Indiana Sunday

"But ... but ... it's SUNDAY!!!!" She white knuckled her cash register as her brown eyes bulged out at the sight of my transgression.

"It's ... SUNDAY!!!!"

Confusion exploded from my head like a rainbow from a box of Lucky Charms. "What do you mean?"

There, between us, on the register belt, stood a bottle of red wine. Some version of a Two-Buck Chuck.

"It's ... Sunday!"

With a stern look and a headshake, just as I started complimenting myself on my youthful appearance that might necessitate producing my California driver's license, she wrapped her fingers around the bottle and put it under her register. Next up: Applesauce for Little Miss Kickboxer, a bag of pretzels, and some deodorant.

My confused stare triggered not only TBIK's hysterical giggling, but also the pity of the shopper behind us. Ah! Out-of-towners!

"You can't buy alcohol on a Sunday, hon!"

"You ... WHAT? Excuse me, WHAT????"

"State law," the cashier snorted disparagingly as she stuffed TBIK's organic granola in yet another plastic bag.

Shattered was my hip, wrinkle-free, ready-to-be-carded self-image. Exposed were my dirty California hippie boozin' ways.

The teenager on the next register followed our conversation attentively while sticking a Marlboro behind his ear. He obviously expected more tie-dye or patchouli or maybe some gay marriage peace sign tattooed on my forehead. So, I stammer, "Uh, we just moved here from California."

"Well, you're in Indiana now. If you have to drink, you can always drive over to Illinois," the cashier remarks as she hands me seventeen gazillion plastic bags, her disdain now turned into pity for the crazy alcoholic I must be. "And people here do plan their Sunday drinking better."

"This is one for the blog," I say. "Thanks, ma'am. And by the way: There's a law against plastic bags in California."