Le supermarché

Journal entry from October 6, 2009:

"I stopped by the Franprix because Caitlin had texted me to pick up toilet paper on the way home, so I thought I'd be a nice person, however ridiculous it would look to walk 3 blocks with a pack of 9 bright pink toilet paper rolls. I hadn't even been inside the store for more than 3 minutes and of course, somehow I attract every mishap that could be floating around in the air. I have a mishap magnet on my ass or something. So I was struggling with the plastic bag roller for the produce and there was a man waiting to grab one too.
"Pardon," I mumbled nervously, because that's my default saying for everything and anything that is remotely embarrassing or inconvenient. YOU GAVE ME THE WRONG AMOUNT OF CHANGE! "Oh, pardon." YOU KILLED MY FIRSTBORN SON! "Oh! Pardon." I will probably return to the states a shell of a person -- apologetic and pathetic. So anyway. The guy mutters something quickly after I finish making a fool out of myself and ripping half the plastic bag off--completely disregarding the damn perforated edge. I later recognized his mumbling to be, "C'est pas practique, unh?"
"Ouais" I replied, excited to have understood him.
I later realized I should have said "si," because it was in response to a negative, and thus, ironic statement, but whatever. He muttered something else too (the French just mumble all the time), but this time I really didn't understand. Usually when I don't understand, I just laugh nervously and go about my business, but I could tell that he was looking at me as though what he said required a specific answer, so I said, "Comment?"
He repeated, "Vous êtes charmante quand vous parlez, mademoiselle."
He flashed his crooked teeth at me.
...

Oh.
Oh, I see.
You are trying to hit on me, Mr. 40-something-year-old French man. I was kind of caught off guard, because it's normal even in the states to make useless produce banter over the cucumbers and tomatoes at the grocery store. Plus, I hadn't even said anything mildly charming, did I? I don't remember reciting Shakespeare within the 20 seconds we'd interacted, so I just laughed again and mumbled something that might have sounded like "merci." Oh shit. I mean,
"Pardon?"
I then swiftly turned my attention to the oranges to the left of me and away from Mr. creeper as though they were the most amazing oranges that I had ever seen in my life. I seemed fascinated with these oranges, let me tell you. He eventually went away, but that wasn't all. A few seconds later, an older woman tapped me on the shoulder.
"Unhgh...uhh...merr...ehhh," she said.
"Oui, madame?"
"unghhh.." She was pointing at the fruit and vegetable scale.
Duh, I forgot that after picking out your produce at some stores, you needed to measure them yourself before you got to the register. I thanked her for reminding me. She shook her head, which I took to mean, "It's no problem at all, little confused asian girl who is eye-raped by creepy men in grocery stores." But no, she didn't mean that. She kept pointing at the scale. Yes, ma'am, I know that I need to weigh them.
"Ohhhhhhhhh vous me demandez?" I suddenly realized that she was asking me how to use it.
Also, that she didn't speak French.

"Pardon."
...
"Alors, vous mettez vos choses sur l'échelle-ci. . .et donc, poussez le bouton correspondant. Par exemple, les pèches, et voîlà, enfin, vous mettez le timbre sur le sac."
After the peaches she pushed me to do every single bag of produce she had for her.
Nectarines. Clementines. Celery. They didn't have the specific type of apples that were on sale.
"Vous pouvez demander les caisses pour le prix spécificament, madame."
She stared at me frustratingly.
I'm sorry, lady, your apples are not marked on the scale, but I can't stand here all day measuring your produce. Eventually, she was satisfied and thanked me with a gesture.

I need to find a new grocery store to do my shopping at."