Could I Have Been Wrong About Walmart?

I hate Walmart. I joined the Boycott Walmart bandwagon about 6 years ago and haven't looked back. Simply driving into the parking lot causes me stress. The idea of having to battle for a parking space, battle for a carriage, battle for a place in line at a register got my fight or flight instincts circulating. I was always ready to fight. Employee or fellow shopper I didn't care; give me lip and I'll fatten it.

What the hell? That isn't me! What was it about Walmart that turned me into such a vile creature?

I suppose it's because I was, in a sense, a prisoner of Walmart. I needed to purchase things and Walmart was the place to do that. Yet many of the items I purchased didn't last. They'd chip, shrink, snap, snag, warp, wear, or fade so easily. 'How frustrating', I'd think after pulling a newly purchased Walmart sweater from the washer, 'I just bought this sweater and it's already unraveling. I've only worn it twice.' That's your plan, though, isn't it Walmart? Why build things to last when you know people are willing to open their wallets and replace instead of repair? It's attractive to offer lower-priced items but the catch is they need to be replaced sooner. Although Walmart items seemed inferior I continued to buy there because it was cheap. It was also convenient. I'd get in, get what I'd need, and get out.

Except, I never really ever did get in and get out. The stores were giant, and getting around wasn't as easy as it seemed. Isles were crowded with heavy-set women pushing blue carriages that were packed with junk food and screaming toddlers. You knew these women, too, just wanted to get in and out, but the appealing toys, snacks and books placed with intention at a child's eye level prevented the moms, the women, to shop efficiently. They'd yell at the children each time they grabbed for something. And the children always grabbed for something, because that's what children do. What strategic placement. "Put that down! I ain't buying that for you, we ain't got the money." As she reaches for some Allen's Coffee Brandy.

The 20 cash registers on the front end seemed impressive, until you realized only 3 were open. When I approached the cash register I'd attempt a dialogue, but the cashier would be too embittered by the malevolent treatment Walmart and rude customers dished out she wasn't at all interested in chatting. The cashiers always made that clear. As I left the store to battle cars over the crosswalk an employee wanted to see my receipt and the receipt of every other customer. Way to trust your clientele, Walmart.

One day I had an epiphany. I needed to grab a couple of collapsible lawn chairs and I dreaded the thought of having to enter Walmart. I just didn't want the drama. A Rite Aid was located further down the road; I decided to drive there instead. The collapsible lawn chairs Rite Aid sold to me were priced about the same as the chairs I would have bought from Walmart. Granted these were on sale, but if they hadn't been on sale I would have only spent a couple more bucks. Was coughing up a fraction more of my hard earned money worth avoiding the misery that was shopping at Walmart?

Yes.

I began finding a plethora of alternative places to shop besides Walmart and I never looked back.

Then the other night I was out with some friends when I happened to take a nasty fall on my way back to the car. I lay crumpled on the pavement for a moment, mustering up the bravery to glance at my knees which were scraped up hard and bleeding with an increasing intensity. My friend, Candice helped me hobble to my car where I opened the glovebox and pulled out a handful of napkins and some Band-Aids. I was keeping my cool until I noticed a large flap of skin hanging down from my right knee.

"Candice, do you think I should go the hospital? Do you think I need stitches?"

"No," she answered, "They'll just clean you up and send you on your way. That's what we're doing now. They're going to tell you to ice them too, so you should get some ice."

"It's 9:00 at night, where am I going to get some first-aid ice packs?"

"There's a Walmart right across the street," she answered.

Walmart. Maybe I'd wait until I got home, but that was a 45 mile drive. My knees were beginning to sting and swell. It would be advantageous to ice them now. I scrolled through my mental Rolodex trying to think of some place, any place that would be open this late at night and would sell me what I needed. I didn't have too much time to ponder. I needed ice and bandages now. Walmart would have these items. Walmart was across the street. Walmart was open. Walmart, at that moment, would come to my rescue.

I thanked Candice for her help and drove to the dreaded store.

As I headed over I anticipated the rudeness with which I would inevitably be confronted. I also knew that although the store was open that didn't mean there would be people around to assist. The last thing I wanted to do was limp around the endless isles looking for bandages and ice packs. I decided to approach the greeter, show her my bloody knees and tell her I needed someone who could take me directly to the first-aid items.

