Dear Trader Joe’s cashier who asked if he could “Sweep me away” to his register:

Two aisles diverged in a tiki-themed check out. And sorry I could not travel both…

I’m caught in limbo between my current queue and your deserted register island.

I nod.

With a smile, you valet park my cart to your aisle.

Can you sweep me away to your register?

Yes.

Absolutely.

Thank you for asking!

Now pay attention. We’ve much to sort out:

First we’ll need to ask your co-workers to keep hiding the matted beanie lobster around the store for my children to seek. Also, we need better prizes than balloons if you want to keep my children occupied. Seven can blow balloons up but not tie them, and Four can cover balloons with spit but not blow them up. If someone blows them up and ties them, the boys will bandy the balloons about the produce section, enjoying unintentional headers from unaware salt and pepper hairdo passersby.

That buys us 10 minutes.

We need to address the absence of treats in the prize basket. The occasional Clementine won’t go very far, but maybe if you break out a 3 pound bag and make the boys peel them, it will prolong their inevitable looting and pillaging of the snack station. It might pay to let them sample the various clam-shelled novelties around the store (one of the boys is gluten intolerant—no worries!). All told, I bet we could have at least an hour before they even notice my absence. Oh, and tell your colleagues never mind the boys scraping frost off the freezer goods and putting it in their mouths—I’ve tried, Lord how I’ve tried.

Now where shall we go, my young friend? I’m not sure what you had in mind, or when we’ll need to return, but as soon as you‘re done ringing me up I’m sure you’ll reveal everything. I love surprises! I’ve never been swept away before. I never even knew I needed it until you asked me just now. Suddenly I wish to remove my bulbous winter hat and let my still-sopping hair loose from its nape-nugget.

Do you have a Vespa? Can we pretend you have a Vespa and that it’s summer on the Amalfi Coast? My sopping wet hair will fly behind us en route to Il Ristorante and I will wear perfectly fitted linen pants that do not look curdled with raisin knees, and a neck scarf that magically does not accentuate the triangle-headed.

Maybe we could go to that ristorante where they have live singing at Hilldale? Usually I find unison community clapping upsetting, but something special happens at that mall—something continental. They have a wide-eyed waiter with excellent pronunciation, and I just know we’d feel very at home there as native Amalfis. I figured him for a vocal major or an international student, but I’m sorry to report that he’s from Neenah, Wisconsin and studies Kinesiology. I bet you’re as disappointed as I was. No capiche!We definitely no capiche, do we? This is our first private joke.

Thank you for bagging everything so nicely—cold with cold, dry with dry. Has the time come to sweep away? I wish I’d put on a little mascara. I’ll just say goodbye to the boys after they return the shin-blasters mini-carts. Any idea of our return, Signore? Why sure I’d love to give you my number on a little golden ticket. Here you go. Wink wink!

Oh.

Dear.

I see.

So, that’s how we end? You’d like me to put my golden ticket in the fishbowl with all 573 other customers you swept away.

No, no cash back today, thank you. Yes, yes of course more stickers. They mash up so nicely in the bottom of my purse. I guess this is goodbye, then. Come along boys. Grab your balloons.

Ciao Bello. We’ll always have Hilldale.