I had to go to Wal-Mart today.  Lord, I hate that store.  It’s not like you can truly avoid it either.  With money being tight, everyone has had to tighten the purse strings and whether you like it or not they have the best prices.  This is thanks to the fact that they have almost single-handedly choked out all the competition because they can buy in such volume.  That being said, I still hate going to Wal-Mart.

I pulled into the parking lot on Sunday evening.  Carts are littered everywhere throughout the parking lot.  The first two empty spaces I try to pull into are blocked by misplaced carts.  What simple minded yahoo can’t walk the cart over to the buggy barn?  You don’t need a GPS to find them, they are as prevalent as my age spots.  Jiminy Christmas, make the extra two steps and keep the cart where it belongs.  That way it won’t ding my car, and I won’t have to scream in frustration at the inconsideration of the American public.  Why is it so difficult…we spend thousands of dollars in diet products and gym memberships, but are too lazy to make the extra few steps to put the cart up.  This is not the fault of the fine “associates” at Wal-Mart.  I recognize that, but it sort of sets the mood for the whole shopping experience.

So now I’m walking in the store already pissed and I find that there are no carts.  I don’t know why no one has gone out to the stinking parking lot and corralled these carts and brought them in.  I do know that when the kid comes in with the carts he is hacking and coughing all over the handle.  Then as I scream “thank-you” for the second time he finally rolls a cart at me.  Not to me…at me.  So I take the antibacterial wipes and clean the handle, all the while looking at Hacky McHackerson with what I hope is pure disgust.  Then I march my mad self to the produce aisle.  I choose produce, but it doesn’t really matter which aisle I pick they are all the same, because everyone needs fruits or vegetables.  Apparently, they all need them at 6:00 on Sunday night.  The place is teeming with people milling over the fruits and vegetables.  I see people picking at the grapes, squeezing the oranges, and talking on cell phones.  Most of the time they can’t even hear you call them effing rude *&%holes because they are talking to Aunt Truvie about what happened in church this morning.  Well in my opinion, a good Christian wouldn’t block my path and ignore me while I am cursing them like a sailor on leave.  I just want to get a head of lettuce.  Get the eff out of my way!

When I made it to the paper products the aisle is so narrow that you can barely squeeze two carts side by side.  Okay, that’s fine.  I can stop my cart, walk the few steps to whatever I need and walk back to my cart to put the items in there without difficulty.  Until the lady with three kids, twin toddlers and another pre-schooler, turns her cart sort of sideways to block the older child’s ability to get to the animal shaped paper plates.  Holy crap!  The kid is screaming, the toddlers are throwing things out of the cart, the mom has a look on her face that clearly says “murder is imminent.”  Dodging yogurt containers and other small, easily thrown objects I dash to the toilet paper and pick up the nine pack because I think it will make a better  shield for the trip back to the cart.  Then covering my face as best I can I dodge, and duck my way back to the cart.    When I finally make it back with only superficial wounds, I count myself lucky and back away as quickly as possible. With varying shoppers and different aisles the story pretty much remains the same. Stocking is also apparently done Sunday evenings.  There are boxes in the middle of the floors and stockers running back and forth.  While looking for compactor bags, I stopped one of the stockers to see if she had any idea where they might be.  I was told there might be some in the back, but the fool didn’t go look for them.  She just said there might be some in the back.  Well, there might be some in China too, but   I ‘m not going there to look for them.  The stocker just looks at me like I’m ruining her day,  until I finally ask if she could check for me.  I can almost hear her eyes roll.  Just when I think this can’t get worse I get to the checkout.

I’m going to assume the cashier was told to be friendly to the customers.  Her interpretation of friendly includes an analysis of each and every item in your cart. “Oh are these good?  Looks like someone is having spaghetti for dinner.  Have you ever tried these before?” and so on.  At first I just kind of nod.  Then when she is obviously not paying attention to the fact that I am ignoring her, I begin to answer her questions as succinctly as possible. “Yes, they are good.  No, spaghetti tonight.  Yes.”  She still doesn’t get it.  Finally when I run my debit card through the machine, in a desperate attempt to escape,  I almost forget my receipt.  Not to worry, Chatty Cathy tackles me on my way out the door to be sure I have that sacred piece of paper in my possession.  Thanks!  Then as I am sliding through the doors that I have been warned are automatic the $1 DVD Rental booth is so busy that I can’t make it close enough to the doors to activate the opening mechanism.  Have a nice day!

It’s not the fact that it’s Wal-Mart that bothers me so much.  It’s the fact that it is so crowded.  Day in and day out.  I’ve shopped at 3:00 a.m. and I’ve shopped at 3:00 p.m.  It’s crowded.  I’ve shopped on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and so on….it’s crowded.  The aisles are narrow, the people are rude, there are never sales people when you need them but they are up your butt when you don’t.  I need to save money as much as any one else, but something has to be said for saving your sanity too.  The Mom & Pop store costs more, but when I walk in it’s never busy.  I can always park close to the doors.  Yes, I still sometimes am inconvenienced by inconsiderate shoppers but not nearly as often as the bigger venues.  I will continue to shop at Wally World.  I don’t think it can be avoided.  I just want you to know that if you see a clearly frustrated, middle-aged woman at Wal-Mart and you are blocking the aisle, talking on your cell phone, or just irritating me in  general…I will call you on it. And because @**hole is not something you can say, it is only something you can write, you might want to cover your children’s ears.

