I Hate That Place

Image courtesy of angelfire.com

The last time I went, I should have sworn it off. Truthfully, I should have sworn it off years ago because this happens all the fucking time. But I live in a town that gives me one option and that option is Wal-Mart. Last month, I filled my cart with ridiculously low priced items and I had filled it too full for the express lane. No one likes that guy. So I ambled over to one of only three regular checkout lines and patiently waited. And waited. I scanned the shit mags for news about people I couldn't care less about, threw in a hundred packs of gum I didn't need and contemplated my lip balm situation. Did I need some in my car? Had I scraped the bottom of the one in my makeup case with my pinky nail? Unsure, I grabbed a couple Burt's Bees for the road. And I waited. The trio in front of me looked to be furnishing a new home, stocking up for a weekend of beer pong and redoing a wardrobe. All in one night. Here's where it gets dicey. One of them made a point to keep the checker talking and laughing the the entire time she was ringing in their items. It raises red flags for me because I'm a dick and I assume they are trying to pull one over on someone. That someone ended up being Wal-Mart. The other two misfits were chatting about the how expensive it all was and making plans for payment. Their total was a whopping $739. Now, before we go any further let's talk about who  can afford to spend that much money at Wal-Mart in one evening. No one. No one that lives in my town, no one who wears slippers to the store, no one who actually works for their money, no motherfucking one. The female in the group is chosen as the payee and when she swipes her first credit card, it is declined. As is the second and the third. By this point, I have been in line for 32 minutes. There are three horrendously full carts behind me and all my shit is on the belt waiting for it's turn to be handled and beeped. After her fourth card attempt, she informs that cashier that there must be an issue with the bank, so she will just call them. It's 10:30 PM. On a Sunday. Just a guess, but I don't think they are answering. The cashier looks at me and utters these exact words "She is calling the bank, so you may want to find another check stand." To say that I was in a rage would be an understatement. These hooligans were trying to pass off stolen credit cards and holding up the fucking line while Ms. Checker Bitch allowed phone calls in the middle of a rush. I vowed to never return. 

Then I returned. Tonight. After a month of not using soap and telling my kids it was okay to use vodka as a mouthwash, I finally gave in. Mr. 7 and I had a wonderful time pulling Made In China items from shelves and throwing them in the cart. At one point, he wanted to smell the body wash and we ended up with watermelon gel all over the cart. I kept breathing. As we made our way to the checkout, I dubiously counted our items and realized that once a again we were over the limit. The sparkle lanyards, that were a must have item had, put us over by three. I jumped in the shortest line. And by shortest, I mean the longest and the most painful. We waited. Mr. 7 asked for a limited edition push pop, I declined. We talked about gum and the benefit of eating chocolate before bed. I said no. And we waited. The young couple in front of us had a cart full of groceries and a multitude of WIC checks. I'm not going there, so chill the fuck out. That is for another day. Nothing would ring in. The checks wouldn't work. The checker had no idea what to do, so we waited. Someone brought new items. We waited. Someone else checked the validity of the checks. We waited. Mr. 7 needed to pee. I pointed him towards the restroom and made him promise to not talk to anyone and to scream if anyone looked in his direction. The bathroom was under construction. I wearily looked at the gentleman behind me. 

"We aren't going anywhere anytime soon. Take him to the bathroom and I'll pay for your stuff if you don't make it back." he said. 

I promised it wouldn't come to that and Mr. 7 and I raced through the maze of 3XL tanks and Duck Dynasty tumblers. 

"Pee fast. Don't wash your hands." I hissed.

Yes, it was that kind of excursion. 

As we made our way back, I was out of breath and on the verge of a mommy meltdown. Mr. 7 wasn't faring well either. There had been no progress made with the WIC couple and I wanted to cry. 

"If I have to wait for 15 more minutes, I'm freaking out." said Mr. 7. 

There hasn't been a truer statement made. Ever. 

