How to Ring the Bell at Trader Joe's

Your inner three year old wants to know

Pondering this question, I took an investigative trip to find out.  I picked up the usual suspects for my cart: bananas, avocados, a cute plant. At checkout the gal rang through the items but didn’t ring the Trader Joe’s bell that’s at every check out station. So, I had to ask—

“What would happen if I rang the bell?”

Check out gal, Wilma, looked at me cross-eyed, “Oh you can’t ring the bell.”

I knew that. I just was wondering why. I rephrased the question so she wouldn’t think I was a wackadoodle, “What happens when you ring the bell.”

Her eyes uncrossed. “Register help, assistance to the car or help from a Hawaiian shirt.” She said proudly. I knew she got an A on her employee handbook test. As she swiped the avocado oil over the glass scanner, Wilma reminded me, “You’re not allowed to ring the bell. Only employees.”

“So, there has to be a reason?”

She gave me the stink eye like I was looking for trouble. I wanted to ring that bell just to irk her.

When you realize you didn’t take it seriously when your employer made you sign a marketing photo agreement.

I knew it would be uncivilized. Inappropriate. But why? I guess for the same reason I shouldn’t release a loud air bubble out of my ass in the vegetable aisle or take a bunch of bananas and put them with the cereals--even though bananas are delicious in cereal. 

I looked up the etymology of Appropriate. It comes from Latin (duh—like most of the English language) appropriates. Somehow the French made it sexy by taking off the “ate” (how American to have something to do with food in a word— ATE) and adding a silent “s” at the end. Apropos. Either way, it means suitable for a particular occasion. I want nothing to do with this definition.

This is going to sound cheesy but the child in me really wants to swing that rope and watch a Hawaiian shirt bound over so I can snigger at my own mischievousness.

Why? 

Is it the power? Nope. It’s that I’m an adult and as I grow older, I want to reverse this concept called aging. If I were to swing from that rope, fart and move produce to the wine section they might call the police or worse, my husband. They would recommend psychiatric care.

“What did my wife do?” Jeffrey would say, annoyed that he had to stop tinkering in his wood shop (a table in the garage) to pick me up at Trader Joe’s. 
“She reverted to age three.” The manager would say. 
Hubby would shrug. “So? You should see her at home.”

Doesn’t everyone want to be three again? Just for a day? How fun would that be to stomp around and demand juice, press all the buttons in the elevator, pee in a plastic toilet with a bear face lid and be driven everywhere-- your own personal Uber. 

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Why can’t I belt out a show tune in a restaurant?

When hubby and I were raising our twins, I marveled at their freedom to be inappropriate. When they were old enough to know what money was, 11 months—how sad— I would bargain with them. Okay, not 11 months, but between the ages of 8 and 11 this would happen--

“I’ll give you $10 if you get up and dance,” I said as we lunched at a museum café.

They pondered the request, scanned the room but my son had to use the bathroom and my daughter wanted more pudding instead.

On a flight to Disney World, “I’ll give you $10.50 (kids don’t care yet about how annoying coins are) if you ask that flight attendant for a martini.”

“What’s a martini?”

“It’s a disgusting adult drink. C’mon, it’ll be funny.”

When they noticed dad shaking his head they knew—mom’s being inappropriate—and, that I was half-joking since I was hysterically laughing at my own idea and the image conjured of these two little scrumptious kids asking for a martini and the flight attendant’s reaction.

“Okay, ask the flight attendant if you can sing Happy Birthday to dad on their airplane microphone.”

“But it’s not dad’s birthday.”

At 13, my son, Dylan, was in touch with his inner three-year-old. One day I got a call from the MBTA transit police. Dylan and his friend were on a walkway between two local trolly stops mooning trains as they passed by. I hung up and could barely breathe from laughing so hard. I imagined these two little tushies, one white, one brown, and the appalled look on the passenger’s faces. I knew there would be one passenger, like me, who would appreciate the boy’s brilliant sense of humor. I imagined my son and his friend giggling with glee at their antics. Later, when Jeffrey picked up Dylan, I had to put on my mom-hat and best poker face to deliver a consequence with Jeffrey who was already in tough-dad mode.

Three years old is the magic age. After that, civilization takes over. By the time kids are in middle school their innocence goes to Goodwill along with their footsie jammies. And at my age? We revert to three again because we don’t care. THIS is the true gift of aging.

Sometimes I regret not taking that incongruous step. Like the time I waited for the dentist’s receptionist to return from the bathroom as the phone rang. My hand was outstretched ready to seize the receiver, “FBI, how may I direct your call?”

“FBI? I thought I was calling Dr. Hayward’s dental practice.”

“Did you now? Where were you the night of April 24th—”

But receptionist Barb returned, wiping her hands on her skirt because the bathroom air dryer does absolutely nothing to dry hands.

Madonna now has an employee who wipes her pits for her.

Last week, I went to hand rehab for a ligament pull in the webbing between my thumb and index finger. I sat at a table across from Katie as she looked over my hand. And there on the shelf behind her were colorful toys: pick up sticks, silly putty, wide rubber bands. I couldn’t resist-- “Oh you have silly putty. Can I play with it?” Katie smiled and said, “I actually use these items more for the adults than the kids. You can take home a silly putty.”

Once I heard the toys were for grown-ups I said, “Nah forget it.” I was no longer interested. I realized at that moment I wasn’t being inappropriate; I was downright rebellious. She sent me home with two golf balls and a bright purple rubber band. 

The last time I was three in my head was a few days ago. The doctor was listening to my lungs and I had a hankering to talk into the stethoscope. I would have said, “Hello hello. Is there anybody in there.”

And if the doc had a sense of humor she would have said, “Just nod if you can hear me.”

This patient is not in touch with his inner 3 yo. Does he know he’s in a stock photo?

I once tried to talk to a peer at the market (Fred Meyer not Trader Joe’s). She seemed to be about my age, not dressed as cute, but I don’t hold that against anyone.

“Look at the price of this artichoke. It’s highway robbery. And where did that idiom come from? Was there a big ‘choke heist on I-5?”

She didn’t chuckle with me.

The woman made a u turn with her cart. Later, in the international section she was at the other end talking to a manager and pointing at me. I already memorized my defense had the manager questioned me. (Read in 1940’s drama queen voice.) “I don’t make u turns, see? I’m a head on collision. That’s right. I spoke to a stranger. I’m not just three today but on weekends too. Ya hear me?” Instead, the manager disappeared behind a pop-up of canned fruit. Then my heart softened as I realized, this shopper probably never had that perfect experience of being three, even when she was three. She was piled on with responsibilities as a kid, probably babysitting her toddler quintuplet siblings. Never judge a person—you don’t know their baggage.

Back at Trader Joes

I had more questions, “Were the bells moved? They’re not so easy to reach.”

I became self-conscious. Maybe too many almost 60-year-old women reverting to three rang that bell with verve.

“Because of Covid. Management raised them. Anyway, too many three-year old’s ringing them, so the bells were moved.”

I became sad for all those disappointed 3-year-olds. F—king Covid.

“Okay if I take a selfie next to the bell? It’s for my Substack.”

“What’s Substack?” (Ugh, why don’t more people know what Substack is?)

Before she could stop me, I was at the bell, phone-camera ready. There was a display of Chomps underneath. I lost my footing and knocked over the display. “I’m so sorry,” I said as I gathered a couple of scattered boxes.

Just before I knocked over the Chomps.

“Don’t worry about it. Really.”

Guess what happened next? She rang the bell.

1. Have you ever been three after you were three?

            a. If so, what happened?

2. So glad you’re here.