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Goodbye, Love
Oh, Macey's! How I longed for you to save me from the tendrils of the Evil Valmart! I yearned for your small-town charm, your fresh produce and your checkout paper bags. I came to you in the night and wandered your aisles lost and, yet, found.
But as I reached for your merchandise (snort), I found your prices lacking. What happened? What changed? And at your register, you did not take my internet coupons for milk and cheese. You rejected them (and thus, me) with no explanation, forcing me to leave behind my cheese, my milk, and yes, my heart.
So long, dear Macey's. I sink into the abyss of the Evil Valmart. I will come back for your assortment of emergency preparedness supplies, but I will not stay. You may own my heart, but my wallet belongs to Valmart.
But as I reached for your merchandise (snort), I found your prices lacking. What happened? What changed? And at your register, you did not take my internet coupons for milk and cheese. You rejected them (and thus, me) with no explanation, forcing me to leave behind my cheese, my milk, and yes, my heart.
So long, dear Macey's. I sink into the abyss of the Evil Valmart. I will come back for your assortment of emergency preparedness supplies, but I will not stay. You may own my heart, but my wallet belongs to Valmart.
HELP WANTED
I just came back from a super grocery store whose name rhymes with "Chalmart." I got 10 things and went to a short checkout line because, in my mind, short is supposed to take less time. I decided to treat myself to an ice cream Snickers bar and added it to the conveyor belt. I was in line for about 3 minutes before it dawned on me the belt hadn't been moving. Looking back, I wonder if the line was short because everyone else was already aware of the situation. The situation was that the cashier was less-than-fast. He was less-than-efficient. He may have been less-than-awake.
George was a non-smiling older gentleman. He seemed undecided as to whether he wanted his lane light ON, OFF, or FLASHING. I watched him use all three options every few minutes, at least 3 times. It was like a Checkout Disco. (If only I had been wearing silver platform shoes and a gold polyester dress.)
I noticed George fumbling with the purchases of the person ahead of me and then realized he had been for quite some time. I saw conversation happen between the cashier and the customer. The light went off, came on, back off, and then flashed. I heard the customer say "I can just pay with cash." The light went off.
By the time it was my turn up to bat, I had had 2 birthdays and my ice cream bar looked softish. George clearly did not want to be there. I watched him fumble with my purchases. I asked him if he was looking forward to going home (he was) and asked when his shift ended (1 am, which was 6.5 hours away). My questions seemed to throw his concentration off, so I waited until he finished ringing me up before I nonchalantly asked how long he'd been working there (about 4 months).
I happened to have some cash on me so I paid for half of my total with cash and was about to hand him my debit card when George closed out my transaction and put my bills in the till. A less honest person could have said, "Bye! Have a good evening" and George would have totally let them walk out with half-priced groceries. But I pointed out, "I still need to pay the rest."
George seemed inconvenienced by this. He couldn't remember how much cash I had given him. He played around with the disco light again and got someone to help him. I knew Irma had authority because she looked stressed and she had a walkie-talkie. (I only know of three jobs that involve walkie-talkies: the police, the secret service, and the commander of grocery cashiers. Perhaps, my grocery store has an army? And maybe their aged greeters are actually trained ninja assassins.) George kept telling Irma I paid with less cash than I had given him, which kind of bugged me. She unloaded my purchases and re-rang them up. George walked away. Just like that.
"He seems to be having a hard day," I said.
Then, she said, "He's not a cashier."
Excuse me?
"He stocks shelves but when we're busy, we have him man a lane."
OK, I know that being a cashier does not require specialization like say, a heart surgeon or a ninja assassin, HOWEVER, shouldn't the person handling people's cash and credit cards know how to, at least, use a cash register? This falls just below going to the gynecologist's office and finding out that your exam was done by a bored janitor.
Had my baby not been fussing for dinner, I would have taken the time to make an a-gasped scene about my fake cashier. (Irma, thank the baby. Thank the baby.)
