Little details from your day
Posted: Mon Feb 04, 2008 7:35 am
Last night, we wound up at Wal-Mart.
It gets worse. It was the Oakland Wal-Mart.
You see, a few months ago, my mother purchased some Rubbermaid wares which were equipped with inferior designs. This seems like an anal retentive complaint, but I have to agree: they were truly shitty products. Anyway, she called their 1-800 phone number to comment/complain and they sent her three $10 off Rubbermaid product coupons.
Since I had just moved, my mom sent them on to me to use. They had the expiration date of February 7th on them and I admittedly tucked them away and forgot about them until a few days ago, when I said to Ben, "we should take care of these this weekend."
I'd tried several times to use these certificates elsewhere but the stores that I went either didn't carry that brand or only had three different Rubbermaid items on the shelves, none of which were useful to me. I needed storage bins! Storage bins for my pants, for under the bed! Storage bins to block catastrophic IKEA bed collapse, should um...sudden movement weaken the frail, minimalist balsa frame.
"Hey, Ben," I said, "we should stop at Target on our way home from the city, after the Super Bowl party."
"Yeah. It closes at 9, so we should have plenty of time."
The Giants won, we were all sitting around for far too long talking about the game and politics and HDTV and obliviously eating nachos and suddenly...it was nearly 9 PM. We had missed our targeted* time (*pun unintentional). This meant that we were destined to cross the Bay Bridge only to descend into the lowly sulfurous caverns and demon dwellings of Hell and head to the Oakland Wal-Mart.
We thought that perhaps it wouldn't be all that terrible. Perhaps everyone would still be out getting drunk or at parties getting drunk or shooting their guns in the air in celebration or shooting each other, but no! Nothing so fortunate for us.
Rolling past the In N' Out, Panda Express and into the W-M parking lot, I noticed a lone man in his rusty black hoopty at the darkened edge of the parking lot either smoking crack or enjoying an In N' Out burger very secretively. Perhaps both. In the central parking lot, people were actually hanging out. WHO THE FUCK GOES TO THE GHETTO WAL-MART TO HANG OUT AT NIGHT IN THE PARKING LOT ON SUPER BOWL SUNDAY?!!?
The first thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that there were no carts inside. There was one sort of mating with a childseat-equipped cart, and it took the efforts of three people to separate the carts.
The second thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that you don't smile at people, say excuse me or sorry or anything remotely polite, don't make eye contact unless necessary, and your eyes must constantly reflect the empty purgatory that engulfs your existence on this cold, heartless earth.
The third thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that about 25% of the items have prices on or near them and of those, 50% have the correct label/price.
Don't use the restrooms, don't browse, don't lurk in the aisles, if you trip or roll over a kid just keep heading forward like it never happened. Don't look back.
I have worked at Ghetto Target in Washington D.C. before, where most of the dressing room doors were hanging from one hinge and some insane person would regularly smear shit on all of the toilet seats. I have seen a multitude of retail stores that would chill most of your souls in my time. However, Ghetto Wal-Mart is like visiting one of Dante's levels of Hell.
That having been stated, I needed to use these coupons and I had to face The Beast or Walton.
Ben and I found two adjacent cashier lanes and I handed him one of the certificates and a box worth $10ish. Because one can only use one coupon per transaction, I would have to split my stuff up into two receipts.
The cashier didn't seem to understand, nor did she understand that I only had 6 items total. She charged me for 11, somehow.
I explain to her that I have 2 items on the first transaction; 4 on the second. I should not be paying $40 but about $10 after the coupons and taxes are accounted for. She starts getting flustered and the line is building. The Hispanic man right behind me who looks like he just got done working swing shift at the asbestos factory looks like he is about to whip out a gun to move up in the line. I offer to go to customer service to get this taken care of but the cashier instead calls up a manager to refund me...$7. Fuck it. I'm just going to go to customer service.
After about 5 minutes of explaining the situation to two managerial employees, including having to physically partition the items of the transactions as they were supposed to occur in order to dissect the monstrous girth of receipt(s) I have at this point, I'm refunded at least close to what I was supposed to be given back. It's within $4, but I don't care because I FUCKING HELL I WANT TO GET OUT OF THERE AND GO HOME AND NEVER RETURN TO THE REAL WORLD AGAIN AND ESPECIALLY NEVER WANT TO GO TO THE DREAD GHETTO WAL-MART EVER AGAIN. I don't think I even want to go near the Ghetto Wal-Mart again, which is a shame because I like In N' Out burgers.
I feel dead right now. I feel as though tiny flecks of my being were torn from me and are currently wondering the cosmos, bewildered and lost. It's so cold...
