Thursday, September 19, 2013

A Trip to Wal-Mart, As Told By Jennifer Lawrence GIFs

I had to go to Wal-Mart the other day, and it was bad, you guys. It was so bad.

See what happened was, I married this guy with a lot of stuff.

I'm not 100% sure what all the stuff is. There are a lot of crates and tubs and duffel bags. I know most of it is military and gun-related, because my husband is a member of a white nationalist militia.


Kidding, kidding. Calm down. He's in the Army.

Anyway, he has tons and tons of shit, and while I'm not one of those vicious controlling bitches who wants to erase all traces of her husband's personality from the home, our apartment has become more storage space than living space. It's seriously time for some of this stuff to GTFO.

Rather than rent a storage space, Husbo and I went to his parents' house in a nearby small town, where they keep, behind their house, brooding menacingly in a copse of trees, The Shed.

The Shed is fucking horrible. Every once in a while, when you're in The Shed, you get a "Look at this stuff / Isn't it neat?" moment. Occasionally I see something and I'm like OMG PLEASE LET ME KEEP THIS. (By which I mean sell it for a shitload of money on Etsy.)


But mostly when you're in the shed you just sneeze and wish there were a Dumpster within throwing distance.

Being a Southern couple in their 60s, my in-laws are not tub-and-crate people. They're "Put it in The Shed" people. Shit got thrown in The Shed for ten or fifteen years and promptly forgotten about.

Husbo inherited his pack-rat tendencies from his mother and his organizational tendencies from somewhere else. My mother-in-law is the nicest person in the world, but throwing shit away is not one of her life skills, and neither is Appropriate Storage Solutions, so after about five minutes in The Shed, as a person who loves throwing shit away and hates clutter, I start to hulk out.


My husband is an only child. There is no sibling to guilt trip into helping. So he rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning out The Shed, so he can refill it with all the shit I want out of our apartment.

Not long into the cleaning adventure, Husbo reached the layer between the stuff and the floor, which is comprised of a dazzling array of roach crap. So he asked me to go to Wal-Mart for Raid.

When I realized I got to leave the 127-degree shit-packed Shed while still being somehow useful, inside I felt like this.


But I played it cool. "Sure, babe, I'll run to Wal-Mart for ya."


This is where our adventure begins. And because the adventure involves me, it starts with getting lost.

Here is a fun fact about me: I cannot remember how to get places. I'm a good driver, but when it comes to sense of direction, I'm just... I'm lost.


I have driven from my in-laws' to Wal-Mart more times than I can count (yeah, I just admitted that) but my husband takes some fancy-pants back way every time, and if relied upon to recall it at gunpoint I would just have to shrug and get shot.


The town is small and semi-rural so the iPhone navigation system is useless. I was on my own. But eventually, after about ten minutes, I found the Wal-Mart, which was a mile and a half away.

I'm great.

So I go in, and I'm looking for Raid. That's what Husbo wants. Raid roach killer. Sounds easy enough.


I go to where they keep the paper plates and garbage bags and shit, since that seems about right. On the way there, I grab some turlet paper and milk, since we need those things.

I don't see the Raid, so I ask a Helpful Wal-Mart Employee where the Raid is. She directs me to the Lawn & Garden section, which is at literally the opposite end of the store. I am at one far, far, remote corner, and the Raid is supposedly at exactly the other. So I'm like


But I trek over there with my turlet paper and milk and I look around. For a long time. They have all kinds of bug-killing shit, but no Raid. And I need fucking Raid.

So I walk around for about five more minutes. I find everything but a Helpful Wal-Mart Employee. And then I spot one, and it's like I'm a bird-watcher who finally spotted a lump-footed bungler or whatever the fuck. So I get to her and I'm like yo where's the Raid and she's like it's over there by the paper plates and I'm like I was just back there. All the fucking way back there.


So she says, "Follow me." And we have one of those awkward, silent employee-following experiences. I hate those.

It was around this time that I realized something. I needed to poop.