When I finally got to my car, I looked for my delicious ice cream Snickers bar. George had thrown it into a bag with some glass jars. I found my treat under a heavy jar of natural peanut butter. The package was flat. Had my baby not been fussing, I would have gone back in and gotten a replacement. (Chalmart, thank the baby. Thank the baby.) I drank my tube of melted ice cream, crushed chocolate bits, and peanut pieces. Hmph.
Well, at least George has their bagging techniques down pat.
George was a non-smiling older gentleman. He seemed undecided as to whether he wanted his lane light ON, OFF, or FLASHING. I watched him use all three options every few minutes, at least 3 times. It was like a Checkout Disco. (If only I had been wearing silver platform shoes and a gold polyester dress.)
I noticed George fumbling with the purchases of the person ahead of me and then realized he had been for quite some time. I saw conversation happen between the cashier and the customer. The light went off, came on, back off, and then flashed. I heard the customer say "I can just pay with cash." The light went off.
By the time it was my turn up to bat, I had had 2 birthdays and my ice cream bar looked softish. George clearly did not want to be there. I watched him fumble with my purchases. I asked him if he was looking forward to going home (he was) and asked when his shift ended (1 am, which was 6.5 hours away). My questions seemed to throw his concentration off, so I waited until he finished ringing me up before I nonchalantly asked how long he'd been working there (about 4 months).
I happened to have some cash on me so I paid for half of my total with cash and was about to hand him my debit card when George closed out my transaction and put my bills in the till. A less honest person could have said, "Bye! Have a good evening" and George would have totally let them walk out with half-priced groceries. But I pointed out, "I still need to pay the rest."
George seemed inconvenienced by this. He couldn't remember how much cash I had given him. He played around with the disco light again and got someone to help him. I knew Irma had authority because she looked stressed and she had a walkie-talkie. (I only know of three jobs that involve walkie-talkies: the police, the secret service, and the commander of grocery cashiers. Perhaps, my grocery store has an army? And maybe their aged greeters are actually trained ninja assassins.) George kept telling Irma I paid with less cash than I had given him, which kind of bugged me. She unloaded my purchases and re-rang them up. George walked away. Just like that.
"He seems to be having a hard day," I said.
Then, she said, "He's not a cashier."
Excuse me?
"He stocks shelves but when we're busy, we have him man a lane."
OK, I know that being a cashier does not require specialization like say, a heart surgeon or a ninja assassin, HOWEVER, shouldn't the person handling people's cash and credit cards know how to, at least, use a cash register? This falls just below going to the gynecologist's office and finding out that your exam was done by a bored janitor.
Had my baby not been fussing for dinner, I would have taken the time to make an a-gasped scene about my fake cashier. (Irma, thank the baby. Thank the baby.)
When I finally got to my car, I looked for my delicious ice cream Snickers bar. George had thrown it into a bag with some glass jars. I found my treat under a heavy jar of natural peanut butter. The package was flat. Had my baby not been fussing, I would have gone back in and gotten a replacement. (Chalmart, thank the baby. Thank the baby.) I drank my tube of melted ice cream, crushed chocolate bits, and peanut pieces. Hmph.
Well, at least George has their bagging techniques down pat.
The Wal-Mart Trap
A new Smith's Marketplace opened up close to our neighborhood. We've all been waiting for a grocery store, any grocery store really, to open nearer to our 'hood. There are 5 grocery stores all 5 miles away from us, which apparently is too far away. All the exercise my right foot has to endure in applying pressure to the gas pedal of my car is un-American. Thank goodness for the new Smith's Marketplace! It is only 4.9 miles away!
Don't let the "market" in the name fool you to think it's a down-home neighbory feelgood kinda place. You won't see Old Man Brown selling corn in one booth and Mrs. Miller in another spinning tales while knitting warm, colorful scarves. This market is a glam, brilliantly-lit 170,000 square feet of superdupermarkethood including sections designated for department store clothes, a small bistro, and a large collection of home decor. One hundred seventy-thousand feet means lots of ouch for my two feet from just touring the (enter curse word) place. A garden center, a drive-through pharmacy, a fuel center. All in the name of convenience. So, instead of driving 5 miles to a grocery store, I get to walk 5 miles within one. (Did I mention the place is big?)
