The People of Walmart are hiring...

I've had a love-hate relationship with retail cashiers for years.  In my opinion, there are three main archetypes for them.

First, there is the sweet lady who chats with you while you put your stuff on the belt, everything is cordial, the weather is discussed, your kids are mentioned, and she even celebrates with you when all of your coupons work, and even when that last little one doesn't want to scan, and she gives you this all-knowing smirk, and types it in whether it wants to submit or not.  These people I have great respect for.  They're bringing home the bacon, they work hard, and they still manage to give you a smile at midnight, while you stand there in pajama pants buying $70 worth of SlimFast shakes and a family-sized bag of Cheetos.  I seek these people out when I go shopping.

Second, there's the people who HATE their jobs.  And I mean loathe their jobs.  The ones who look at you from 50 paces with that stare that screams, "I swear to God, if you come near this blinking number above my head, I will eat your face and throw your perfectly chosen eggs to the ground!"  I've even met one, who worked at the "self-serve" lanes, and when my coupons didn't work(yes, I coupon shop....I'm just not in the leagues of the elite I spoke of earlier.  One day.), she went OFF.  But not at me, which is good.  She went on a five minute rant about how she hated her job, and she didn't care if my damn coupons were the right ones, she was just going to let them through and if she gets fired, then so be it.  I couldn't understand what sets someone off like that, until I saw the guy behind me literally yelling about how his cans of cat food were supposed to be $0.35 and they're ringing up as $0.45, and he bought ten to make it the $0.35, so what the hell was going on...and I watched her shoulders jump to her ears.  She inhaled slowly, but deeply, and as I scurried out the door I heard a very loud, "You know, what, SIR?......."  Ugh.  I guess timing is everything.  Either way, I still respect that lady too.  I mean, it takes a LOT of patience to put up with the public.  Especially when they're dressed in black dress socks, orthopedic sandals and screaming about being an American who can't even buy decent cat food in a self serve lane.  I never saw her again.

Lastly, we come to our topic of the day:  I don't even have a name for these people.  Ok, I didn't but it has come to me.  The Commentator.  It's 5pm, you've just gotten off of a long day at work, and all you want to do is buy a pair of socks and a jug of orange juice in peace and go home.  But oh no.  Not tonight, because every single thing on the belt is a story, my friends.  And if you plan to pay for it, you're gong to hear them.  Whether you like it or not.

I've run into a lot of Commentators in my day.  One named every cereal going into the bag, under her breath, and meowed at me when I was leaving.  Meowed.  One tried to get me to invite them to a halloween party based on the ingredients I was purchasing to make a kitty litter cake, to the point of grabbing my arm, giving me her phone number, and looking me straight in the eyes and saying, "I really hope I hear from you..."  AHH!!  But the most recent experience would be in two days and two trips to Walmart this week.  Yesterday I went with my mom and Little One.  We both lined our separate orders on the belt, and already this poor guy was having some sort of issue with the man in front of us.

Man: "Wow, what is this, your first day?"
Commentator: "No, actually, my first three months.  I have been here since January, it takes a lot of remembering to do my job.  The training-(man walks away)   -Uh, have a good day.....sir...."

Then we walk up.
My mom and I don't get to go shopping together very often.  When we do, things get thrown into our cart that we frankly don't remember going in there.  And when Little One comes with, well, Nana just can't seem to say no.  So we have a cart of random things, half drunk Vitamin Water, open bag of peanut butter cups, yarn,  said orange juice and socks, Krispy Kremes for an ailing Papa at home, Uno card-spitty outty thing, Hungry Hungry Hippos (see?), dishsoap, you know, the essentials.  He's eyeing them.  Every single item.  Thus the conversation begins.

