. I always have been allergic to California.”

I liked that last line. I liked what she did next even better. Her and the checker were obviously acquainted from previous purchases. They began talking about how their lives were going. She told him that she was still dancing. And then she shuffled her feet and twirled her arms in a quick little jingle of movements. She swayed in place when she was done and I worried she might topple over, but she just grinned widely said good bye to all and made her merry way out of the store. I hope to be exactly like her, not when I am older, but right now.

“I swear I saw a black widow in my room the other night,” a young girl said to her grandparents over her panini.

She continued, “but then I realized it was just a daddy long legs.”

The grandfather scoffed, “They don’t look anything alike.”

“Yea. I know. Black Widows are thicker.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I went with Steve over to Norman’s house?” The grandfather asked.

“Well, we were all sitting around the table watching Norman cook. He was going all out. And we were just watching. Just then Steve jabbed me and pointed to the curtains above Norman’s head. There, crawling down the curtain, was the biggest spider I had ever seen. It was one of those tarantulas. Well, neither one of us wanted to tell Norman. We didn’t want him feeling bad since he was cooking such a large meal. So, we just watched the spider climbing down the curtain getting closer and closer to Norman’s head.”

Here is where I need to pause this story. Aaaarrrrggghhhhhh! What? What etiquette book did they get that rule from? Please, if I am ever cooking a meal and a tarantula is about to crawl on.to.my.head., you may interrupt my cooking to let me know. I will not mind. I promise. This is a new edit to the etiquette book I am sure everyone will concur with.

Let’s continue:

“Norman’s wife noticed Steve and I just staring with our mouths open at the curtain. When she looked up, she saw the spider and started laughing. ‘Oh, that’s just Henry,’ she said. ‘He’s our pet. We let him loose around the house and he takes care of all of the flies.’ Can you believe that? They just had a pet tarantula wandering their house. I actually held him once. He was very tame. He didn’t even bite.”

Did you overhear anything good in November? Do you have a pet spider? Would you tell someone if a giant spider was about to crawl onto their head?

If you missed last month’s “Overheard In”, you can find it here.