7th Portal to Hell: Walmart on a Saturday … while I’m bleeding

Not just any Saturday. No, the Saturday before Easter! What was I thinking?  I wasn’t.

walmart sucks  | The Fairly Good Mother

I had a prescription to pick-up from there.  One that I have been meaning to transfer because EVERY.SINGLE.EFFING.TIME I go in there, I lament my decision to do so.

But I did it.  Again.  Because I apparently never learn.  So, I dart and weave through the drones pushing baskets full of kids and laundry detergent.  I get to the pharmacy & wait for my turn.  I tell her my name & she is perplexed by my request.  She asks me when I called my prescription in, “is it new, or did the doctor call it in?”

Me: “No, I called to renew it 2 days ago, the automated recording said it would be ready yesterday.”
Her: “Hmm … well, it’s not.”
Me:  “How come?”
Her:  “I don’t know.”
Me (getting agitated):  “Welllll, can you please find out?”  JHC, is it too much to ask for someone to do their damn job?  

She shuffles off to the back of the pharmacy for about 7 minutes, then returns.

Her:  “Seems like we are out of this medication and have ordered it, but it won’t be in until Tuesday.”
Me:  “And no one called me to tell me that because …???  You just want me to waste my time coming down to the 7th portal of hell on a Saturday.  Before Easter.  I hate Walmart, do you realize that?”
Her:  “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am.  But, well, they usually do call.”
Me:  “Ma’am?  Ok.  Yeah.  Well, no one called me.”
Her:  “Are you sure?  (off my death-stare) Maybe we don’t have your number.”
Me:  “Oooo Kaaaaay.  Can you please double check, then, to make sure you have my correct number?”
She passes me a slip of paper and a pen.  I push it back.
Me: “No. I want to know what number you have on file.”
She looks shocked and waddles back to the computer in another area.  She returns with a slip of paper that has my number on it … I tell her that’s the correct number and she promises they will call me when it’s ready.

Not wanting to waste a trip to the 7th portal of hell, I dart and weave some more up and down aisles, retrieving items like pull-ups, wipes, “It’s The Easter Beagle Charlie Brown” dvd for The Boy’s Easter basket, and make my way to the check-out.

Holy Lines, Batman!  It’s crazier than Costco up in this mug!

I sneak into what I think is the shortest line and am practicing deep breathing as the people behind me have ZERO concept of personal space.  Why is that?  Every time I’m in that $hithole, every customer is always up on my heels, with absolutely no concept of personal space.  I’m texting The Husband, telling him that I hate this place and they’re lucky no one has lost an eye yet.  Yet.

back the f^k Up 'fore U git scratched the f^k up!
back the f^k Up ‘fore U git scratched the f^k up!

It’s my turn, finally.  BUUUUUUUUT, before the checker can even pick up my pack of pull-ups to scan, the lady behind me thrusts her hand full of ice cream at the checker’s face.  “How much is this ice cream!?!”  She grunts.

Deep breath by me.

“I don’t know?  Doesn’t it say?”  Says the checker.

“No.” Says the lady who, in my opinion, does not need to be eating ice cream.

“Hmm.” The checker muses while steam starts to puff out of my ears.  “Val?!!”  She screeches to the checker in the aisle next to ours, “How much is this ice cream, do ya know?”

Big sigh by me.  And I’m running my tongue across the top of my lip in an effort to temper my growing frustration with the situation. I bite my lip.

Val yells back that she doesn’t know.  My checker offers to the lady, “I can scan it to find out if ya want ….”

“Yeah, you can scan it AFTER you’re done checking me out!!!!”  I finally erupt, smacking my hand down on the register area.

Everyone is taken aback by my outburst.  Checker apologizes and calls me ma’am, (which only further pisses me off.  That’s 2 ma’am’s in one Walmart trip!)  Ice cream lady stares at me, and I stare back, daggers in my pupils, daring her to confront me.  I’m bleeding and I hate Walmart.  I dare you to say something to me and see how fast I can lodge that ice cream where the sun don’t shine, sweetheart.

She didn’t say a word.  Smart move.

Moral of the story:  Do NOT go to Walmart EVER.  And if you need to go there, make sure it’s not on a Saturday.  And NEVER on a Saturday before Easter Sunday.

Waiting for the Blood

Kind of crass, yah?  So what.  If you’re a cool chick, you get it and won’t care.  If you’re a prude or a dude, you probably will care & you should stop reading now.

“Fear that which bleeds without being wounded.” (an old Celtic saying … I’m fairly certain that many other tribes all over the globe have said the same thing for thousands of years.)

Yes, fear me.  Lots of people do for at least one week out of the month.  Every month.  I made this little meme the other night  and posted it to my facebook page.  One of my ex-boyfriends that I’m friends with “liked” it … I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed.  Since I’m about to bleed, I chose “annoyed.”

7-10 days before I start to bleed I’m mean, emotional, crabby, tired, impatient & easily irritated.  I am bloated, headachy, nauseous, my intestines are not happy & I generally just want to eat pizza, cookie dough, french fries & make brownies so that I can eat the batter as though it were soup.

It’s the same thing every month.  You’d think that people (*cough cough* The Husband,) would write this shit down on a calendar somewhere, and either steer clear of me, or push a plate of mashed potatoes under the bedroom door as an offering to the PMS Beast.

Actually, it’s PMDD.  But no one even knows what that is, so I just say PMS.  PMDD is like PMS on steroids.  It’s not fun.  Unless you are taking a self-defense class & can beat the crap out of the instructor, (who is hopefully dressed in that Stay-Puff-Marshmallow rubber suit,) because you paid to, or if you take your anger to the shooting range and fire bullets at a target sheet.  Then it can be fun.  Sort of.

But I can’t do either of those, so I go online and make memes.  And write ranting blog posts.  And yell at people.  And make cookies just to eat the cookie dough … yeah, even with the raw eggs in there.  I like live on the edge while I’m waiting to bleed.