This morning I bought vacuum cleaner bags from the hardware store and summer sausage, eggs, lettuce, apples, tomatoes, and something else I can’t remember from the grocery store, all without laying out a dime. How, you ask?
“Charge it, please!”
The suburbs hardly compare to the Plaza, where Eloise so famously got to order up for room service and “charge it please!” every few pages, but you can actually hold charge accounts around here. It amazes me. At the hardware store, large numbers of my extended family are listed on my grandmother’s charge account. We could all being going wild with spray paint and she’d never even know (until she got the bill, of course). At the little grocery, not only can you charge things, but it’s often very difficult to keep them from carrying your groceries to your car for you. There’s nothing more embarrassing, to my mind, than being young and able bodied and having a gangly teenaged boy carry a bag with croissants and spinach in it the five feet from the door to my car, as if I couldn’t manage it myself. Really, I ought to learn to live it up–training to be a suburban matron, or soccor mom, as they are called these days.