BLOG: 6's & 7'S
I avoid Walmart like the clap. The attraction of buying cheap crap that I don't need wore off about the same time my pet rock died. But once a week, I have to make an appearance, because even I can't resist the 3 cents a can I save on dog food.
I often wonder if the clusterfuckory of checking out is even worth it. Fifty customers, their carts overloaded with enough junk to save the economy of a small nation, vying for two checkout lanes. But lately I've discovered a reason to enjoy the experience: disgruntled employees.
A few weeks ago, Honey Badger was my checkout clerk.
I looked at my two dozen cans of dog food and asked, "Do you have to ring them all up separately?"
"Oh, yeah. Inventory, you know. For lack of a better word, they're Nazis."
I sorted my cans on the counter by flavor. "Well, I guess it wouldn't make sense to actually create a few inventory jobs."
"Oh, no. They'd much rather hire more of us out here to deal with all the customers and their attitudes. I can smile and be nice all day long and nobody cares. Let's face it, no one comes to Walmart for the customer service," she said as she flung my cans haphazardly toward a bag.
"I guess not."
I paid her and thanked her for being so entertaining.
She shrugged, rolled her eyes and said, "Whatever."
Honey Badger don't give a shit.
Last week, my check out clerk was Chatty Cathy. Not disgruntled, mind you, but annoying, just the same.
"Oh, Secret deodorant. A lot of people use this. Oh, dog food, you must have a dog. Oh, Twinkies! I used to eat these all the time!"
No shit, I have a dog, and do you sniff pits randomly to determine anti-perspirant choices? As for the Twinkies, by looking at your ass I'd say you still eat them all the time, fried and by the cartload. I am tempted to put a box of Magnum condoms, a tube of Anal Ease and an industrial size can of Crisco in my cart just to see what Chatty Cathy would say.
Tonight I got the Bitch-That-Can't-Be-Pleased. "It's raining outside," she said through gritted teeth.
"Really? That's awesome!" Did I mention we live in a desert? Getting even a drop of rain is like, well, getting rain in the desert.
"Well, it BETTER not be raining when I leave here at 11. If I get wet, I swear I'm going to lose it!" Trust me, Elmira, you aren't going to melt, and unless they are having a wet T-shirt contest in the parking lot, no-one is going to care if you lose it. Geez, buy a bra, for Christ's sake. Cathy over there can surely suggest one for you or at least tell you what everyone else is buying.
"And I've been here for TEN HOURS today!" I pulled out my compact and looked in the mirror. No, I did not have my fake 'I-give-a-shit' look on my face. Just my usual 'why-the-fuck-are-you-talking-to-me' look that everyone seems to ignore.
I noticed a wedding ring on her finger and quietly said a prayer for her husband.
I walked outside to a raging thunderstorm. Instead of rushing to my car, I stopped, lifted my face to the sky and let out a deep sigh. Another week before I have to hear those three little words that make me smile and cringe at the same time.
Welcome to Walmart.
You know who they are. Those online friends that live for the day when they catch a grammar error or, heaven forbid, a misspelled word on your Facebook status. They troll the boards, looking for 'to' instead of 'too', 'perhaps' instead of 'maybe' or that missing comma that inadvertently makes your sentence about having a lovely dinner with Grandma a cannibalistic reference to actually eating Grandma. We all have them---those friends that act as the grammar police---and I like to antagonize them.
I don't correct my Facebook statuses. I think it is far more important for my friends to know about the local weather than to worry about whether it is going to rain or rein. And besides, it gives the grammar police something to do. When I make an error, whether in haste or just being me, I sit back, and wait. Who will be the first? I can picture at least twenty of my friends, reading it, tapping their fingers beside the keyboard, debating with their inner voices whether to say anything or leave it alone. They can't leave it alone.
GP: You mean 'rain' not 'rein'. Rein is a leather strap. Rain is a weather related term.
ME: Okay. Its going to rain today.
GP: You mean 'it's'.
ME: Okay. It's going too rain today.
GP: You mean 'to'.
ME: I did say 'to'. 'To-day'
GP: No, that's not what I meant.
ME: You mean thats.
GP: No, I mean that's! That-apostrophe-s! That is! That is what I meant!
ME: Oh. Sorry. Gotta go find my embrella.
Of course, they have grammatically correct Facebook statuses, and I'm sure they read it, edited it, reworded it at least six times before proudly hitting the 'post comment'. Each word has gone through spellchecker, every period and comma is perfectly placed, citations are in the correct bibliographical format. I wait for them to post a really long one.
ME: You missed a comma.
GP: Where? No, I didn't. Where?
ME: Second sentence. I looked in Strunk and White. Should be a comma. Just thought you'd like to know. (Like I would actually bother looking up the correct usage of anything from a Facebook status in S&W)
As if an alert has sounded, the other grammar police will converge on the page and a major discussion will begin about the worthiness of the post and whether or not any sins of syntax have been committed.
After all, there is nothing better than catching one of their own.
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