When I did this the first words out of her mouth were: "Did you fall in our parking lot?"

I'm fine Walmart, thanks for asking.

"No," I said, "I fell across the street. But I'm hurt pretty bad. I'm not familiar with the store and don't want to walk around. I'd really like for someone to walk with me and show me where the bandages are."

The greeter looked down at my knees and then panned the front end for an available associate. There were slim pickings, as I knew there would be, and she cast her gaze back to me.

"Well," she said, "I know there are some Band-Aids in the furthest isle down on the left. If you look all the way down, that's where the Band-Aids are." She walked to the end of the two nearest isles and extended her arm and index finger into a point. "All the way down here."

I was incredulous. Calmly, I repeated: "I really would like someone to walk with me. I'll wait."

The greeter left her post, which she was also hesitant to do. I stood in the entry dabbing away the blood as it oozed from my knees. I was surprised that she was more concerned with leaving the doors unattended than she was about my welfare. What would happen to her, realistically, if suspended her role as an employee for two minutes to help me? Did Walmart have such a hold over her as well? Sad, sad sad.

The shift leader approached me in a hurry. She was visually shaking with concern over my situation. "Oh my God, are you ok? Do you want one of our motorized carriages so you don't have to walk?"

I beamed. This lady was wonderfully kind! "Thanks, no, I'll walk. I just want to get some bigger Band-Aids on my knees and to get some ice. I don't know my way around the store and figured someone who worked here could get them faster than I could." We walked to the isle where the Band-Aids were stocked (which, by the way, was not the last isle on the left.) I choose the size I thought would be appropriate. She opened the box so I could adhere them to my wound immediately. "Don't worry about paying for them first. I'm not worried about it." We were unsuccessful in finding ice packs so she suggested instead I buy a block of ice.

"How am I going to ice my knees with an entire block of ice?" I asked.

"We'll bag up some for you," she said. We walked back to the front end where she opened a register just for me. A couple other customers approached the register and began to unload their purchases from their carriages onto the belt. "This register isn't open," she quipped, "I'm helping this lady right now." Sweet.

Together the shift leader and I triple-bagged up two bags of ice. All the while, she continuously asked how I was. Did my knees hurt real bad? Did I have a long drive? Did I need anything else? How nice to have such a kind and helpful person tending to me. I thanked her over and over for her help. It wasn't as though she had saved my life, but she certainly helped to make an uncomfortable circumstance be more pleasant. I limped out of the store carrying my bags of ice and bandages. As I passed the greeter I smiled and said: "Thank you. I'm all set now." She glanced quickly in my direction, but when she saw it was me, she avoided eye contact and turned up her nose.

Fucking Walmart.

My Hysterosalpingogram

There are four expectations that are imbued onto each of us at birth. We are all expected to go to school, get a job, get married and have children. When any of those expectations are not achieved, you can bet you will hear about it from the loved ones in your life.

When my husband and I got married we expected we would be parents within a year. However, month after month passed and I was still not pregnant. This was devastating because there was nothing more I wanted in the world than to have my own family. My biological clock was ticking away with every beat of my heart and I worried all my good eggs were going. Every 28 days I approached the toilet with trepidation. Were the symptoms I was experiencing part of my regular cycle, or were they signs I was pregnant? I'd have my answer in a moment when I would wipe away the menstrual blood from my crotch. "Maybe next month," I'd think with false optimism, but with each passing month that possibility dimmed a little more. I grew increasingly frustrated and this was fueled by the advice offered to me by my family and friends.

"Count to 14 days after your period starts, and mark it on the calendar. That's when women tend to ovulate. You and Matt can have sex then."

"Check your vaginal discharge. When it's heavy and sticky that's a sign you're ovulating."

"After Matt ejaculates either elevate your pelvic region or lay upside-down for 20 minutes to help keep the sperm flowing upward to the egg."

I didn't want people talking to me about my or my husband's body fluids. I didn't need them to offer sex positions; what we do in our bedroom was between us. If we weren't smart enough to figure out the proper way to have sex then we wouldn't be smart enough to raise children. After all, conception is not rocket science; you just need to fuck and get pregnant.

