I would like to post a disclaimer to this blog before you get too far. There might be profanity, and the teensiest bit of snobbishness, and maybe a little stereotyping. But this, very, true story MUST be told...so read on if you're up to it.
It all began with me....wanting firewood. I offered Trey the use of the FJ this weekend so that he could bring firewood home from the lake. However, before said FJ traveled, it needed an oil change, and pronto. Being the wonderful, thrifty wife that I am...and given the fact that I got off work at 2:00, and had nothing better to do...I said, "Trey, don't worry...I'll take the car to WalMart (henceforth to be referred to simply as, "hell") to get the oil changed." Trey, with an incredulous tone in is voice replied, "But Katy, you hate WalMart." **Sidenote...I do. I HATE WalMart. I avoid it at all costs. I think it's, well....evil.** To which I replied, "Yes, but I'll save like 15 dollars on the oil change." Hence, the thriftiness...
First, a girl with the dirtiest fingernails I've ever seen made me feel like a complete moron for not knowing what kind of oil my car used. They have it on file at the place we USUALLY take it to, people...the place that's 15 dollars more expensive and yet 15 time more classy....if an auto shop could ever be termed "classy". She stood there and rolled my eyes while I called Trey and asked...rolled her eyes....now, THAT's customer service, folks. I hand over the keys, walk inside, and think..."How on earth am I going to kill 20 minutes in this god forsaken store?"
1st thought....check out the shoes...seems harmless enough. The FIRST pair of shoes I lay my little eyes on are camoflage ballet slippers (pay attention...they will make a cameo later in this story). As Carrie and I like to ask, "Why?" Speaking of Carrie, we are on the phone at this point, giggling over the incredible footwear available, when I stumble across a pair of red crushed velvet clogs. Red. Crushed. Velvet. At this moment, I say...I have to take a picture...if you were FORCED to wear one of these...which would it be? In all seriousness...Carrie replied..."How dare you ask that? That's like asking me to choose between my children." At which point, I burst into laughter, and I? Am now the crazy woman in WalMart.
Fast forward to yet another reason WalMart chaps my ass...I figured since I was there, I'd pick up a few groceries. I need gorgonzola cheese for a dip I was making...anyone want to take a gander on whether WalMart carries gorgonzola? They don't. They have Thomas Kincade, painter of light, clocks...but no damn gorgonzola cheese. I apologize if you are in ownership of one of these beautiful pieces of art, but I'm pretty sure most of my friends have a shred of taste....so I think I'm safe in saying this. I love how Carrie puts it..."I feel so un-American, but I HATE Thomas Kincade." No groceries....next stop....
Pharmacy. I suddenly remember I have a prescription that needs to be filled. "Why do you use WalMart pharmacy, given your strong feelings about the joint?", you might ask. The answer to that is simply, laziness. i haven't put forth the effort to switch, and also, the monthly trip to WalMart keeps me grounded...reminds me of my roots. But, I digress...I'm standing in line, about to put in my order, when a woman STEPS IN FRONT OF ME and sets down her plastic bag FILLED with empty scrip bottles....and without missing a beat says, "I need my Paxil, today!" At this point, I decide to let it go...the woman needs her meds for goodness sake. Problem ensues, of course....the sweet little pharmacist can't fill her scrips bc she is from New Mexico and they are all controlled substances. To which, this woman replies, "But I need my heart meds. I'm on those, you know, suppositories." I am NOT making this shit up! Again, I become the crazy laughing woman in WalMart...I can't handle it, I get the giggles and can't shake them. Paxil woman finally leaves, I fill my, non-controlled substance, scrip and pray to God above that my car is ready to be picked up.
I arrive at the auto section, where this time, a very nice, albeit large haired, woman greets me. I tell her I need to pick up my car, and no sooner can I get out my name, than someone cuts in front of me...completely cutting me off mid sentence. Satan's vagina...am I freaking invisible? Again. In less than 5 minutes, my entire faith in Americans is crushed. Have we become THAT rude? But again, due to the circumstances surrounding this man...I let it slide (mostly so I could take a picture...and as SOON as I figure out how to put pics from my phone on the comp...it will SO be on here...with the r.c.v clogs and slippers) The man that is so desperate to exchange some lights that won't work, is FIRST, very dirty. SECOND, he is wearing three (count them) shades of camoflage...shirt, pants, and hat. Which leads me to wonder if looking at him would be kind of like looking at a disco ball for some small woodland creature? Confusing, and a bit dizzying...THIRD, he has one arm. Yes. He does. One. Arm. And he felt the need to pretend I wasn't standing RIGHT THERE! So, I felt the need to use this time as a photo oppurtunity. When I sent the pic to Carrie, all she replied was, "Did you send him to the shoe department where he could complete his outfit?"
After all this, I trek out to my car with the fresh oil...I seriously hope it appreciates it...and call Trey to tell him of the travestys just bestowed on me, and all he could come up with was, "I told you you hated WalMart."
Yes, yes I do...
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