Did you ever notice how some store checkout individuals glare your way, as if you have two heads, when you simply request that your goods be packed into a few bags, rather than having them placed in 12 bags, for 12 items?

Did you also notice that my opening sentence was super long?

OK, getting back to the subject at hand, I oft make requests, like the one above, and then, I hold my breath.

Maybe you don't desire one huge bag, but I do. I care not one iota if, for instance, feminine products land in a sack containing a box of cereal.

I have heard tell that many people are picky about what goes where, but I simply am not normal in that regard—or in any other regard, now that YOU mentioned it.

This is not the only example of how some workers simply cannot stand their jobs and make no bones about concealing thoughts, feelings and/or emotions.

I've broached this delicate topic before, in other pieces, but I shall do so again, right here. Attention people who hate your jobs: Fake it! Yes, paste on the smile, nod politely and go along with what the paying customer says, within the realms of legality, of course.

Before I go any further, I wanted to let you know that, believe it or not, this piece is going to evolve into an actual rave at some point in the distant future. I know it’s a shock to the system but, it is true. Now, moving back to the gripe session...

Most of the time when I ask a cashier to perform the unthinkable task of jamming my bags full, (a sick and demented request, I know), I am, in return, met with smirks, grumbles and odd head gestures.

What is it with this? I don't plea with the cash-register-runner in a rude manner, I simply say the following: “I don't mind at all if you pack my bags really full. I'd totally appreciate it if you would.”

Many are totally fine with my hideous and ridiculous demands, and others either lecture me, or unleash one of the above-mentioned signals.

You read that right, as I have actually received a lecture with my receipt—thank you very much. (Some employees suddenly develop an interest in the well-being of my back, for instance, and others are just looking out for me in terms of bursting bags. Isn't that precious?)

Inching forward ever so slightly toward that elusive rave, I must say that there are many nice shop toilers too. I just seem to get the person, generally younger than 25, who needs a crash-course in human relations 101.

Anyhow, this is where the rave portion of the column casually sneaks in and fills the paragraphs below. How was that for a subtle transition?

There is one local establishment in which I've never been on the receiving end of evil eyes, heavy sighs or dramatic head tossing, during the payment portion of the visit.

The destination in question would be none other than the Salvation Army Store atop Gable Hill.

(I think it actually has a more formal name—something with the word 'family' in it but, you get the idea.)

During some gloomy, winter weekends, when camping was out of the question, I would often seize Aunt Liz and force her, at gunpoint, (can I joke about that these days?), into my traveling tent on wheels, also known as the hippie van, in order to make the regional rounds.

We landed in various venues along the way and, all the while, encountered verbal and mental abuse with every stop, generally speaking. (Doesn't it remind you of a Norman Rockwell portrait?)

Even though A.L. and I suffered horribly at the hands of local check-out individuals, we always knew that we'd be treated like humans in the store atop the hill.

In terms of the shopping establishment itself, first of all, I highly recommend visiting this joint asap. There is nothing wrong with wearing a shirt for which you paid 50 cents, or donning used night clothing.

Even my super elegant, picky, critical, tender and quite loving mother has benefited from my “el cheapo” buying voyages.

I purchased her a wonderful lounge outfit, for seven bucks, or some insane amount, and she lives for it. If Mother can be happy with something from that store, then ANYONE can.

At any rate, during a particular outing, I was checking out, after gathering a bunch of absolute necessities, of course, and couldn't help but kiss the cashier dead on the lips due to her fabulous work ethic.

After security was summoned and I explained myself, the transaction continued. Don't faint but, all of the ladies were pleasant, attentive and, dare I say, even a bit peppy.

I was NOT chastised for asking that all goods be placed into a large, black garbage bag, which totally made my day.

A terrific attitude from a customer service individual is quite elusive these days and I cannot brag enough about the splendid conduct on behalf of the Salvation gals.

Not only do the ladies at the front “desk” package items nicely when asked, they also engage in light banter. Also, and here's the best part, those crazy gals do all of it while making total eye contact. It's almost too much to handle, isn't it?

This is the part of the column where I nonchalantly segue to my closing. I just thought I'd let you know so you could brace yourselves.

Anyhow, the bottom line, (it's about time), of this lingering blather is this. If you want to save a few bucks and if you are in desperate need of encountering gregarious and civil retail personnel, head up the hill to the Salvation Army Store.

The End.