Times Are Tough For All Of Us, Put Down the Cheese
My Name is Karen, and I Legit Saw This Today
I don't know what's become of the world, but something has to give! I'll start there,
My name is Karen. Yeah, I know, but it's not like that. My name is actually Karen, Mrs. Karen Lorainne Jasper III nee Woodhouse. I'm Karen, not a Karen, and I saw something today that just rotted my socks!
It was around noon, maybe a bit later. I was at the local ShoppeLess, grabbing a few things. Braxton and Bentley, my twins were out of yogurt tubes and organic apples. They're 8. You know how kids can be. So fussy.
I also had to get some other things. My husband, James Braxton wanted a rack of lamb for supper. I didn't get it. I'm not paying $40 for that. There's not enough in the budget. Thankfully, roasts were on sale. I can make that stretch.
Stretch. That's the word of the day, isn't it? It's the word of every single day lately. Make it stretch, the food, the paycheque, anything you have.
A few years ago we were doing well. We had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. If James Braxton, or Jimi B, as I call him, wanted lamb, it was nothing to run to the store and grab it. If the boys wanted a new outfit, a toy, a bike, no problem. If I wanted my hair or nails done, I went without a thought.
Now, not so much. Apparently, $140,000 a year just doesn't go as far as it used it. Mind you, I can't complain, we're very fortunate. Hashtag blessed and all that.
The day started out as my usual shopping trips do, I started at produce and made my way through meat and then milk. I noticed a woman first, thin, with a wild head of curls. Her ass was way too big for her tiny waist and she had that way about her.
You know what I mean. The way she walked. Stood. The way she picked up various items and placed them back. Haughty. She wasn't bad looking, I'll give her that. But she sure thought she was more than she was. I knew exactly what she was. Her type are a dime a dozen, no decency, no morals, no standards. We all know. Getting by on whatever looks they think they have left, looking down their noses at the rest of us.
Then there was this old guy. He was a mess. I swear I could smell him from where I was, and that had to be about 40 feet away. He had a long coat and he was milling around near the margarine and cheese. He felt off.
I moved closer.
That's when I saw it. He looked all around, his beady, clouded eyes darting all around, making sure no one was watching. He pocketed a block of cheese, Cracker Barrel Medium Cheddar. I saw it all.
I looked over at Ms. Thing. She saw it too. I know she did. We locked eyes. She still had that snotty look.
She said something to the old fart. They walked away together.
Good, she was reporting him. As she should. Theft makes prices go up for all of us. Get a job. Sign on to the pension. Don't eat cheese if you can't afford it. There are food banks for the destitute, you know. My taxes pay for that.
The dairy manager came out just as they were walking away. As a service to the store, the store I've been a loyal customer of for well over 30 years, I alerted him to the happenings. I don't believe in theft. No matter how hard I ever had it, and I've had many a tough time, I've never stolen!
Society needs rules.
I didn't see the old man or little Miss Hot Pants for a while. I had shopping to do. But guess who was at the checkout when I was done?
Yeah, them.
Thankfully, the dairy manager, his name is Bob, called the police. I asked him to. Well, I more suggested. It was his call, his decision in the end.
The old man was crying. Said something about being a veteran, working 50 years, blah, blah, blah. I'm not heartless, but seriously, where's his money then?
He had a red nose and cheeks. Booze, I bet.
I have a lot of respect for our military. My great, great, great grandfather was in the army or something. Some sort of war, I don't know. I sympathize. But there is right and wrong.
And then she spoke up. You know who I mean, the curly-headed, thinks she's something special, hot to trot nosebag. Yeah, didn't she put her pug beak in. She was standing right in front of me.
The cops were about to take the wailing oldtimer out. They weren't interested in his pleas of wanting to just have the taste of cheese in his toothless mouth.
Come on, who ever said that? Nobody wants cheese that bad. Play the violin...gag!
