The Evil Empire

Eternal damnation is not a fiery pit run by a horned, pitchfork-toting dude with a forked tail. It's a mega-store with Sam Walton's portrait on display. And Wal-Mart is thy name.

Walton, rest his soul, was most likely looking to be a successful businessman (and becoming a billionaire in the process didn't hurt) when he started what has grown into hell on Earth. He is not to blame.

Rather, it is the demonic beings who guide their shopping carts along the merchandise-riddled aisles that make Wal-Mart less than holy.

I offer two examples:

-- Last night, The Girl and I were perusing the offerings in our area Wal-Mart when a demon pushed one of the shopping carts past my daughter. I could almost hear the whoosh from the cart's jet engines as she zoomed past, yelling over her shoulder: "Excuse me, honey, I'm going around you."

Keep in mind that this demon was already around us and ahead of us when she screeched out her advisory.

What was her destination? The cat food aisle.

That must have been one hungry kitty, considering the way she was careening through the store.

-- The second example, also last night, included another woman and her myriad of children.

(Note: Is Wal-Mart a form of recreation for some of these families? Every time I'm in there, there's about three families of 12 -- the WHOLE family -- shopping. Can no one stay at home and mind the dog? Would it kill Dad to watch the kids while Mom goes into town for supplies? Or vice versa? Where do you put your purchases in the vehicle when a dozen warm bodies are littering it? And they always have purchases -- big ones. I have yet to see a U-Haul trailer in the parking lot, so logic tells me they're sitting on their fish sticks and tubs of Neapolitan ice cream on the ride home. I guess the little ones get stuck holding the bread and eggs. But I digress.)

Back to the woman and her throng of children. I'm in the dairy aisle, and The Girl was looking for something specific when I looked to my rear and saw this demon pushing her cart very rapidly down the aisle, with all the kids holding on to the sides and the front. It was surreal -- almost like a scene from "ER" when they have a critical patient they're rushing in.

"Moooooom! Slow down!" warned one of the imps with a modicum of sense, apparently inherited from the father. "You're going to run over people."

"Well, I'm in a hurry!" the bitch huffed.

"So what?!?" yelled I, my bitch switch now officially switched.

The bitch with all the kids responded by whipping out her cell phone and making a phone call. She continued the conversation as she and her entourage ambled aisle after aisle. (OK, I kept up with her, I admit it. Call me bitchy but, you know, she flipped the switch.)

I would avoid Wal-Mart if I could -- believe me, I would. Unfortunately, it's the closest store to my home. Equally unfortunately, it would be fiscally irresponsible of me not to shop there in my sorry financial shape.

So I guess I'll suck it up and keep reading Behind the Counter. It gives me a twisted sense of consolation to know that my opinions are shared by someone else in the store.

Her e-mail isn't working

Let me say it again: Her e-mail isn't working.

She has no e-mail. It's not working.

Irritating, isn't it?

Imagine hearing it, I swear to God, SEVENTEEN times. At least. In an hour. With the words rearranged. Or replaced. But the meaning's the same.

My e-mail isn't working.

Not working. I can't get e-mail.

People are sending me e-mail. I'm not getting it.

I have no e-mail.

I have a problem: I have no e-mail.

No e-mail ...

No e-mail ...

No e-mail.

Argh!

In case you haven't guessed, this is a co-worker. She's not in my department, thank God. But I can hear her over the people who are. Not only is she repetitive, she's VERY LOUD. And she talks. Constantly. And laughs. And snickers, in this really silly-sounding pssssssssssss-sss-sss that sounds like she's deflating. Only she's not. Unfortunately.

Our desks are separated by a very thin wall. A doorway leads from one department to another. A doorway -- with no door. Don't recommend that I see management about installing a door. Been there, done that. They want to try "other methods." Insert eyeroll here.

My therapist recommends buying a white-noise machine. I'm not against that, but it really chaps my ass that I have to be out $50-plus when these anemic managers could tell her to Just Shut Up.

They say they've told her to hush. I believe that, but it's doing no good. She's yet to cease and desist. Meanwhile, folks in my department who aren't nearly as loud are repeatedly told to keep it quiet. Insert another eyeroll.

You know what the bad thing is? Other than her annoyingly loud voice, tendency to bug the shit out of me with repetition and that idiotic hissing, I actually like her. (I know! It's like saying, "Other than that unfortunate shooting of your husband, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?")

She's friendly. She's good at her job. Unfortunately, she and I work the same hours. And. She. Won't. Shut. Up.

So, until I can spring for the machine, I've found my own version of White noise -- The White Stripes on my iTunes. Their music is the only thing I've found that will drown her out. Know the words to "Icky Thump"? I do.

Rock on, Jack. Bang those drums, Meg. And you on the other side of the wall, SHUT THE HELL UP!

Incredible

Incredibly sickening, that is.

The Girl is on throes of the four-year life's journey known as high school. Naturally, friends want to know my impressions as the first-time mom of a high schooler.

The latest contenders are a couple of her father's friends, who have a son a year younger than The Girl. As the mother and I chatted, the father informed his wife that their son likely would not be going to high school next year.

Apparently, that was news to her, for she replied, "Really? Why?"

"My son," this baboon declared, "will not go to a high school where a f** is the principal."

(My apologies to baboons. It's the first metaphor that entered my mind that was family friendly.)

The mother, who normally is not my favorite person, became my hero with her next carefully chosen words:

"Uh-huh." Insert huge pregnant pause here. "Well, you'll be homeschooling him, then, because I'm not going to do it."

As much as I love my little corner of the world, I abhor these attitudes. Said principal is a caring man whose priority is the students. I don't know his sexual orientation, nor do I care.

The students in this district couldn't be in better hands. I'm proud and delighted my daughter will be in high school with an exemplary leader at the helm.

Unfortunately, The Baboon's attitude is rampant here. If the principal were African-American, I have no doubt he would have inserted the n-word in place of the f-word.

Disgusting. It truly is.

Did I mention that The Baboon has a highly regarded job? Yeah. Scary thought.

Asshole.

***
Dark ages attitudes aside, mornings like this one remind me why I love East Tennessee.

After a much-needed downpour yesterday, it is sunny and beautiful outside. The lush greens are showing off, and the mugginess has lifted.

It's a clear, beautiful day. Enjoy it.