Our insurance company was willing to pay for any and all fertility testing after a year of trying. They would pay only for the testing, however, not the treatment should something awry be discovered. When the year was up we were anxious to be tested. What was wrong with us? Could it be fixed? Would I ever feel a little life growing inside my belly? Would I ever experience the glory of motherhood? Matt and I were also tired of receiving the continuous flow of suggestions from out dear family and friends. Advice which was given to us with the certainty it was the miracle solution. As the year progressed, the suggestions got a little more ridiculous.

"Make sure Matt only wears boxers."

"Stop thinking about it. It will happen when you least expect it."

"Eat less dairy, Alyson."

"Wear a fertility pendant."

"Put a pink elephant under your bed or a pearl under your pillow."

Perhaps I should slaughter a chicken and drink its blood, too? This mumbo-jumbo voodoo wasn't going to impregnate me.

I got tested first, and underwent a hysterosalpingogram. It was with excited optimism that I arrived at the doctor's office, because I knew he would tell me what was going wrong. Once we knew what was wrong, we could correct the problem. I was actually in high spirits because this would bring about the positive change we needed. After this, I knew Matt and I would be on the road to conception.

A nurse brought me into a changing room and handed me a jonnie. She instructed me to dress in that and place my clothes in the locker. I removed my clothes and slipped the dressing gown over my body, tying the stubby strings together as tightly as possible so my backside wouldn't flap open and expose my ass to everyone in the hospital.

I was told to bring my purse with me so my valuables wouldn't be stolen.

"Seeing as how I'm not wearing any pants," I said, "my definition of 'valuable' certainly has a different meaning."

The nurse didn't enjoy this joke as much as I did. Instead, she somberly gestured me down the hall. I walked toward my destination in slip-resistant socks, my purse hanging from my shoulder, and my right hand desperately trying to clutch shut my half-open dressing gown. The room to where I was led was dark, as though I had entered a theater just before the movie began to play. The room had pale yellow-tiled walls and an examination table sat cold in the center of the room.  It was draped with a single crisp white sheet, hiding the levers and gears underneath.  A computer monitor shined in sleep mode with bright darkness. Colorful wiring and tubes spiraled out from beside and underneath and climbed web-like up to the ceiling. I was a little fly, ready to be caught within the delicate design of this machine.  In the right hand corner of the room was another little room fitted with an enormous window. Through the window I could see panels of keyboards and lit buttons. Clearly, that room was mission control. I was asked to lie on the bed, put my feet in the stirrups, scoot down and relax.

Yeah, relax.

Three nurses and one doctor were present during the procedure. Two nurses sat at mission control, the other stood by my side and the doctor stood facing my womanhood ready to dive in and perform the test. She inserted a devise that, without any exaggeration, resembled a dipstick with a balloon fastened to the end. The dipstick was inserted into me. It passed through my cervix and continued into my uterus where the balloon inflated and iodine poured out from the tube.

I suppose, next to actually giving birth, this was probably the most painful experience I would ever have to go through. When the balloon expanded a vicious pain, so sharp I thought I would vomit, shot through every inch of my body unlike anything I ever felt before. I negotiated with God at that moment. I promised I'd stop messing with his divinity if he would please, please, make the pain go away. 'I take it all back,' I thought, 'I don't want children anymore.' I felt a tap on my shoulder. The nurse at my side was telling me I needed to breathe. I nodded and exhaled, then realized my face was streaked with tears. I wondered what other tasks my body had performed, or failed to perform, unbeknownst to me. That's when the specialist burst in.

"Hello," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Let's take a look at what we've got here." The computer monitor was flicked on. After a brief glimpse he announced to the room that my fallopian tubes looked fine. "No blockage. You should have no trouble getting pregnant."

'Obviously, dickhead, I am having trouble,' I thought.

The specialist looked down at me as I lay splayed on the Frankenstein bed and saw my tear-streaked face, which must have shown a conglomeration of anger, anguish, embarrassment and despondence. No blockage? Then why wasn't I getting pregnant? What happens now? He patted my shoulder in a feeble attempt to soften my despair. No words could encapsulate what I was feeling, and no words could make me feel better. His gesture, unlike the false optimism give by family and friends, was at least real. He left the room as quickly as he had arrived. The woman doctor slipped the dipstick out from my vagina and laid it unceremoniously on a wheeled metal table. She left the room along with two of the nurses. The nurse who stood by my side reminding me to breathe walked me back to the changing room. She handed me a maxi pad as thick as a mattress, pulled closed the vinyl curtain and asked if there was anything I needed.