"Officers," she cooed like she was set on seducing both cops, the man and the woman, "this man is my grampy. He's got Dementia and picked up the cheese by mistake. I'll pay for it."
I call B.S.! That man was no more relation to her than I was. He squirmed and mumbled and she quieted him.
"It's okay, Grandpa," she grinned, "I'll get your cheese."
He got the con and nodded.
And the police fell for it!
Can you imagine? The police, sworn officers of the law, fell for her con. They couldn't see past that butt, that giant butt in those short shorts and her long eyelashes, which she batted over those blue eyes.
Putty.
That's what they were, putty in her hands. And in his.
I don't know what this world's coming to when some old man can steal cheese and get away with it with the aid of a random middle-aged woman who wishes she was still cute.
That's the problem with the world today. Standards. There are no more standards.
I left. I was livid! James Braxon was home when I got there and I told him everything. He was as incensed as I was. We've worked for everything we have!
We put away the groceries, the apples, the fruit snacks, the roast and the yogurt tubes. Oh and the brie.
I froze. I forgot putting that in my bag. I looked at my receipt. Nope. No brie.
I'd forgotten it. Or the clerk forgot to ring it in. I'm not certain. Oh well, that's $14 I don't have to spend. Pretty lucky, I'd say.
About the Creator
Misty Rae
Author of the best-selling novel, I Ran So You Could Fly (The Paris O'Ree Story), Chicken Soup For the Soul contributor, mom to 2 dogs & 3 humans. Nature lover. Chef. Recovering lawyer. Living my best life in the middle of nowhere.
Why We Imagine the Worst-Case Scenario
It started with a text message that never came. My boyfriend had said he'd call me after his interview. It was 6 p.m., then 7 p.m., then 8 p.m. By 9 p.m., I'd convinced myself he was dead. Not just hurt—dead. Car accident. Mugging gone wrong. Sudden brain aneurysm. I'd already mentally planned his funeral, imagined telling his parents, and pictured myself in black at the cemetery when my phone finally buzzed. "Sorry babe! Interview ran long, then grabbed drinks with the team. How was your day?" I stared at the message, my heart still hammering, hands still shaking. Three hours I'd spent in hell. Three hours of vivid, terrible scenarios playing on loop in my mind. And for what? He'd been fine. Happy, even. That's when I realized: my brain wasn't protecting me. It was torturing me. The Catastrophe Factory I've been a catastrophic thinker for as long as I can remember. Show me any situation, and I'll show you seventeen ways it could end in disaster. A friend doesn't text back? They've decided they hate me and are ghosting me forever. A slight headache? Definitely a brain tumor. My boss wants to "chat"? I'm getting fired, losing my apartment, and will end up homeless. Turbulence on a plane? We're going down, and I've already written my last words to my family in my head. It's exhausting. Every day is a mental obstacle course of imagined tragedies that never materialize. And yet, I can't stop. My brain insists on preparing for the worst, as if anticipating disaster will somehow prevent it. The Genetics of Worry My therapist once asked me, "Where did you learn to think this way?" The answer came immediately: my mother. Growing up, every minor inconvenience was treated like a catastrophe. If my dad was ten minutes late coming home, my mother would pace the kitchen, convinced he'd been in an accident. If I had a cough, she'd keep me home from school, certain it would turn into pneumonia. If the phone rang after 9 p.m., she'd answer it with a trembling voice, already bracing for bad news. I absorbed her anxiety like a sponge. I learned that the world was dangerous, that disaster lurked around every corner, and that the best way to protect yourself was to imagine every terrible possibility before it happened. The logic was twisted but compelling: if I could predict the worst, maybe I could prevent it. Or at least, I wouldn't be blindsided by it. But all I really learned was how to suffer twice—once in my imagination and once if it actually happened. The Illusion of Control Here's what I've come to understand about catastrophic thinking: it's not really about the future. It's about control. When life feels uncertain or chaotic, our brains scramble for a sense of agency. We can't control whether bad things happen, but we can control our mental preparation for them. Catastrophizing becomes a security blanket—uncomfortable, but familiar. I noticed this pattern