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2002-12-04 - 5:30 a.m.

I’m action packed with issues this morning.

Important stuff!

Monday afternoon I had a relapse. My sanity somehow got away from me, and my steadfast resolution to elude Wal-Mart during the holiday season crashed and burned. I lost my head and awakened in a nightmare of berserk and rude shoppers, jam packed aisles, runaway shopping buggies, untamed and detached kids. Butted, battered and beat up. Still, I quickly acclimated to my surroundings, assumed my Jeff Gordon persona, double clutched my buggy, hugged the inside corners and jockeyed mercilessly for position in the straightaway.

On opening day our Wal-Mart SuperCenter flaunted fast and courteous service at each of their 38 (count em--38!) checkout stands. PHEWY! Not even a third of those counters were operating during their grand opening, and during holidays as few as seven or eight are functional. Monday afternoon six service lights were on indicating open aisles--one of those was flashing for managerial assistance! Tired, uptight shoppers slumped over sagging carts in slow moving lines writhing back through Men’s Wear, Jewelry, Camera and Electronics.

I raced to the finish line and snorted and pawed at the ground, jostled along slowly in the pressing chain of customers, rehearsed my repertoire of obscenities and asked myself why I had allowed what little good sense I still possessed to desert me. Inch by inch I crawled forward, finally able to glimpse the checkout counter, then third in line to check my Ole Roy dog biscuits and DuraFlame fire-starter logs. Suddenly the clerk-needs-help light flickered on and a black cord was stretched across the lane. The cashier was out of dough! This aisle was closed! I wheeled my buggy around and--at breakneck speed--rushed to the next available checker. In the blink of an eye I was once again bringing up the rear of a line in a remote area of the store,standing next to a display of batteries in Electronics, snorting and pawing at the ground.

I only ran over and harmed one little, blue haired lady when I ran amok through the parking lot to escape Sam’s Asylum. By driving 20 miles over the speed limit I was away from the lunacy and in the utopia of my home within minutes!

Then yesterday at lunch I heard the rumblings of impending disaster. A couple of people are wanting to resurrect a bunch of malarkey. A five-day Secret Santa game. Oh GAWD! Just shoot me. Shoot me now! I.Do.Not.Want.To.Play! It’s not that I don’t want to haggle with the madness again at Wal-Mart or one of the many dollar stores (although it’s a big part of my reluctance to play nice), I just think the whole idea is absurd. Seems like both a waste of time and money to run around buying up chintzy little doodads nobody wants. I voted for a group lunch out. Period. I think I’m going to be out voted. I.DO.NOT.WANT.TO.PLAY!

In a rare moment of domesticity last night I burned up my vacuum. Again. The machine rattled and clanged, then smoke rolled and it spit out little chunks of hard, black plastic. Back to the repairman. If it can’t be repaired, I refuse to buy a new vacuum until the end of January. I WILL NOT GO BACK TO WAL-MART until after the holidays!

The demise of my bagless vacuum (I would advise NOT buying one of those gadgets) brought an abrupt end to my domestic chores. I wasn’t heartbroken, but I was hungry so I fixed dinner and sat down to eat and watch a Golden Girls rerun. And the phone rang. And I answered. And this little valley girl started prattling on.

“Ah, like, could I speak to Billee?”

“Ah, like, this is BJ.” Telemarketer. I knew it.

Pause, then: “CouldIspeaktoBillee?”

“You ARE!”

“Co-ool! ThisisBuffifromUofI. LikeI’vegotsomegreatstufftotellya.Like, do you still live at------?”

Sigh: “Yes.”

“DoyougettoIowaCityoften?Awesome.Doyoufudipeiowaawkeyes?”

“What?”

“Do you follow the Hawkeyes? Ohmanwe’relike, WOW, goingtotheRoseBowlpoiwBowl.”

“Good-bye, Buffi from U of I.” Click!

I’ve gotta find the 800 number and get myself off the telemarketing lists. Unlike my dear mother who called a 900 number to remove her name and talked to an adult sex line--not once, but three times!--I’ll search out the 800 number! Or, what the hell, maybe I’ll try the 900 number myself.

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