I hand the cashier my credit card. She looks at me like I’ve just asked her to barter goats for spices. “Can I have your name?” she asks. “No,” I reply. “You can have my money.”

  Then comes the phone number. Then the email. [] Finally, after this interrogation, I’ve spent $300 and she asks if I’d like a bag. Of course I want a fucking bag: “That’s 25 cents,” she says. Why can’t stores just build the damn bag into the price instead of insulting me at checkout? I’m not asking to be hand-fed grapes like Julius Caesar.

  And God forbid I need to call anyone about anything. Changing an airline ticket? Calling my credit card company? Forget it. Every road leads to an automated voice system with the warmth of a Soviet switchboard.