You don't know how close you came.I figured I would get a jump on my Christmas shopping, I used the lay away at Walmart. You know, a few weeks ago, when it was slow. Figured I would pop in and take it out, a quick trip.
Ya, right.
First I have to tell you that this is a pretty big Walmart. Secondly, you have to understand
how much I hate going to Walmart. I start a slow burn as soon as I walk through the entrance. This day was no exception.
I make my way to the back of this huge store to find the layaway department. Ah, the line is only 3 people. Looks good so far. As I am standing there, feeling good, the lady in front of me looks at me as if to wipe the smile off my face.
"That woman at the front has been there for twenty five minutes."Didn't sound very promising. Turns out the 'lay away' department doesn't actually house the lay away merchandise. The checkout girl has to take your money and then schlep all the way to the garden center, where they keep all the stuff we lay away. Very efficient, eh? And, as luck would have it, there was only one girl working the lay away.
I figured mine might go a little faster since there were a couple of items I actually didn't need anymore. A coffee maker and a doll for my niece. I was informed that I couldn't just remove it from my lay away. I had to purchase the entire thing and then return the things I didn't want.
"Ok, fine. Not a problem." Or so I thought. Then she informs me that
she cannot take returns, I would have to take them to the returns department.
"And where might that be?" Clear across to the other side of the store. That's
just great. So far this 'quick trip' was taking over an hour. Not much I can do, I want to get out of there before Christmas, so I make my way to the returns.
My heart sank as I saw a longer line than in layaway. My back is aching, my feet are aching, I am in a foul mood. I finally get my returns taken care of, thank fuck I can leave this hell hole.
As I make my way to the Exit/Entrance I see him, the greeter. Under my breath,
"No fucking way!" In my head I am rehearsing my flip out. I have had it up to my eyeballs with Walmart. Every fucking time I go in there, they frisk me at the door. Like a criminal. Why? I am not sure. After all they have those alarms that go off if you walk through them with something you didn't pay for. So why does this moron have to 'check' my bags?
"Can I check you receipt, Mamme?" My face is purple.
I prepare myself to say,
"You need to get your fuckin manager, cuz if you look into that bag, I will take every fucking item back and never set foot in this fucking store again! I am sick and fuckin' tired of being treated like a criminal! I might just get myself a sandwich board and pace back and forth outside. If you have a problem with your cashiers, you think they aren't doing their job, then take it up with them. Unless I set off that alarm, you may not look in my fucking bag."Just as I open my mouth I hear, in a sing-song little blond chick voice,
"Oh hello, Evel." It's The Boy's, big brother's wife. Cute as a button, a social worker or therapist of some kind I think. In a split second I rethink the flip out in front of a person that might possibly have the authority to have me committed.
As the 'greeter' pretends he can read and looks over my receipt, the little blond chick is chirping away happily 'catching up' and all I can do is look at the greeter and think,
"You don't know how close you came to witnessing my wrath."Next time. I promise.
