Warning: This post may contain large amounts of sarcasm. (That statement in itself is full of sarcasm). ‘Nuff said.
I went to Walmart and Superstore the other day and Holy Guacamole Batman was it busy. Normally I go early in the day to do errands because it is, well, not busy then. But this day I was off my game; not thinking clearly, obviously, and decided to throw caution to the wind and…‘dum dum dummm’…enter the abyss.
I started at Walmart. There were carts and people and children and staff…all harried. Well, not the carts, they were in need of repair, which is normal. And I, was fortunate enough to get one of those special carts with the wheel that apparently has a destination of it’s own in mind. I thought, “There is no way I can use this cart and be a nice person.” So back I went. Back through the throes of happy – not – shoppers to the cart storage. I explained my plight to the Greeter as she was watching me exchange my cart for the newer, 1960 model. Now I have a great deal of respect for the Walmart Greeters. They are friendly and always talkative (talkative like me), so we get along great. But today, well, I’m not exactly sure what happened. This Greeter says to me, and I quote, “Well that one needs repair.” What? Didn’t I just explain that to her? I politely said, “Yes, I found that out, so I’m returning it.” As I pull out my second choice, she follows with, “Well don’t take that one, it needs repairs as well.” I pause, trying to understand how this woman knows the cart is possessed. So…I ask the obvious, “How can you tell?” She responds, rather incredulous that I am do not possess the knowledge to determine the health of carts, “Well it’s marked, with a green sticker.” I look, and sure enough, there’s a green sticker. I look at my first cart, same thing, green sticker. Now this is where I am pretty proud of myself because I thought, but did not say, “Well why are they here, at the front of the line, and why don’t you have a sign that says ‘DONT TAKE THE GREEN TAGGED CARTS THEY ARE EVIL.’ ” But I don’t. Instead I say, “Good to know.” And I quickly move on before I say something I will regret. I gather my three skimpy little items and go stand in line behind the other 75 people at the one check out that is open. Grrreeeeat.
At this point I am now reminded of what my husband always says. “When I retire, I am going to go to 7-11, every morning. I’m going to check my numerous lottery tickets, then I am going to purchase many more lottery tickets, and pay for them, in change, from my coin purse.” Oh boy. Remind me not to go with him.
I extract myself from Walmart after 20 minutes of standing and head to my car. The parking lot is a zoo. The only good thing is I parked in the back 40 hoping to minimize my chances of multiple door dents. After my 5k marathon to my car I drive to Superstore. Why, oh why do I not just go home? Because…I’m determined…and stubborn.
I arrive at Superstore and I believe it must have been what people refer to as ‘The Witching Hour.’ There are no carts. That’s right people, no carts. There is that many people in the store. I take a small green basket…for 47 items, yeah, that should work out fine. Fortunately, God smiled upon me and I find a cart…abandoned by Customer Service…I ask and no one is claiming ownership, so off I go. I’m jostled and jumbled, politely waiting, saying excuse me, being patient, and then it happens. I am caught between 2 people who are chatting like they haven’t seen each other in years, when in reality I learn, (yes, because I was listening to their conversation; what else do you do when people are blocking the entire aisle) that they are neighbours. I finally get a word in edgewise to say yet again, “Excuse me please” and want to follow it up with, ” I need to get my husband his ‘heart-saving’ jujubes” but don’t because I don’t think they’ll buy it. One of the chatterboxes slightly moves, so now I am able to scrape my cart against the other chatterbox’s cart which emits a sound resembling nails on a chalkboard. Perfect. I’m free. Until I see my next obstacle. ‘The phone user.’ In the middle of the aisle. Now I myself put my list on my phone and have been known to stop and check it, but I pull over people, pull over. Again, I use my inside voice and say, “Excuse me, may I get by?” No response. A little louder this time I repeat, “Excuse me, I just need to get by you.” She turns, still looking at her phone, and she’s texting; she says, “What? Oh yah, no worries” and she steps back an inch. No worries? THAT’S your response? No worries? I ‘detest’ that saying. It has replaced common pleasantries such as ‘thank you’, ‘your welcome’, and ‘I’m sorry’. NO WORRIES? “Oh, sommmmebody’s gonna get hurt!” (Quote from comedian Russell Peters…sorry, a bit foul, but that part about his dad is funny).
I must leave. I must leave for my sanity and the welfare of mankind at this moment. I gather the 8 tubs of jujubes…don’t ask. That’s another story, and yes, the really are for my husband. I head to the till. Thankfully, oh so thankful, all the checkouts are open so I actually do not wait very long. Bless you Superstore, Bless you. Now the fun really begins because this is actually the downside to Superstore. I have to pack my own groceries. And it’s busy and I’m stressed, heck the entire store is one big pulsating stress ball. I make sure my ducks are in a row, my bags, my points card, that I’ve placed my little stick down to separate my life choices from the person behind me, and I begin to head to ‘The Packing Area’.
Dear Lord, how is it feasible to get 2, (because there is 2 packing areas) 2 foot wide carts into a 2 foot wide space and allow customers who have been blessed with finishing their packing to pass by your cart, with theirs through a 2 foot walkway, when the combined width of two carts is 3 feet? How God, how? It’s not. You just gotta go with it. So I did. Amid many ‘no worries’ and biting my tongue.
The cashier’s fingers are flying like a dog’s tongue on an ice cream cone. Mine, not so much. My bag won’t stay open, my tomatoes have someone gotten to the bottom, which I take the time to correct as I don’t need ketchup. I then open my second bag and the most awful stench comes lofting from the bag. Upon inspection I see this mass of green-brown fuzz..it’s mold. It is full of mold. I routinely wash my bags, but this one was plastic and somehow got put away wet, into the car. (My bad). We live in a very, very humid part of Canada. Everything molds. I quickly jam the bag closed, contemplate throwing it into the other person’s cart who is distracted by packing and her screaming infant, but discard that idea (it was a brief faux pas, what can I say). Throw it in my cart, get another bag, and pack up. On my way out I dispose of the offending stinky bag hoping someone doesn’t think I’ve farted. OH MY DOG. I really need to go home.
I’m on the last leg of my weary journey and head to the exit ramp. This Superstore is so large it has a two-tier ramp, fairly wide, that you must traverse when you have a cart. The clickety clack cacophony of carts is deafening. (Did you like that letter alliteration I just did?) I walk faster because I am fearful of being overtaken by a blue-haired woman who looks like she enjoyed her shopping experience like one does a root canal. I turn and I say to her, “I feel like I’m in Roller Derby”. Her reply, “Inside the store or out?” My kinda girl. I went home and ate my husband’s jujubes.
The left photo below is the infamous ‘Skinny Minnie Miller’, whom my sister and I and our dad enjoyed watching…back in the day. I feel your pain Skinny Minnie.
‘Just A Little Something’ to make you laugh.