I'm trying to remember the exact dialog that ensued, but I can tell you that this gentleman, lest we not mention his name, loves Vitamin water, his favorite flavor is orange.  He prefers the store-brand applesauce because it's cheaper.  He thinks we're having Family Game Night, and the Dawn coupon my mother is handing him is amazing, because everyone is shopping with coupons these days and the fact that I am trying to read the stacks of inserts from my purse while drowning out his incessant voice is just "so awesome" and it's just so easy to save money.  He even threw out the Krispy Kreme/cop story that Gabriel Iglesias does in his comedy bit(as his own, mind you), but it's not worth my energy to try to point that out to him.  He also states that Krispy Kremes are the #1 preferred donut brand by law enforcement throughout the country, which must be why my stepfather, who is a cop, is enamored with them.  One day, the Krispy Kremes were delivered the same day the Girl Scouts were selling cookies, and as he put it, "Poof!  There went my entire paycheck!"

 I am just staring at my purse trying not to make eye contact.  Mom's order is finished, here comes mine.  I crochet when I'm bored, making half-projects and buying more yarn to make more half-projects.  It is then when I learn that he feels people don't appreciate handmade gifts.  I make the mistake of adding no one has ever complained, at least out in the open, when they get one of my half-gifts.  Well, guess what, he's a crafter too!  He made a leather vest all by himself with a chainmail neck......oh, and I'm the smartest person in the world for paying with a gift card.

My mother has abandoned me at this point, with Rambling Ron the Commentator still chewing my ear off, while I nod politely.  I barely get away as she is pulling Little One, my only exit strategy, away from me and towards the door, striking up an enthralling debate over why we can't stay to play the "coin game", that is, the little charity bin that you stick quarters in to watch them careen through loops and twirls, into the destiny of a child in dire need.  I can't even get the words, "is this my only bag?" out while he's describing how to cure a hide, all while I'm inching towards the door.

I mustered up the strength to run in again today only to buy cigarettes.  Ok, I smoke.  Don't judge.  Anyway, Rambling Ron's partner in crime is waiting for me in the 10 items or less lane, looking puzzled as I have less than one item in my hands.  I ask for my cigarettes.  He proceeds to the big wall and puts his finger on a pack.  "This one?"
"No.  The one right there."  I point.
Schooch, schooch, schooch down the wall.  Finger applied.
"This one?"
"No.  The Gold ones right there."  I point.  Harder.
He looks bewildered.  I realize the vast selection of smoking supplies is overwhelming, dear boy, and this must be your third month too.  But seriously, there are two people behind me also pointing in the general direction that I am so they can get their socks and orange juice and go home.
Victory.  He finally found them.
"Are you under 40?"
Thinking he's joking, as I pull my purse up, I chuckle, "well, I hope people can still ask that when I am 40," (psst...I turn 30 this year.)
No response. He is staring blankly at me.
"I have to have your birth date if you're not 40." Boooy-you better watch who you say that to, before you never get to hit puberty.
I give him my birth date.  He puts the cigarettes in a bag and wraps them up tight before handing them to me.  I walk out feeling like I just bought my first box of condoms.

I've worked retail before.  I've been a cashier plenty of times in my life.  I have some sympathy to the fact that 60% of the people you deal with have no respect for you, and they're big jerks.  But if this keeps happening, I may resort to that big list of "101 things to do at Walmart".  First on my list-I'm going to make a fort out of diapers and tampons.

In the future...there's always Peapod.

And so it begins...

I was born without a filter.  You know, those filters that stop you in the middle of an energized thought, and your brain recognizes it as completely inappropriate; and your face looks like you've just been kicked in the stomach with a soccer cleat until you recoil, shaking your head and letting the thought die.  It took me years to stop apologizing for it; after years of saying ridiculous things, regretting them, and backtracking.  So I may say off-beat things, and it may offend, or make you laugh.  The second party is far more welcome here.  Fair warning: I'm not funny if I try.  But since I have no one reading this, we're safe so far.  We being me and the mouse....beside my computer.  See?  Not funny.

I wanted to do a blog for a while, but never could figure out exactly what to blog about without going back and forth on subjects, confusing any poor soul who crept up on this thing.  So then, I thought about making a separate blog for each thing I like.  And that's just stupid, or evidence of some underlying personality disorder I may have.  So I'm going to ramble, and not make sense, and hope that eventually it all comes together.  Thus, the importance of being imperfect.  Because, let's face it, normal is boring.