"No," I choked out as strongly as I could. She walked away and I waited until the sounds of her footsteps were no longer audible before I started to cry.

Coupons are the Bane of My Existence

When I buy groceries all I want to do is get to the store, get what I need, and get out. Over the past ten years it has transgressed from a simple errand to a daunting and cumbersome task - despite its simplistic nature. The amount I spend on groceries has also skyrocketed by about 20%. In my early twenties I roomed with my brother who rented a house in Rochester, New Hampshire. I had gotten out of a bad relationship, which left me with some debt, so I had to shop minimally in order to get my bills paid. I did so successfully. I was working in retail, ironically at a grocery store, and made a whopping $8.50 an hour. Every penny in my weekly paycheck was coveted and scrutinized.

For one year, my diet was as follows:

Breakfast: Apple and an English muffin
Lunch: Small garden salad. I would also buy a $0.35 soda in the break room. Alternately, I sometimes made a sandwich
Dinner: Chicken breast and Ramen Noodle

My brother supplied the toilet paper and cleaning supplies so long as I cleaned. Every few months I restocked the cereal, pasta, popcorn, jelly, oil, vinegar and other miscellaneous items, such as pickles, ground beef, and beer. I consumed these items sparingly, regarding them as little delicacies too extraordinary to enjoy with any sort of regularity. I dreaded the weeks where I had to restock on cat food, kitty litter and tampons because they were necessities outside my regular grocery list and always exceeded my $25 weekly budget. There were some weeks when I would have to dip into my grocery budget to pay off other bills and I would go without eating altogether for a couple days. If I was hungry to the point of dizziness, I would inconspicuously take a few cents from the take-a-penny, leave-a-penny jar at work to buy a package of Ramen Noodles or a banana. Though I frequently walked the isles at work that were jam-packed with food so intangible to me it never once crossed my mind to steal. Sometimes I would ask my brother, who was a restaurant cook, to bring home some leftovers. He ate for free and seldom shopped for groceries, so I couldn't nibble on something he had stashed in the cupboards. The Buffalo wings, little pizzas, stuffed ravioli, meatballs and any other treat he brought home broke my monotonous diet and I gorged myself on the free food selfishly and without manners.

About once a week I was guaranteed a free meal when my husband (then boyfriend) took me out to dinner. I ordered big portions and brought home the rest to eat at work the next day so my coworkers could see the appetizing restaurant entree I was eating and perhaps not assume I was living so close to poverty. I felt ashamed to be so poor. I didn't want people to think I was irresponsible. I thought I hid my poverty well, but every so often one of my coworkers would make an observation.

"Salad again, Alyson?"
"You live in those corduroys, don't you, Alyson?"
"Don't you own any other shoes, Alyson?"

To make ends meet, I bought store-brand products and on-sale items. I bought my deli meats and cheeses by the slice, not the pound. I bought shampoo, conditioner and and body wash at $1.00 each and showered every other day to make them last twice as long. I practiced every technique known to man in order to live within my means, but I never once used coupons. Coupons are the bane of my existence.

The corporate CEO's of Kraft, General Mills, Pepsi-Cola, Bounty, and Lysol (to name a few) jet around in their luxury cars, earn exorbitant salaries and pay their workers (and sub-workers, like me, a grocery store cashier who sold their products to consumers) pathetic wages. I can see them now, their fat asses sitting in posh burgundy leather seats around a mahogany table in some smokey boardroom. I can see their bloated white faces wrinkling with delight, a stubby brown cigar smoldering from their lips, as they laugh over the thought of what ridiculous hoops consumers might jump through just to save a few cents.

"Let's print coupons in the paper! That way our consumers can spend their Sundays clipping and organizing. Can't you just see them in the isles fumbling through their stack of coupons trying to find one that applies to the product they want to buy?"

"Don't forget to put an expiration date on the coupon. Oh, wouldn't you love to see the disappointment on their faces when they go to use the coupon only to discover it has expired? What are they going to do, really? They aren't going to put it back on the shelf. After all, they're only saving $0.40."

