Save Money. Live Better?

Someone please remind me why one should not get within a mile of a Walmart on a Saturday let alone step inside.  Entry into that zoo on a Saturday is nothing short of an ineffable experience.  Before you accuse me – I had little choice.

I think I spent most of my tour trying to get around an indolent shopper with her two kids sitting, standing, and playing in the aisles.  When it wasn’t her kids it was her, standing her cart in the middle of the right half of an aisle while she planted her rear end in the middle of the other half of the aisle.  My best attempt at a smile and a polite “excuse me” were met with contempt as she pulled a bag of candy from a display and plopped most of it into her mouth.  I made a U-Turn and made my way down an adjacent aisle.

I thought from that point on that my Saturday experience could only get better.  Oh, I was oh s-o-o-o WRONG!  The 275 pound, five-foot, six frame with a hairy beer gut protruding out from under his tank top assaulted both sense and sensibility.  Or, was it scents?  I’m really not sure.  His burley beard melded somehow into his curly chest hair.  To be fair, I am sure he works hard for a living to provide for his four kids who were jumping off the shopping cart onto the cake mix and frosting shelf.  Had it not been for the cart that was fixed to the floor at a 90 degree angle to the aisle, I would have tried to plow through.  I made another U-Turn.

I tried yet another aisle to get to where I wanted to go only to be met by the arrogant “lady” I had encountered before, coming directly toward me.  It was no use.  My only escape from confrontation and rioting was to make yet another U-Turn.  Thinking that since she could no longer be in the first aisle where I met her I tried that one again.  Aha!  Clear sailing!  Alas, I couldn’t find what I was looking for in that aisle.

My blood pressure runs about 117/63.  After 30 minutes of what should have taken no more than 10 minutes I could feel the blood pulsating through the veins in my neck.  So help me, I thought to myself, if I see that “lady” in the red, white, green, yellow, and mostly black skin tight things on her legs I’m going to scream!

I am always cautious when I come to the end of a shopping aisle before entering those primary aisles.  I’ve been banged and collided with too many times.  My angst and blood pressure must have been showing as the nice man (who was clearly having the same experience that I was having) stopped, smiled, motioned me on, and said, “I understand.”

“Bless you!”  Somebody else gets it.

For a short while things began to improve.  Then I hit the check-out lines.  Most were three and four deep.  They were all like that except for beer gut man and Miss/Mrs./Ms. Attitude.  I chose the beer gut man aisle even though it was two-deep as opposed to Ms. Attitude’s one-deep line.

To my amazement Attitude’s line was moving much faster.  She plopped things on the conveyor belt with rapidity.  Beer gut man was still lifting – beer – out of his cart while wrangling his kids away from the candy bar impulse buying shelves.  I took a chance.  First opportunity I got I moved to Attitude’s line.

As it turns out, Ms. Attitude was Princess Attitude.  It wasn’t until she got in line that Queen Attitude showed up on the scene.

I think it was a price check or having to clear something off the register that brought the line to a screeching halt.  Whatever it was, it was enough to get Princess Attitude to move her fat butt away from the conveyor belt so I could put my six or seven items on it.  She literally turned and sneered at me.

It’s O.K.  I’m a man and I can handle this.  I refuse to be intimidated by this “lady” even if it means starting a riot.  She must have read my mind, but it didn’t matter cause her little rug rat started poking his grimy little finger into my bagels.  Calm down.  You’ll be home soon and this nightmare will all be over.  Beer gut man and three other shoppers left before Attitudes’ (yes, that is plural possessive) line began to move.

Just because I don’t drink beer doesn’t mean that others can’t do the same.  No big deal.  And Ms. Attitude had beer in her cart along with various and sundry other things.  It was one of those big boxes of beer.  I don’t know what you call them.  I’m sure they have at least 24 cans of beer in them.  Not my problem.  I don’t care.  At least I didn’t care until she pulled out her Food Stamp card or whatever it is called and then pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills to pay for the beer.

I don’t fault people who need assistance for using it.  Times are tough for a lot of people in spite of how good Obama says things are.  But, when she pulled out a stack of twenties thicker than what I’ve ever carried in my life, my heart literally sank.  It had to sink as my blood pressure couldn’t get much higher.  This, I thought to myself, is what gives welfare a bad name.  I don’t know her story and I don’t want to know her story.  People have to eat and they have to feed their kids.  I guess they need their beer, too.

Princess and Queen Attitude waddled off with the crumb snatcher and I moved up to finish my transaction.  The one thing that could have made it all better was to have the cashier simply apologize for the delay.  Or, she could have thanked me for shopping at Walmart or said good afternoon.  She could have even said, “Go pound sand” and I would have been ecstatic.  Nothing.

That is, she said nothing until I tried running my credit card through the reader.  The message in the card reader said “Invalid Card” or something like that.  I knew better.  So, I tried a second card.  And a third card.  I was about to try a fourth card when the cashier who was watching all this with a sense of wicked glee said, “It’s broken.”

I try very hard to not use profanity.  Two words were on the tip of my tongue.  One was profane.  I didn’t say it, but I thought it.  I handed her my card.

The receipt says, “Save money. Live better.”  Maybe that’s true, but not on Saturday at Walmart.