By now, we all know how much I dislike (LOATHE with every fiber of my being) Walmart. I rarely (never) have a pleasant experience. If I am in a good mood before walking in, I am angry at the world (demon possessed) by the time I leave. If I am in a bad mood, I am something just short of Satan himself upon leaving. I often describe Walmart as the place where "souls go to die." It literally sucks every happy thought and feeling right out of you. It is the antithesis of Walt Disneyworld. (There is NOTHING magical about it!)
Despite entering the Seventh Circle of Hell, there are some things that get to me (almost every.single.time.).
1. The Peanut Butter Disappearing Act
No matter how hard I try, I can NEVER find the effin' peanut butter!! At first, I thought it was because I cannot stand peanut butter and used to never purchase it. (I hated it as a child, and I still do as an adult. I mean, WHY ON EARTH would one want ingest a food that tries to suffocate them on the way down their throat?!) However, now that I am married and have children, it is a household staple. It seems like a simple enough task: "Buy peanut butter." Nonetheless, I absolutely cringe, when I see it on the grocery list.
Over the years, I have become convinced that moving (hiding) the peanut butter is something the stockers do for shits and giggles. Knowing their sick game, I even pause in the middle of the store and think to myself, "Where is the most logical place to stock peanut butter?! "(Then, I go in the opposite direction.) Depending upon the particular Walmart location (and what phase the Moon is in), sometimes it can be found in the Ketchup Aisle (also a condiment, so perhaps), the Baking Aisle (odd, but maybe for cookies), or the Breakfast Aisle (WTF?!). It is always so perplexing and frustrating. Almost 90% of the time, when shopping for the ill-fated food, I end up having to walk back through numerous aisles, slowly scanning the shelves, hoping it hops off and into my cart. It typically ends the same: finally giving up and asking a nearby associate, only to have them point directly in front of my face. (Why is whatever you are searching for RIGHT THERE, once you ask?!)
Personally, I vote peanut butter should be stocked in a separate aisle all by itself or sitting on the shelf next to the arsenic and cyanide. (Seriously, I think it would be much easier to kill someone with a handkerchief and a fistful of peanut butter. Plus, it would be harder to prove foul play.) I would, also, settle for peanut butter stocked with the bread. (Common Sense, Folks!)
Oooooh..no, I got it!! It should be in an aisle with other items, such as lemon juice, the Ranch powder packet thingies used to make dips and/or salad dressings, straws, Velveeta cheese blocks, toothpicks, cans of pineapple juice, and Q-Tips. The aisle would be called, "SHIT THAT IS HARD TO FIND." (I really feel this idea is a mere step or two away from my discovering the answer to World Peace, People!)
2. The Empty Line Trap
(Read carefully! THIS.IS.IMPORTANT!)
Walmart never has enough checkout lanes open, and they are always 5+ people deep. Never.Ever.NEVER trust the "Empty Line Trap!" ("What is this infamous ELT?" you ask. Allow me to set the scene.)
You are merrily bebopping along. Perhaps, you have (somehow) managed to finish your shopping, without so much as a hitch. ("Congrats, you stupid Bitch! I hate you!!) You push your cart toward the checkout lanes and start the "Vulture Pass." (You know, the pass you make once - sometimes more - searching for the lane with the best number of people in line to the number of items in their carts ratio. Vultures do the same thing, when flying over dead carcasses, except they assess the number of other vultures currently eating to the amount of dead animal left.)
During your second (fifth) pass, you come across what you then believe to be the Holy Grail of checkout lanes: one with an EMPTY line! Your brain starts going berserk, as you take in a 0:0 ratio, which computes to a #1 sports foam finger and a 103% awesome rating! (The sad part is that the serotonin levels in your brain - mind boosting neurotransmitter responsible for fluffy puppy excitement and leaf crunching happiness - have spiked waaay beyond the level of sanity and, apparently, mental math.)
Although you should approach cautiously and with some level of deductive reasoning, you push your cart toward the cashier in a flurry of blind elation, while performing some ridiculously, euphoric skip. (Oh yes, you do!) Never once did you stop to think about WHY this was the only lane in the ENTIRE store sitting empty. No, no! You.Were.On.A.Cloud! (You simply failed to realize it was a Black Cloud.)
The moment you pull up to the conveyor belt, one of several things are bound to occur. A) The cashier walks away, presumably to take a break, but more likely it is her turn to hide the peanut butter. B) The cashier refuses to check you out, as Bob is supposed to come relieve her, and she will be DAMNED if she works two more minutes than her schedule depicts. (She would rather just stand there and stare at you, while she holds her cash drawer and waits for Bob, who is NOT effin' coming!!) C) She becomes the Conversational Cashier.