"Let's have them buy in bulk! They'll save $1.00 --when they buy six or more of the item! They may only need one or two, but I'm sure they'll spend three times as much to save a buck."

"Gentlemen, I have the perfect idea...Rebates! Who's going to fill out the rebate form, anyway? If anyone does, we just won't send the check. If they complain, we'll simply deny we received the paperwork."

Fuck you!
Lower the prices!

I think I'm making a statement by not using coupons, but I'm sure those bastard moguls are equally as happy when I pay for their products in their over-priced fullness as a feeble form of protest.

Shakespeare Would Be Rolling In His Grave If He Saw How People Wrote Today

Communication isn't an option. Everybody communicates with a myriad of people in countless ways every day. Communication occurs both orally and in written form. The typical person wakes up in the morning and switches on the news. An anchor communicates important stories, traffic and weather. When the newspaper is read, recent stock activity, upcoming events, and current events are communicated to the reader. When in a car, the driver communicates with other drivers by activating turn signals. Road signs communicate important information. Stop. Yield. Right Turn Only. Gas Ahead. Slow Children Playing. Blind Drive. Everyone needs to be able to communicate effectively. If a person wants to be taken seriously when communicating orally, he or she needs to be able to speak clearly, confidently and concisely. If a person wants to be taken seriously in the written form, he or she must write sentences that are appropriately structured and have little to no spelling or grammatical errors. Between instant messaging, text messages, emails, and the excessive use of abbreviations and acronyms, people have become lazy and have aborted the English Language.

I blog on a local news station's website. That is to say, I post comments about reported stories. Some of the comments left by bloggers are posted for shock value. Other comments are quite insightful. Many comments are so riddled with errors they are difficult to read. It's even more difficult to take the person seriously. Below is an example of such a comment. To offer some background: the story reported the death of a woman and the injury of a man after they hit a deer while they were riding a motorcycle. Both the man and the woman had been drinking, neither were wearing helmets and the man, who was operating the bike, was driving at excessive speeds. Many bloggers commented that these two individuals brought this tragedy onto themselves because they had made bad decisions. Another blogger, who for some reason was very sensitive about this story, protested. This is actually the third comment she posted on that story.

"show me where i said it was ok to drink and drive open ur eyes all u do is judge without knowing thats IGNORANT 3 children lost there mother where is the compassion for these kids grow up"

I had to read this a few times in order to fully understand it. It almost sounds as if she were sobbing inconsolably and directly scribed what she was vocalizing. When we speak, our words and sentences blend together. Our brains are able to sort this out through our auditory ability, but visually it is more difficult to decipher. Therefore, proper grammar, sentence structure and spelling is necessary. I count at least 19 errors which consist of grammar, spelling, structure, punctuation and malapropisms. Because I'm anal, I've rewritten this woman's comment so it's intelligible.

"Show me where I said it was ok to drink and drive. Open your eyes. All you do is judge without knowing; that's being ignorant. Three children lost their mother. Where is the compassion for these kids? Grow up!"

A few punctuations and spelling corrections later the comment suddenly becomes more perceptive. Perhaps this woman simply did not possess the skill to write. If this be the case, how did she manage school (if she graduated)? As I recall, all twelve years of school involved some form of writing. Each year I would learn a new skill and the next year I'd build upon that. By my senior year, I had mastered writing. Even if a person doesn't master it, we all learn through rote and repetition, so how is it possible for a person to omit basic punctuation and spelling after twelve years of writing? What's more surprising is most writing programs offer spell check and grammar check. Even if a person lacks the skill he or she can simply click one button, and that button will find mistakes which can then be corrected. Was this woman simply being lazy? If this be the case, how can she be taken seriously when she can't be bothered to put in the effort to effectively communicate in written form?

Other computer speak that drives me mad is when numbers and single letters substitute words.

"B4 u leave 2day b sure u call me. i want 2 get 2getha with u if ur free."

I've been blessed with an abundance of friends and family, and none of them aborts the English language in such a lazy and moronic manner. To be honest, I don't think I could have a close relationship with a person who wrote to me like that. I'd never take them seriously. I'd read their letter and think to myself, "My God! How much time are you saving, really, by typing '2' instead of 'to', or 'ur' instead of 'your' or 'you're'? Are you trying to be clever or silly, because I just find it annoying. If I speak with you, will you speak with equal ineptitude? I worry it'll be damaging to my ears..."