clearly during the pandemic. While the world was genuinely scary, my catastrophic thinking went into overdrive. I wasn't just worried about getting sick; I was planning for economic collapse, societal breakdown, and the end of civilization as we knew it. My therapist pointed out something crucial: "You're so busy preparing for the worst that you're missing the present moment entirely. And ironically, all this mental preparation doesn't actually help you handle real problems when they arise." She was right. When actual challenges came—losing my job, my grandmother's death, a real health scare—all my catastrophic preparation was useless. The scenarios I'd imagined were never quite right, and the energy I'd spent worrying could have been spent living. The Brain's Ancient Wiring There's a reason catastrophic thinking is so common: evolution. Our ancestors who imagined the worst—who saw every rustling bush as a potential predator—were more likely to survive than the optimists who assumed everything was fine. Anxiety kept them alive. Vigilance was rewarded. But here's the problem: our brains haven't caught up to modern life. We're still operating with software designed for life-or-death situations, applying it to emails, traffic, and social media. That rustling bush is now an unanswered text. That potential predator is now a cryptic comment from our boss. Our amygdala—the brain's alarm system—can't tell the difference between actual danger and imagined threats. So it treats everything like an emergency.
By Ameer Moavia7 days ago in Psyche
Comments (5)
Okay, your story was so good that it disturbed me. I felt anguish for that old man, no matter if he was or wasn't a vet. Give him the damn cheese and go on with life! I don't steal, but if my family was hungry, I just might. Being real. I also am guilty of judging at first glance...MS Bootylicious. Your story reminded me to stop that madness. I think she was awesome for believing the best in the vet and trying to help...using all her weapons available...even the booty card. Now, having said that, I disdainfully disagree with looting name brand clothes and electronics like people did after rioting and burning buildings...no excuse for that. Even in a terrible economy.
I love how effectively you create a holier-than-thou character for your narrator
Lol. Great story! This touches on something. When my daughter was first born, I was struggling a lot. A single mom. I live in a really small town, and people know each other by face if you work somewhere. I remember that first December I went to go buy some food for me and baby girl. My food stamps hadn't come in yet and I was working only a little bit. I had grabbed some staples, milk and such, and some formula, and a small pack of diapers. Counting my pennies, I miscalculated. I was embarrassed at the check out line when my card declined. I was so embarrassed, putting back some of the food out of the pool if items so I could afford the diapers. There were some people getting very impatient. I could feel them getting impatient. Shuffling feet, my burning face, and some mutters and looks. A man steps from the back of the line and walks up and asks if I'm okay. I nodded, super embarrassed as the cashier was pulling items out of my bags. It wasn't a lot but with the daipers and stuff it was almost 40 dollars. He pulled out his car and ran it without asking me. He paid for my food, my baby's diapers AND my formula. He looked at me (he was an oldergentleman) and said: "I hope you and your baby have a merry Christmas. And there's no way that either of you are going hungry today. Not on my watch." I remember getting in my car and just sobbing. A mix of feeling like a failure and the deepest gratitude that I had ever felt. I am so grateful there are people like you in the world, who are willing to pay for an old veterans cheese. And thank god for that older gentleman, who made sure that I also had something to eat that day....
Honestly, in this economy, if you have to steal small amounts of food from big chain supermarkets to get by then I wouldn’t judge you. I’m not sure about other countries, but in Aus the big ones took advantage of inflation and over-inflated their prices beyond the extra production costs to get record profits (literally billions of dollars) while everyone is struggling to get by. I doubt a few missing blocks of cheese would put a dent in that 🤣🤣. But also, a very nicely done story! Loved how you truly embraced the perspective of the Karen 😂
Good for Ms. Hotpants. And Karen really is a Karen. I wish she'd gotten caught.