See, I am on a zero carb diet, and it's really great and wonderful and it works and it's super healthy, but sometimes I go to CVS and buy a bag of sugar-free chocolate-covered toffee. Why? BECAUSE SATAN EXISTS, okay? I'm fucking sorry. But they're so delicious I can't stop myself.


The problem with this sugar-free chocolate-covered toffee is it has a profound laxative effect. First you get a feeling in your stomach like a new and exciting creature has moved into it and is growling at you. Then you poop in a manner that should be prohibited by law.


Once you rid your body of it, you're like, "Never again." But then a few days later, you realize:


So I'm following this girl to the Raid, and I start to feel Russell Stover's Revenge coming on. Strong. But I have to get the Raid. And get out of Wal-Mart. Because I am not a dude. I'm certainly not a military dude. I can't just shit in a public restroom stall like it's no big deal.

So we get back to the cleaning section, where I had originally been, and the Helpful Wal-Mart Employee takes me EXACTLY ONE AISLE FROM WHERE I STARTED and points to the Raid.

I grab four cans of unscented roach killer and start hauling ass to the registers. Because about now, I'm starting to have that feeling, you know what I'm talking, where a turlet is literally all you can think about. Just getting to a turlet. Nothing else matters. Shame is gone. The sugar-free chocolate-covered toffee has taken over, and now life is different.

 
On the way to the register - and I swear I am not making this up - the original Helpful Wal-Mart Employee, the one who sent me to the Lawn & Garden section in the first place, sees me practically sprinting past her and says, "Did you find it okay?" And I'm like
 

But not really. THERE'S NO TIME. I just nod and keep sprinting.
 
The woman in front of me in line is buying ALL the things, and she is having trouble paying with a combination of an EBT card and a debit card. Brandi behind the register is throwing major attitude every which-a-way.
 
 
And I am dying. The world is about to end in my pants.
 
It's finally my turn. As I'm swiping the card, I'm asking Brandi if there is a bathroom.
 
"There's one right behind you, by the deli. It's only one stall because the big one in the back is broken."
 
And I'm like
 
 
Because I'm thinking a one-person bathroom where you lock the door and everyone has to wait outside while you unload. I grab my stuff, I run over there, I swing the door open... and I see that it is not at all a one-person bathroom, but one STALL with about four people standing just outside it waiting to pee.
 
 
I drive the mile and a half back to The Shed in a sort of agony. I give Husbo his Raid, and I briefly consider going inside to use the bathroom. But four adults live in that house and share one bathroom. I just... I don't think even this Level IV Shitmergency is enough to kill that kind of shame.
 
I look at my husband with real pain in my eyes. And he goes, "The candy?" And I go, "Baby, YES." And he goes, "Just go home. I'm gonna be a while anyway." And I'm like
 
 
I no longer even really care if he stores all his man-goods in our apartment. I mean, I do, but I'm being cool about it. Because a dude that rad, who lets you off the hook cleaning The Shed so you can go home and poop in comfort... he's a keeper.
 
And about that candy? This is the honest-to-God truth: I'm eating it RIGHT. NOW.
 
 


5 comments:

  1. This rules. Every single thing about it rules.

    ReplyDelete
  2. i'ma have to take a minute and re-think the "i'm a good driver" line. my memory of your driving skills does not contain sufficient evidence to support that claim.

    oh! unless by "good" you actually meant "geriatric and easily distracted." in which case we're golden.

    now if you'll excuse me, i have a date with reCaptcha to collect and confirm complete strangers' house address numbers. but also, questionable e-book transcriptions! go free labour!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I don't know who you are, but if you remember my driving as "geriatric and easily distracted," we probably hung out when I was smoking a lot of pot. Which means we probably had a GREAT time.

      You're doing a really good job with all the house address numbers. You keep that up. The world needs you to keep our Internet safe from robots.

      Delete
  3. I have never been so entertained by a blog, I shit you not. See what I did there?

    ReplyDelete