I Don't Care That You Have Kids

I can't have children. Well I can, my husband can't. We will not be doing any type of fertilization treatment and adoption has not been expedient or optimistic. When my husband's infertility was confirmed, and I accepted I would never give birth, I began to notice that the world seemed to award mothers and pregnant women with unfair favoritism. My observation began when I stood in the checkout lines at the grocery store and eyeballed the tabloids. Every celebrity, it seemed, was pregnant. Magazine after magazine reported pregnant celebrities, their protruding bellies profiled in calm artistic photographs, and nearly each headline reading "We couldn't be happier!!!!" These women were being celebrated because they were about to become mothers and their delight wounded me.

I then noticed the TV airing commercials that catered to mothers. Are you a mom? Get ideas for recipes, or coupons for groceries here. I like cooking, and groceries are expensive for me, too. Am I unworthy simply because have no children? Even the grocery store itself segregated me one dark and stormy night. I arrived at the store and was fortunate to find a spot close the entrance. This was perfect as I just needed to grab a couple things and I'd be in and out within a minute. I wouldn't have to take a long walk under the pouring rain in the cold night. However, when I rounded the turn, my headlights shone upon a sign stating the parking space was reserved for women with children. I could walk in the rain? I could stand being in the cold longer? It was safer for me to walk in the dark because I was childless? NO! I could have parked in that space but I chose not to. Although it offered equal convenience to me as it did to a mother of a dozen children, I knew a mother responsible for a child would be more inconvenienced than I'd be if parked in a space further away. Damn my empathy.

When I joined Facebook I quickly observed my friends and family updating their statuses quipping phrases such as "Being a mom is the best job in the world". Oh, all the esoteric experiences to which I'd never be privy. Profile pictures consist of their children or ultrasounds. New photographs are posted daily of my loved one's children as they advance into different stages of development or as they embark on an exciting family adventure. Although I enjoy hearing about these exciting events, a part of me is embittered because I will never be able to share in that joy with my husband.

I blog on the website of a local news station. Many of those leaving comments often include the phrase "as a mother..." as though this fact alone will further validate her opinion. She could write the dumbest response to a reported story, but because she is "a mother" she suddenly becomes insightful and other bloggers will agree with her. If I post something on the contrary, and offer facts to back up my opinion, my comments might get disregarded by other bloggers because I'm not a mother and I couldn't possibly understand. This isn't the only place I hear: "You obviously don't have any children." It's an absurd knee-jerk response to my ordinary opinions and routines. If I say my house is always clean I "obviously don't have any children." This is asinine; plenty of parents can keep a clean house and raise children. In fact, parents should keep their house clean. I'll admit, it's got to be tough to keep up with it after all the cooking, laundry, feeding, burping, diaper changing, but on the other hand, how hard is it to put stuff away or clean house for an hour or two when the baby is napping? If the child is too old for napping, then he or she will be old enough to be given "big helper" chores. Blaming a dirty house on having children simply encourages laziness.

When we are born we're all given certain expectations. One of those expectations is that we will have children. All my life I imagined what it would be like to be pregnant. I bought children's books with the anticipation I'd be able to read them to my children. I met the man of my dreams, and we shared our views on child rearing and knew we would be good, consistent parents. I look at my present life and mentally juxtapose it against how I imagined my life would be at 30 years old. Sadly, it's a little disappointing. The house my husband and I bought seems as hollow as me. Children will not run down its halls. Children will not play in the yard. Children will not help decorate the Christmas tree. Children will not host sleep-overs or birthday parties in their bedrooms. I will never experience watching my children as they excitedly open presents. I will never receive hand-made cards that say: "I love you Mom". I'll never even be called mom. Never, never, never. My visions have become ghosts and this breaks my heart.

I don't care that you have kids. It doesn't make you any more special in my book. Although my husband and I are childless we can still have rewarding and enriching lives. In fact, we are determined to be the couple who will strike envy in the hearts of our childbearing friends. The couple who, at a whim, can just get up and leave for an adventure. The couple who can be up late or spend money a little more loosely because we don't have children. We want people to say to us "I wish I could do that, but you know, we've got the kids."