It gets worse. It was the Oakland Wal-Mart.
You see, a few months ago, my mother purchased some Rubbermaid wares which were equipped with inferior designs. This seems like an anal retentive complaint, but I have to agree: they were truly shitty products. Anyway, she called their 1-800 phone number to comment/complain and they sent her three $10 off Rubbermaid product coupons.
Since I had just moved, my mom sent them on to me to use. They had the expiration date of February 7th on them and I admittedly tucked them away and forgot about them until a few days ago, when I said to Ben, "we should take care of these this weekend."
I'd tried several times to use these certificates elsewhere but the stores that I went either didn't carry that brand or only had three different Rubbermaid items on the shelves, none of which were useful to me. I needed storage bins! Storage bins for my pants, for under the bed! Storage bins to block catastrophic IKEA bed collapse, should um...sudden movement weaken the frail, minimalist balsa frame.
"Hey, Ben," I said, "we should stop at Target on our way home from the city, after the Super Bowl party."
"Yeah. It closes at 9, so we should have plenty of time."
The Giants won, we were all sitting around for far too long talking about the game and politics and HDTV and obliviously eating nachos and suddenly...it was nearly 9 PM. We had missed our targeted* time (*pun unintentional). This meant that we were destined to cross the Bay Bridge only to descend into the lowly sulfurous caverns and demon dwellings of Hell and head to the Oakland Wal-Mart.
We thought that perhaps it wouldn't be all that terrible. Perhaps everyone would still be out getting drunk or at parties getting drunk or shooting their guns in the air in celebration or shooting each other, but no! Nothing so fortunate for us.
Rolling past the In N' Out, Panda Express and into the W-M parking lot, I noticed a lone man in his rusty black hoopty at the darkened edge of the parking lot either smoking crack or enjoying an In N' Out burger very secretively. Perhaps both. In the central parking lot, people were actually hanging out. WHO THE FUCK GOES TO THE GHETTO WAL-MART TO HANG OUT AT NIGHT IN THE PARKING LOT ON SUPER BOWL SUNDAY?!!?
The first thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that there were no carts inside. There was one sort of mating with a childseat-equipped cart, and it took the efforts of three people to separate the carts.
The second thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that you don't smile at people, say excuse me or sorry or anything remotely polite, don't make eye contact unless necessary, and your eyes must constantly reflect the empty purgatory that engulfs your existence on this cold, heartless earth.
The third thing about Ghetto Wal-Mart is that about 25% of the items have prices on or near them and of those, 50% have the correct label/price.
Don't use the restrooms, don't browse, don't lurk in the aisles, if you trip or roll over a kid just keep heading forward like it never happened. Don't look back.
I have worked at Ghetto Target in Washington D.C. before, where most of the dressing room doors were hanging from one hinge and some insane person would regularly smear shit on all of the toilet seats. I have seen a multitude of retail stores that would chill most of your souls in my time. However, Ghetto Wal-Mart is like visiting one of Dante's levels of Hell.
That having been stated, I needed to use these coupons and I had to face The Beast or Walton.
Ben and I found two adjacent cashier lanes and I handed him one of the certificates and a box worth $10ish. Because one can only use one coupon per transaction, I would have to split my stuff up into two receipts.
The cashier didn't seem to understand, nor did she understand that I only had 6 items total. She charged me for 11, somehow.
I explain to her that I have 2 items on the first transaction; 4 on the second. I should not be paying $40 but about $10 after the coupons and taxes are accounted for. She starts getting flustered and the line is building. The Hispanic man right behind me who looks like he just got done working swing shift at the asbestos factory looks like he is about to whip out a gun to move up in the line. I offer to go to customer service to get this taken care of but the cashier instead calls up a manager to refund me...$7. Fuck it. I'm just going to go to customer service.
After about 5 minutes of explaining the situation to two managerial employees, including having to physically partition the items of the transactions as they were supposed to occur in order to dissect the monstrous girth of receipt(s) I have at this point, I'm refunded at least close to what I was supposed to be given back. It's within $4, but I don't care because I FUCKING HELL I WANT TO GET OUT OF THERE AND GO HOME AND NEVER RETURN TO THE REAL WORLD AGAIN AND ESPECIALLY NEVER WANT TO GO TO THE DREAD GHETTO WAL-MART EVER AGAIN. I don't think I even want to go near the Ghetto Wal-Mart again, which is a shame because I like In N' Out burgers.
I feel dead right now. I feel as though tiny flecks of my being were torn from me and are currently wondering the cosmos, bewildered and lost. It's so cold...
Incredible.