After 35 minutes of waiting and swearing under my breath, we were finally getting checked out. I was sure karma was going to really stick it to me and decline my debit card. Thankfully, no. When we finally made it to the car, I couldn't find my keys. Or my phone. They were in my jacket pocket during the bathroom marathon. "Oh my God, karma. Why? I can't handle this." 

"My keys and my phone are gone, buddy. We need to go back in and search the store." 

Mr. 7 calmly looked up. "I have your phone, mom. You gave it to me so I could play a game."

I felt my keys in the bottom of my purse and the world was right again. Until karma comes back. And I know that bitch is just waiting. 

Flushing My Self Respect

There was always that nagging question in my head "Who goes to Walmart in an outfit worthy of being posted on a website dedicated to booty short wearing trannys with their balls hanging out?" The answer was revealed to me last night. I have become one of those people who will, cross your fingers, be immortalized on the Internet for years to come.

It began with guilt, as most disturbing choices in my life do. The last day of school and my kids had no teacher gifts. Now, keep in mind, I live on Pinterest Princess Circle and every mom, with the exception of yours truly,  has been working on their teacher gifts for months now. The handmade rug from a loom that their husband built from recycled lumber, an exotic flower in a pot that was created on their potter's wheel in the basement, and a full herb garden encased in a hand blown glass terrarium. I am constantly out of my league. It was also retirement day for their principal who should be named a saint for what she deals with on a daily basis. I received an urgent email from a PTA someone or another suggesting, at 9pm the evening before, that we should all shower her with gifts and appreciation. I had the appreciation thing handled but the gift thing was tricky. I don't buy extra gifts and discreetly keep them in my front closet labeled " GIFTS/GIFT BAGS/CURLY RIBBON". My gift bags are plastic bags from my pantry and curly ribbon is for Christmas. Only Santa deals with that shit. I am screwed. I text my crafty mom with the full intention of driving to her house, stealing an adorable craft she made, sticking in an old grocery bag and taking credit for the whole thing. She knows I'm a dick. When I got to her house, my life went from annoying to exhausting when I saw that she had figured out how to use her computer. She was on Pinterest scrolling through craft projects for teacher appreciation. Apparently, I am the only asshole who doesn't plan this shit out. I am sure you can imagine all the sickeningly adorable sayings, candy cards and shit filled baskets that were available for our amusement. It's now 11:35 pm. The clock is ticking and I am not making a fucking craft.

So I am making a craft and it needed color coded goodies, so my next stop was Walmart. I had gone to my moms with the intention of not getting in an accident (I'm not wearing underwear), not getting pulled over (I am wearing booty shorts) and taking a total of 12 steps outside (I am wearing slippers). I was headed into the thunder dome. I sat in the parking lot waiting for a group of teenagers to drive away and to see if I could run special ops on the employee pushing carts in.  I then proceeded to lie to myself by saying that I didn't look that bad and I didn't care what people thought. While I was walking through the parking lot, the wind whipped through my hair. The hair on my legs. It is currently long enough to braid and visible from space. While I am usually a fast walker, I amazed even myself with the sprint I made from one aisle to the next. Eventually I made it to the single checkout line that was wrapped around two freestanding displays full of s'more ingredients. Could I cover my legs in marshmallows? Are graham cracker pants a thing? I waited impatiently and rubbed my furry calves together like a grasshopper. I was disgusted with myself and my Pinterest inspired teacher gift wasn't making me feel any better.

It's anyone's guess as to whether or not there was a iPhone snapping shots behind my back, I only noticed the creep with a Lean Cuisine and a 2 liter of soda who was standing inside my "GET THE FUCK OUT" bubble. As he eyed my wallet, I had a strange feeling that wearing slippers to the store wasn't going to be the biggest problem I had that evening/morning. The moral of this story? I am still going to judge people who have their ass crack showing and white Lycra on anyone never ceases to amuse. However, I now know that I can never leave my house without proper attire: yoga pants, a tank and flip flops. Lesson learned.

                                                      Call in the troops...I made this shit.