3. The Conveyor Belt of Doom
(If you do not have OCD, I suggest skipping this part. You simply will not understand.)
Like most people with OCD, I am very systematic. This, of course, carries over into cart unloading. For me, I like to unload the heaviest items first (so they can be reloaded first, at the bottom of the cart), followed by boxed items, refrigerated items, soft items, and non-food items. (I get VERY upset, when my toothpaste is bagged with my bread!) My ideal lane is one where there is already another person in line (but ONLY one). I get the chance to use a plastic divider (my weapon of choice, if I am in the store when the Zombie Apocalypse starts) and place my items upon the conveyor belt in a sensical (IT IS AN ADJECTIVE IN MY BOOK!), orderly, and "all labels facing the same direction" way. (Pure logic.) I start to flat out panic, when I am in the middle of the unloading process, when the cashier fires up the conveyor belt. (I believe to watch me unspool.)
At first, I think I can keep up and quickly hasten my unload pace. However, I always fall behind, as I frantically dig through my cart to find similar items. Once the panic fully sets in, I start just haphazardly tossing things on the belt (some even directly at the cashier), watching them conveyor (IT IS A VERB IN MY BOOK!) away, now in a line of SINGLE items. (This is EXACTLY how eggs get bagged with toilet paper and macaroni with laundry detergent! THE WORLD IS NOT MEANT TO WORK IN THIS WAY!!) My mind starts to spin, and I begin to black out. I fight it, though, as I know this bitch is purposely effing with me!
4. The Conversational Cashier Stunt
(Did you really think I was going to forget to explain the Conversational Cashier? Where is the trust??)
As if the hell you have had to endure up to this moment has not been enough, you will (occasionally) get the Conversational Cashier. This is the cashier who will NOT shut the eff up! She is chipper. She is chatty. (She is high.) Her sole purpose in life is to make friends (and annoy you). She (genuinely) likes working with the public, as she can trap people into having conversations with her. She starts with small talk, asking you about your day. (You respond with a one word answer.) She may even try the "you look familiar" bit, in hopes you tell her who you are, so that she can stalk you and add you as a friend on Facebook. (I like to go with the, "Possibly. Are you a nurse?" I, then, explain how I was recently released from the mental ward, in which I had just spent the last six months for choking someone out who would not stop talking.) Her last resort is often making direct comments about your item selections. "Look at these fun toys! You must have children!" ("No, I just looooove My Little Ponies.") "OOOoooh! Looks like someone is having a par-TAA-AAAAY!" ("No, I just eat a lot.") "OH MY GOODNESS! ARE YOU GOING TO USE THIS PREGNANCY TEST, TONIGHT?! I HOPE IT IS A GIRL!!" ("It is for my whore of a dog.") "These are some odd items?? A crowbar, rope, duct ta...." **She trails off into silence.** ("I am sorry, what were you saying? Or was I still telling you about the time I killed someone who would not mind her own business?")
5. The Receipt Highlighter Effect
WHY THE EFF DO YOU WANT TO HIGHLIGHT MY RECEIPT?! IT LITERALLY MEANS NOTHING! YOU DO NOT EVEN READ IT (AND WHY WOULD YOU?!?!)! IT DOES NOT CHANGE WHAT I HAVE PURCHASED NOR WHAT I CAN RETURN! YOU ARE PURPOSELY TRYING TO PISS ME OFF (AND IT IS WORKING!!!!)! I SWEAR I WILL SIT OUT THERE IN THE PARKING LOT, IN THE CLOAK OF DARKNESS, AND WAIT FOR YOU TO DRIVE HOME (AND I WILL FOLLOW YOU!!)! IF YOU WANT TO HIGHLIGHT MY RECEIPT, YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO WRESTLE ME TO THE GROUND!! IT IS MINE, DAMN IT, AND I HAVE NOT GIVEN YOU PERMISSION TO WRITE ON IT! (I WILL GRANT SAID PERMISSION, ONCE HELL FREEZES OVER!) EFF YOU! EFF YOUR MOTHER! EFF YOUR GRANDMOTHER! I HOPE YOU GET DYSENTERY AND DIE!!!! WHY IN THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING SECURITY?!?!