I'm compelled to start telling you all about myself.  But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.  Instead, I'll pop out on this one a little early, being as it is so late in the evening.  (10pm is too late for a lame-o like me.)  I can tell you this much, to help you decide if this is worth you reading....which, if you have gotten this far, we're gonna get along just fine: 

I am not a mother of twins, multiples or some special prodigy who makes art with their toes.  I am a mother of a five year old boy, who is about as cool as they come.  Example: this morning, instead of letting me wake him up, I was blessed to walk in right when he was rolling his little burrito of a comforter past the end of his bed, catapulting himself onto the floor, and causing a close encounter with a bookshelf.  Does Little One get up and cry?  No.  He looks around, a little bewildered, and says, "Whoa, dude, did you see that?  I think I just fell out of my bed!  That was hilarious!"  He's very self-secure.  Watch out, girls....and yes, he really called me "dude".  It IS usually "Mama".

I'm not an Army wife with a husband away at war- anymore.  Instead, Husband Man (that's his superhero name) is now a firefighter and has been a veteran for four years.  I have a very high opinion of our troops, not necessarily of the people telling them where to go or what to do, but that's my opinion.  And you won't change that.  So go protest somewhere else.  However I hate Country music.  So it's not that extreme.  He's in a metal band.  I get to manage them, also without pay.  Translation: when they start gigging this summer, I get to set it all up for them, on top of washing his underwear and making sure he doesn't lose his keys.  But he taught me how to play XBox back when Halo was a big thing, and I kicked his ass.  And his friends' asses.  I don't think they pretend to suck anymore.  And he's my best friend.  

I am not couponing my way to a vacation destination or saving so much money by clicking away my day for surveys.  So you won't find that here.  However, I appreciate not paying full price on, like, anything.  I'm the kind of person who needs step-by-step instructions on how to do those insane sales, and afterwards, I act like a big know-it-all and brag about how I spent $0.19 on $26 worth of tampons and toothbrushes.  Don't judge me.  I am trying to learn how to save money, and I'm actually off to take a coupon class in May.  I just hate the people who make it look so damn easy.  And desperately wish to be in their secret society.  In the meantime, the money I save-PAYS BILLS.  I've actually sold my SNES (Super Nintendo) for an electric bill once, long, long ago.  That pissed me off.  I hope to buy it back on EBay one day.

Notice the video game references: I am not a gamer.  I don't have time to play video games.  Long are the days of harassing little ten year olds while being called gay for having an avatar dressed in purple, only to inform them afterwards they got their asses kicked by a girl.  Oh to have an hour to myself to do that sort of stuff.  But, I do enjoy a game here or there, and frankly, you can't be a member of our generation without citing at least one life experience to the drama and intensity that is Super Mario.  I don't know how many times that freaking dinosaur has been abandoned by a simple jump, never to be returned again....until the next level......sigh.  

I'm not trying to lose weight.  Ok, who the hell am I kidding, I'm always half-jogging, half-surviving down the whole quarter mile I can drag myself down, hoping God will take me there and save me from the whole 12 calories I've burned in the last half hour.  But, honestly, it's not me.  I actually like being me.  I am annoyed by nature, gravity and childbearing.  And the Nanas, Ciochas(yeah you know what I'm talking about, Polish people), and anyone else who've entered the path of parenthood, who don't tell you until you've experienced it that while you may lose your baby weight, and be right back down to pre-pregnancy size, your body parts do not get the memo.  They're in places you've never imagined they'd go, and they HIDE THERE FOREVER.

I'm not Polish.  My mother was adopted and my father had step parents as biological parents died and remarried.  Thus, I'm a Celtic, White Anglo-Saxon, German and English girl with a distinct Polish "off the boat" family on one side(think Big Fat Polish Wedding...no joke), and White/Mexican (don't ask, I'm sure we'll get there) with a little Greek and Polish sprinkled on the other side.  My family portraits are like the side of a UNICEF box.  But I love them all....or at least try to.  Like I said, normal is boring...

I am, however, me.  And that can be different on any given day.  And it's not perfect.  And that's what I love about it best.  So here's to the cherry being popped, the yacht being christened, the ribbon being cut...the...whatever else you do to start stuff...(I'm also not an accomplished writer).  Thanks for reading this far, I hope it'll be a trip for both of us.