Scenes from my life (No. 96 in an occasional series)
I don’t particularly like giving out my personal information when not absolutely necessary. I also try to avoid being a good source of data to datamarts. So on those principles, I have several supermarket loyalty cards for the two local chains in my glove box, all acquired under false names and addresses. When Joy & I go shopping, I pull one out at random, and that’s our identity for the day.
(I also trade them from time to time with friends, so in the datamarts’ eyes, I switch from junk-food-loving lactose-intolerant dog-owner to crunchy-granola family-of-four in the blink of an eye)
This recently led to a cashier looking at her terminal, and then asking me, “Is your name really Bubba?” (Oh yeah, I should mention that the names are always ludicrous, and frequently alliterative.)
This evening, as we did our shop, I realised that we’d forgotten to bring a card in with us. Hurrah! An excuse to sign up for a new card. (This is particularly easy at our local Shaws, as the customer service booth is before the checkouts rather than after, so I can go sign up while Joy frets about the amount of frozen shite in our cart and considers throwing in at least some fresh fruit, which may or may not get eaten)
So I get my form, fill it out and hand it over to the customer service person. Normally they just chuck it into a folder and give me my card, but this lady decided to double-check my details.
Her: OK, so that’s Lionel Q. Butterkinger?
Me: No, ButterFinger. Like the candy bar. Sorry, I just have bad handwriting.
Her: (Without batting an eyelid, amends my form to make the “F” in Butterfinger clearer). And that’s 17 Hershey Street?
Me: No, not “Hershey”—Hersey St
Her: OK, here you go. (Hands me card)
Me: (Returns to Joy, who always keeps a safe distance while I perform this nonsense) Tsk. They only have checkboxes for “Mr”, “Mrs”, or “Ms”. I wanted to be Sir Lionel Q Butterfinger.