Monday, September 29, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
The definition of IRONY
Friday night, we had some friends over for dinner. While they were here, we somehow got on the topic of our two dogs, Samson and Bailey. During the discussion, Warren and I talked about how and why we chose the Chow Chow breed, what we love about them, what we find difficult about them, fun breed facts, etc. I mentioned that they are wonderful dogs to own, but not if you have a pool. I cited some statistic I had once read about how Chow Chows die each year from accidental drownings MORE than any other cause. (Chow Chows have a dense, double coat, which makes it almost impossible to swim. Their coats become so heavy, when wet, that they are literally dragged down to the bottom.)
Fast forward to Saturday morning...
I woke up to a text from my realtor. She asked if our house could be shown later in the afternoon. I agreed and, immediately, started to get the house "Show Ready." (Due to the fact that our dogs do not handle strangers walking in very well, particularly without us in the house, we have been locking them on the deck during said showings.)
Noting the beautiful weather, we decided to go over to my parents' place to swim, while the house was shown. We left half an hour before the showing agent and potential buyers were to arrive. We put the dogs outside, with the intention of one of us quickly running back over to let them inside after the showing.
Almost immediately after arriving at my parents' house, our realtor sent me another text stating that the showing agent was running about half an hour late. Quickly doing the math in my head, I realized that our dogs would be subjected to 85-90 degree weather for almost TWO HOURS, with a small bowl of water and ZERO shade. Believing that they would have a heat stroke before we returned (another thing to be mindful of when owning Chow Chows), I voiced my concerns to both Warren and my mother. Mom told us to simply bring them over to her place, until the showing was finished.
While Mom and I chilled poolside, Warren and the girls (they just HAD to go with their Daddy) went back to our house to get the pups. Just as Warren returned, it started to sprinkle. Due to the rain, he did not want to try to corral both dogs AND both girls at the same time. So, instead, he decided to bring the dogs down to the pool area to hang with Mom and I, while he got the girls out of his vehicle.
As anyone who owns a dog knows, they get PSYCHOTICALLY HAPPY, when they get to go somewhere out of the ordinary. My dogs, for instance, run around every square inch of their new domain - running so fast that their fur is slick against their backs. Bailey is MUCH worse than Samson! Some of this is attributed to the fact that she is half his age. The majority, however, is the simple fact that Bailey is one CRAZY BITCH! (Pun most definitely intended.)
So, naturally, the moment Warren got Bailey out of the back of his truck, she took off running - FULL SPEED AHEAD! He did not even have time to get a leash on her. In all her glory, she came sprinting down the stairwell leading to the pool. She ran from one end of the pool area to the next - and back again - with Samson right behind her. I shouted for them to come under the kitchen area, so they did not get wet from the rain. Warren had turned and was standing at the bottom of the stairs, about to scale them to bring the girls down. Still yelling at them to calm down, I pushed myself up from the chair upon which I was sitting. Although I could not see either canine, I could hear their paws hitting the concrete and their gasps for air mid-run. Just as I stood, I heard it. "SPLASH!!" (I knew, before even seeing, what had happened.)
Bailey, who has never seen a pool in her life, ran straight into it. (I presume she thought it was merely blue concrete.) I was no more than 20 feet away, but it felt like it took me an ETERNITY to get to the edge of the pool. (During those EXCRUCIATINGLY LONG SECONDS, the Chow Chow drowning facts from the night before were BLARING in my head, and I saw - firsthand - their truth.)
As I ran, I could see her rolling around, trying to get into an innate swimming position, all while UNDER the water. (Although it was mere seconds, her head never once came back up above the water's surface.) Fully clothed, with my shoes on, I jumped straight into the pool to rescue my 55 lb (about 80 lbs, when wet), ABSOLUTELY FREAKING OUT dog! (The diameter of her nails encompass a good part of a dime, so you can only imagine what my thighs currently look like, as she was scratching and pawing in a PANICKED attempt to swim!) Holding her in a chokehold (much like you do, when saving a human), I swam her toward the steps Warren stood on waiting to pull her out. (I will tell you this. I have, now, saved both a person and an animal from drowning. The person, a 6 ft 2 in overweight man - in the middle of the ocean - was MUCH easier!!)
Bailey, obviously, survived. Nothing but her pride hurt (or maybe just mine.) As one of my friends pointed out, "As much trouble as she causes, you must love her to have not hesitated at jumping in after her!" (I would not be so certain, as I would have taken her out back and shot her in the head had my cell phone been in my pocket.)
As I exited the pool, the TORRENTIAL downpour arrived. Standing there (already soaking wet), I put my arms out to both sides, looked up at the sky and said, "Are you FREAKING serious?!" (After all the drama we went through, whomever looked at my house this weekend better buy it, or I will likely hunt them down.)