David and I were trying to love the store, to be happy for its presence, to finally get away from our WalMart dependence. We decided to pick up diapers and baby formula. The store brand cost $2 more than the WalMart brand. We wandered over to clothing. I saw a wool coat for $80 that I swore I saw advertised at another store for $40. I picked one out for me in the name of we're-already-here convenience. I wanted a plant pot for our outdoor Christmas tree, $35. We might as well, we're here. Picked up a gift for a relative, $15 for two pairs of socks. Hmm. I conveniently paid.
Dave wanted to pick up a Trivial Pursuit game for his father, $40. I drew the line. $40 for something NOT for me??? I don't think so.
All in all, our let's-go-check-out-the-new-Smith's trip cost $173. Window-shopping is expensive these days. (Darn economy.)
Dave, determined to buy a Trivial Pursuit game for his father, dropped me off at home, went to WalMart and returned, Trivial Pursuit in hand. Price: $20.
WalMart: It's a dependency/hate relationship. Always.
Sister Cashier
Dear Sister Cashier,
I have just put my intended purchases onto your conveyor belt in groups: the produce with the produce, the breads and starches for the pantry, the frozen pizza with the ice cream, the canned foods in stacks together, and the household non-foods at the end. I did it because I won't have time to put everything away right when I get home as the baby is hungry and her diaper needs changing. This way, I can quickly put the frozen and refrigerated foods away before tending to The Little Highness.
Please, feel free to disregard the work I've done. Spread all the cans into 6 different bags. In one of those bags, include a loaf of bread and a bag of celery. In the others, mix a variety from different categories so I must search for the frozen peas underneath the Kleenex. Drop the grapes in with the canned yams. Put the paper plates over them, so I don't think to look there when putting food away. Continue with your conveyor belt potpourri. Spin the grocery bag carousel like it's the Wheel of Fortune. Round and round and round it goes, where the cheese will end up, nobody knows.
Yes, of course, why wouldn't I want the chicken with the apples. The tortillas with the frozen foods? Perfect. I like my tortillas a little soggy. And when I lug the toiletries up to my bathroom, I don't mind finding the rice between the tampons and the feminine napkins. I was going down to the kitchen again anyway.
It's alright. I know you're just trying to cheer me up with a game of grocery shop hide n' seek. I enjoy your playfulness.
Now, where'd you put the eggs?
Thank you, Sister Cashier.
Love,
Adhis
I have just put my intended purchases onto your conveyor belt in groups: the produce with the produce, the breads and starches for the pantry, the frozen pizza with the ice cream, the canned foods in stacks together, and the household non-foods at the end. I did it because I won't have time to put everything away right when I get home as the baby is hungry and her diaper needs changing. This way, I can quickly put the frozen and refrigerated foods away before tending to The Little Highness.
Please, feel free to disregard the work I've done. Spread all the cans into 6 different bags. In one of those bags, include a loaf of bread and a bag of celery. In the others, mix a variety from different categories so I must search for the frozen peas underneath the Kleenex. Drop the grapes in with the canned yams. Put the paper plates over them, so I don't think to look there when putting food away. Continue with your conveyor belt potpourri. Spin the grocery bag carousel like it's the Wheel of Fortune. Round and round and round it goes, where the cheese will end up, nobody knows.
Yes, of course, why wouldn't I want the chicken with the apples. The tortillas with the frozen foods? Perfect. I like my tortillas a little soggy. And when I lug the toiletries up to my bathroom, I don't mind finding the rice between the tampons and the feminine napkins. I was going down to the kitchen again anyway.
It's alright. I know you're just trying to cheer me up with a game of grocery shop hide n' seek. I enjoy your playfulness.
Now, where'd you put the eggs?
Thank you, Sister Cashier.
Love,
Adhis
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