We have a prowler in our neighborhood.  At least that’s what all the old ladies say. Now they can’t tell you if he’s tall or short, thick or thin, white or black or anything of that nature because no one has ever seen him (or her) but everyone is frightened to death of him.

Apparently, the red-necked neighbors across the street were the first to be hit.  They had a hand gun stolen from their car just before Christmas.  Their story is that in a locked truck full of Christmas packages and other things of value a hand gun that was not readily viewed was taken from them.  Let me tell you a little about these neighbors…first they have pissed off everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another.  At first the old ladies were pissed because they were living in sin.  The woman in question is about 4 feet tall and 4 feet wide, her significant other is heavier and is disabled.  They live together because they get more money from the government each month that way than they would if they were married. Shameless!  I was okay with that…a little disgusted, because I have an active imagination and I have seen them…but okay.  Then they called and asked us to be on the lookout for a rogue kitty.  Apparently, this bad cat had been fighting with their “Miss Millie” and now she was afraid to go outside.  If I can in touch with the beast, would I please capture it and call the animal control officer or just kill it? I’m not pro Peta, but I am against killing animals just for tickles and grins. Then they built the two story chicken house.  No one knew, when they first began building, just what was under construction.  No one knows still, and the building is complete.  It appears to be a twenty-four foot structure to house a mobile home.  The top half is peaked and both ends are open, and it is at least twice as large as the R.V. it houses.  The thing I know for sure is that every morning when I walk down the stairs the first thing I see is that ridiculous building, and in my heart I know that I will never be able to sell my house.  Now all of this has nothing to do with anything except that I think that someone who knows this couple stole their gun, and I think it may be one of the neighbors.  What I’m afraid of, is that they think it is me.

The old women have left no stone unturned to try and find this “prowler”.  They have sent out two well worded newsletters to the neighbors.  The first stated that the prowler “may have been seen wearing a red shirt.  However; it is possible that he will change his shirt.”  Wow!!  No one dared wear red for a good two weeks after that scathing document was sent out.  The most recent letter told us that if any of our street lights went out, we should contact the city.  They would take care of the offending light.  You betcha’, cause the city has nothing better to do than change the light bulbs on the street of a bunch of scaredy cat widder wimmen.  They also recommended turning on porch lights and carriage lights at night.  Well, we’ve been doing that for years and were the only ones.  Now the neighborhood is lit up like China town on New Year’s Day.  One morning at 3:00 a.m. a police officer came ringing the bell and wanted to know if we had seen anyone strange in the neighborhood because the next door neighbors had reported seeing the prowler looking into their window transom.  That transom has to be 12 feet high, and the old man who made the report is edging on ninety years old.  1. What in the hell was he doing up? and 2. How tall is this effing prowler?

This is what I believe to be true…old people are paranoid.  A house in the neighborhood behind ours was apparently robbed, and now every foot fall in the neighborhood is a potential predator.  The neighbor’s across the street probably heard about the robbery and filed a police report about the “missing” gun without regard to whether or not there ever was a gun.  There is always insurance to be filed.  The neighbors who saw the intruder were up…probably due to leaky plumbing (and I don’t mean the pipes) and saw a reflection in the transom, and if the old dude was wearing red pajamas I think we have solved the mystery.

The best thing about living in a neighborhood that is seventy-five percent over seventy is the great stories you get from all of the neighborhood criers.  I get to hear about who has what, and who’s kids treat them right and who’s kids don’t, and what everyone had for dinner.  The neighborhood newsletter is full of crap with a capital C and most of the time it’s pretty amusing.  I know the Polish lady down the block is broke and her children take care of her.  I know the oldest woman in the right hand lot of the backside of the cul-de-sac has no children to take care of her, and is bitter towards those who do.  I know that the busdriver’s widow has a family that doesn’t show affection, and the new guy that just moved in four doors down on the left had “track lighting” installed.  But what I never knew until we had a possible prowler was that old men nearing ninety with bad prostates grow to be 11 feet tall in the middle of the night.  Trust me, that is far more frightening to me than a prowler could ever be.

In our house, as a rule, my husband is up until 5:00 or 6:00 a.m.   The younger neighbors who work and have children start milling around by 7:00 and I am up by 10:00 or so.  It would be incredibly hard for anyone to find a quiet moment to break in.  I guess it could be done, but why risk it.  The rest of the neighbors have closed their curtains, and drawn their blinds.  Not us.  If there is someone looking in the window, I want them to see that we are up and around almost 24-7.  If he (or she) should still decide to break in and disturb my beauty sleep, God help them.  I have been know to get my dander up for less.   Prowlers come and prowlers go, but wrinkles last forever.