Just before I put on a pair of Mom's pajama pants and one of her t-shirts, Warren snapped these photos. They will be a lovely addition to our fur ball inclusive Gardner Family Album.
Fast forward to Saturday morning...
I woke up to a text from my realtor. She asked if our house could be shown later in the afternoon. I agreed and, immediately, started to get the house "Show Ready." (Due to the fact that our dogs do not handle strangers walking in very well, particularly without us in the house, we have been locking them on the deck during said showings.)
Noting the beautiful weather, we decided to go over to my parents' place to swim, while the house was shown. We left half an hour before the showing agent and potential buyers were to arrive. We put the dogs outside, with the intention of one of us quickly running back over to let them inside after the showing.
Almost immediately after arriving at my parents' house, our realtor sent me another text stating that the showing agent was running about half an hour late. Quickly doing the math in my head, I realized that our dogs would be subjected to 85-90 degree weather for almost TWO HOURS, with a small bowl of water and ZERO shade. Believing that they would have a heat stroke before we returned (another thing to be mindful of when owning Chow Chows), I voiced my concerns to both Warren and my mother. Mom told us to simply bring them over to her place, until the showing was finished.
While Mom and I chilled poolside, Warren and the girls (they just HAD to go with their Daddy) went back to our house to get the pups. Just as Warren returned, it started to sprinkle. Due to the rain, he did not want to try to corral both dogs AND both girls at the same time. So, instead, he decided to bring the dogs down to the pool area to hang with Mom and I, while he got the girls out of his vehicle.
As anyone who owns a dog knows, they get PSYCHOTICALLY HAPPY, when they get to go somewhere out of the ordinary. My dogs, for instance, run around every square inch of their new domain - running so fast that their fur is slick against their backs. Bailey is MUCH worse than Samson! Some of this is attributed to the fact that she is half his age. The majority, however, is the simple fact that Bailey is one CRAZY BITCH! (Pun most definitely intended.)
So, naturally, the moment Warren got Bailey out of the back of his truck, she took off running - FULL SPEED AHEAD! He did not even have time to get a leash on her. In all her glory, she came sprinting down the stairwell leading to the pool. She ran from one end of the pool area to the next - and back again - with Samson right behind her. I shouted for them to come under the kitchen area, so they did not get wet from the rain. Warren had turned and was standing at the bottom of the stairs, about to scale them to bring the girls down. Still yelling at them to calm down, I pushed myself up from the chair upon which I was sitting. Although I could not see either canine, I could hear their paws hitting the concrete and their gasps for air mid-run. Just as I stood, I heard it. "SPLASH!!" (I knew, before even seeing, what had happened.)
Bailey, who has never seen a pool in her life, ran straight into it. (I presume she thought it was merely blue concrete.) I was no more than 20 feet away, but it felt like it took me an ETERNITY to get to the edge of the pool. (During those EXCRUCIATINGLY LONG SECONDS, the Chow Chow drowning facts from the night before were BLARING in my head, and I saw - firsthand - their truth.)
As I ran, I could see her rolling around, trying to get into an innate swimming position, all while UNDER the water. (Although it was mere seconds, her head never once came back up above the water's surface.) Fully clothed, with my shoes on, I jumped straight into the pool to rescue my 55 lb (about 80 lbs, when wet), ABSOLUTELY FREAKING OUT dog! (The diameter of her nails encompass a good part of a dime, so you can only imagine what my thighs currently look like, as she was scratching and pawing in a PANICKED attempt to swim!) Holding her in a chokehold (much like you do, when saving a human), I swam her toward the steps Warren stood on waiting to pull her out. (I will tell you this. I have, now, saved both a person and an animal from drowning. The person, a 6 ft 2 in overweight man - in the middle of the ocean - was MUCH easier!!)
Bailey, obviously, survived. Nothing but her pride hurt (or maybe just mine.) As one of my friends pointed out, "As much trouble as she causes, you must love her to have not hesitated at jumping in after her!" (I would not be so certain, as I would have taken her out back and shot her in the head had my cell phone been in my pocket.)
As I exited the pool, the TORRENTIAL downpour arrived. Standing there (already soaking wet), I put my arms out to both sides, looked up at the sky and said, "Are you FREAKING serious?!" (After all the drama we went through, whomever looked at my house this weekend better buy it, or I will likely hunt them down.)
Just before I put on a pair of Mom's pajama pants and one of her t-shirts, Warren snapped these photos. They will be a lovely addition to our fur ball inclusive Gardner Family Album.
Warren thinks I look like the Hobbit, in the above photo, but I am leaning towards the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
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