Pst, pst

Okay, go ahead.  Let me have it.  I’m waiting.

I took a few days off from blogging a.) to concentrate on book related work and b.) because I was running low on brain cells.  I am pretty insane these days.  Have you ever seen a feral cat in one of those ‘Have-A-Heart’ traps?  That is pretty much the expression I am constantly toting around on my face these days.

I was graced with a full weekday off from the nine to five, (Who really works nine to five?  The only reason I go along with the saying is because it’s impossible to sing ‘working seven thirty to five thirty or sometimes six or seven, what a way to make a living’ I am going to contact Dolly Parton about making a remix) and I’ve guzzled down a cup of coffee.  And BAM!, here I am back at my blog.

I hate to go along with the People of Walmart jokes, but it is true.  I do think some of the strangest people congregate at those stores and I am one of them for sure.  I’m not sure where all the strange people come from at my local Walmart.  We got the Superstore a few years ago and every time I go, I swear they have loaded up a bus of strangers and brought them in.  Who the hell are all these people?  If you are from a big city, I’m sure that it is quite common not to recognize anyone while you are out.  I happen to live on an isolated peninsula that is only being recognized in the media currently because we have an arsonist who has burned down over seventy abandon structures.  (Now that I think about it, it’s probably one of these weirdo’s riding in on the Walmart Bus.)

Friday, I went to Walmart which is a twenty minute drive that feels like it takes two hours.  I have no idea what kind of time warp I go through that makes it feel that way.  It feels like it takes forever!  The whole reason I was going was to obtain one container of buttermilk.  For some reason unknown to me, one of the town’s grocery stores refuses to stock it anymore and the other grocery store had one single carton left that looked like it was about to explode.  I tried to pep talk myself through it, “I’m sure it is just REALLY full.”  In the end, I knew that the process of decomposing had taken place and there was no way I was bringing that carton of buttermilk home no matter how lonely it was.

My arrival to Walmart that afternoon was greeted by what I thought was a good omen.  As I got out the car, I saw my very good friend Ernie waving to me.  Well, I thought to myself, this is a good sign!  Later, I realized seeing Ernie was my chance of a lifejacket in the crazy world of Walmart.  He was my chance for protection from others and myself.  I didn’t recognize this as a sign though.  We exchanged the normal chit-chat and said our goodbyes, heading off in our own directions of certain insanity.

I am a lethal weapon with a shopping cart.  I have hit so many people and inanimate objects with a shopping cart that I should probably get some sort of siren to strap to myself that alarms people that I am coming around the corner.  I am so dangerous with a shopping cart that I ran over my own foot over when I was pushing one once.  How the hell do you run over your own foot with a shopping cart?  Go ahead, stand up.  Use an imaginary cart and try to figure that one out.  It was back when I was in my early twenties, I was wearing flip-flops and I was checking out a hottie in the grocery store who was actually checking me out in return.  Until I ran over my foot and screamed every obscenity that I knew, starting with son of a bitch and I think trailed off to mother fucker and maybe another son of a bitch.  I could barely hear the squeaky wheel of that guys cart doing a grocery cart burnout to get as far away from me as fast as he could.  “Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.”  It sounded much like the last little piggy.  I never saw that guy again, but I do think I saw his abandoned groceries a few aisles down.

I digress.  I’m in Walmart on Friday.  I wheeled around the corner and almost hit a guy.  “I am so sorry!”  I thought about just making a recording of this because I say it every time I’m at the store.  Usually, I get an ‘it’s okay’ or ‘you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.’  This guy though.

“Oh, you’re fine.  Just fine.  Really.  You are so okay.  Don’t worry about it.  All is good.  You are fine.  Really.”  As he walked away, he was still running through the, “you’re good, really.”

Has someone been spreading the word I’m a crazed lunatic?  “Just compliment her and run.  The bitch is crazy!  Run for your life.”

I shook my head and continued towards the laundry aisle to get the ingredients for my hippie homemade laundry detergent.  As I walked, a gentleman (I use the term lightly) started a ‘pst, pst’ routine at me.  Really, if you want to get my attention there are so many other ways to do so.  You can start talking about pigeons, ask if someone in the general area can school you on dog oral hygiene, or say ‘I wish I had someone to share these Reese’s Pieces with.’  Don’t pst, pst at me though, especially when you have your two children who are under the age of five with you.

I happen to be a well behaved girlfriend.  Maybe I should clarify.  I will make rude comments about people when they are in hearing range, I will say inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times and I will laugh when no one else is laughing.  I am a walking embarrassment.  However, I do not respond to the pst, pst of men.  I kept my eyes forward and kept walking.  There was another series of pst, pst so I glanced down an aisle like I was casually looking for something.  Play it cool, Mel, play it cool.

Unfortunately, I was not the only person that could hear the pst, pst.  A fellow who was reading the playlist of a CD in the audio section happen to look up as I was trying to nonchalantly glance down his aisle.  He looked at me, grinned and pointed at himself.

“Oh, no.  Um, that wasn’t me.  That was that man over there.”  The guy looked confused.  “Not that he was pst, pst’ing at you.  I mean, he may.  Just that he wasn’t then.  I don’t think.  Anywho, it wasn’t me pst, pst’ing.  I own my pst, pst’s and I did not pst, pst at you.”  The look on his face was getting increasingly more perplexed.  “I’m going to go now.”

I scooted away with my cart as quickly as I could, only then to be confronted by someone who wanted to talk only in whispers.

Whispering Man:  How are you?

Me:  Good, how about yourself?

Whispering Man:  I’m doing quite well.  Quite well, indeed.

Me:  Why are we whispering?  Is this the library section?

I finally had filled my cart with everything I needed for our St. Patrick’s Day dinner (Corned Beef, Cabbage, Nola’s Mashed Potatoes, Brown Butter soda bread, and Green Velvet Cheesecake)  I made my way into a checkout line and unloaded my goodies onto the belt.  I was so proud of myself getting all of this stuff together.

DAMMIT!  I forgot the bucket of green food color!  Dammit, dammit, dammit.  There was no way I was going to load all of this stuff back into my cart and deal with all the lunatics of Walmart again.  No way, I’m going to pick that shit up from somewhere else.  I am done.  DONE.

Thankfully, I can say that my trip was rounded off by a pleasant cashier who asked me, “What are you baking with all of this stuff?”  I started talking about the cake and we began suggesting recipe blogs to each other.  She was the most wonderful new person I had met on the journey from Walmart.  I admired her stunning (heavy on the) strawberry blonde hair.  Us gingers, I thought, have to stick together in this crazy world.  We are a brand of insanity of our own, but us gingers have to stick together.  Saint Patrick must have been smiling on me when he guided me to that line for my last interaction at Walmart that day.

Advertisements

One thought on “Pst, pst

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s