Monthly Archives: November 2012

Why I hate Walmart: Part infinity

I’m sure everyone is sick of hearing about my hatred of Walmart, but you guys. Our Walmart is SO AWFUL I can barely even describe it. It’s like if somebody took a regular Walmart and filled it only with people who have been featured on more than one episode of “Cops,” and then handed each of those people three dirty kids and a handful of stink bombs to let off in the aisles. On Black Friday eve last year, a woman reportedly pulled down her pants and took a crap outside of the front doors because she left the line and the employees wouldn’t give her spot back. I like to imagine Squanto looked down on that Thanksgiving scene from Heaven with pride.

Our Walmart was recently made into a Super Walmart, and now features a bunch of express lines. Which is awesome in theory, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve found myself standing in the express line holding one or two things while a lady with a trucker’s build and a Tweety Bird tattoo on her left boob takes 20 minutes to pile her cart full of frozen dinners and Schlitz cases onto the tiny ledge without the mountain toppling over. I’ve come to refer to this charade as Hillbilly Jenga.

If you’re reading this, Tweety, THE LEDGE IS SO SMALL BECAUSE IT’S ONLY MEANT FOR 10 ITEMS. By the way: The same principle applies to your PajamaJeans, and it’s time to size up.

What gives me the most rage is that this problem is totally avoidable. How hard is it to make it a policy for cashiers to only ring up the allotted number of items? I  want to apply for a job at Walmart just so I can ring up 10 of these peoples’ items, tell them, “THAT’S ALL YOU GET!” and send them back to the start of the line. And then I’d quit real fast before I got stuck cleaning their anger poop off the floor.

I got blisters on me fingers!

So, I wound up eating lunch at a butcher shop today. Our table was maybe 30 feet away from a blood-covered guy hacking away at a pig carcass, an image that is the perfect accompaniment to the smell of raw meat while you try to choke down a turkey sandwich. I didn’t touch the fries, since I sat there and watched the teenage deli manager look around for a pair of tongs, scratch his head, and then scoop them up out of the “grease-less frier” with his bare hands.

Kind of makes you want to go outside and French kiss the dirty sidewalks of your fancy urban city, DOESN’T IT?

And just in case this story has not meandered far enough down Hillbilly Lane for your liking, you should know that one person in my group came home with a brown lunch bag full of deer meat.

It’s getting harder and harder to remember what it was like living more than just a banjo solo away from Deliverance.

This is a really long story about my heart

Several years ago I was diagnosed with a rare heart condition called Inappropriate Sinus Tachycardia, or IST. I’m told that my heart is structurally sound and totally healthy, except for it has a really annoying habit of beating really fast sometimes. When I asked my doctor — a bigshot cardiac electrophysiologist — what causes it, he got all excited and was all, “We have no idea! Isn’t the human body amazing?”

Right, TELL THAT TO SOMEBODY WHO DOESN’T NEED A PACEMAKER AT THE AGE OF 24.

He actually assured me that I don’t need a pacemaker. Then he said a lot of technical crap that basically can be boiled down to this: Most people’s hearts save a rapid heartbeat for important things such as running fast or meeting Patrick Dempsey. My heart is like, “Oh, we’re crocheting a scarf? BETTER PICK UP THE PACE.”

If I ever meet Patrick Dempsey I’m pretty sure my heart will explode. Hopefully he picked up some medical skills on the Grey’s Anatomy set.

Mostly I’ve been able to manage my condition with beta blockers, but it always bothered me that I have to take the same meds as my 74-year-old grandma. So I got the blessing of my doctor to try and taper off the meds. It’s been six days now and I’m mostly doing fine, except for when I work out. Last night my heart was beating so fast during Ripped in 30 that I actually thought I was going to throw up, which is unacceptable because JILLIAN DOES NOT ALLOW BREAKS.

I kind of remembered my doctor saying IST can impact exercise, so I did a little Googlin’ and lo and behold, “Presenting symptoms are palpitations, fatigue, chest discomfort, exercise intolerance, and dizziness.”

First of all, where was this shit when I was in high school? It kills me to think of all the times I got in trouble for cutting gym when all along my heart was hiding a solid excuse for my laziness. As tempting as it is to take that news as a sign that it’s time to trade my gym shoes for a beer helmet, I think I’m going to try sticking it out for a few more weeks. And if I suddenly stop posting, I’ve either died from exercise intolerance or I’ve met Patrick Dempsey.

On Wednesdays we wear pink

Since I can’t get away from the 24/7 media coverage of David Petraeus’ dirty laundry, I’ve decided to embrace the fact that it’s kind of funny that behind closed doors, the director of the CIA has basically been living the life of a 12-year-old girl. Therefore, I present:

Things we really need to know about PETRAEUSGATE 2012

  • Are Paula Broadwell’s official biography notes stored in a Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper?
  • Did Mr. Petraeus send his confidential memos via interoffice cootie catchers?
  • Was “bang the CIA Director” on Paula’s “jobs” list when she and the general played MASH together on the plane to Afghanistan?

I NEED DETAILS, CNN.

It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I don’t care

You may have noticed that my blog has sucked for the last four days or so, and there’s actually a reason for that – I’m lazy.

Oh what, you were expecting a GOOD reason? You’re one of those people who floss regularly and dust the top of the refrigerator, aren’t you? Quit judging me, put on some sweatpants, and cue up some Law and Order: SVU. You won’t look back.

The truth is, I have no idea why I’ve been extra lethargic lately. I rarely work overtime, I don’t have kids, and Dave and I have the social schedule of two bedridden senior citizens. Yet for some reason I could only muster the energy to exercise twice last week, I’ve already skipped this week’s Monday workout, and I’m on the eighth consecutive day of moving the “clean bathroom” alert on my phone to “tomorrow.” I kind of want to blame Daylight Saving Time*, since it’s basically dark here at 4:30 (we’re surrounded by mountains that block out the sun well before it actually sets). By the time 7 p.m. rolls around, I’m already in my pajamas and wondering how early I can go to bed without it being weird. Is 8 p.m. pushing it? Can I hold out until 8:30? Should I get a nightlight and ask for a bedtime story since I’m basically living the life of a toddler?

On the other hand, it might have something to do with the fact that I’d rather lounge on the couch and look for holiday-themed crafts on Pinterest than do anything productive.

Does Daylight Saving Time make you feel like a zombie? How do you fight it?

* STOP! GRAMMAR TIME! Many people mistakenly say Daylight Savings Time, which is incorrect – since we are describing the act of saving daylight, the phrase is singular, not plural: Daylight Saving Time. My friends hate it when I point this out every spring and fall, but apparently the state of California was annoyed enough to point it out on their website, so DEAL WITH IT YOU GUYS.

Phoning it in

I spent Saturday afternoon at Apple Hill with my family to celebrate my dad’s birthday. It snowed while we were there, so naturally I took a ton of photos with my parents’ camera and then I forgot to download them before coming back home. I guess you’ll just have to believe me when I tell you it was majestic as shit.

While we were there I bought homemade pumpkin butter, fresh pressed apple cider, honey habañero barbecue sauce, and roasted garlic dressing. Thanks to a series of unfortunate incidents involving the back door of the car, only the dressing made it home. At least the puddle of barbecue sauce we left in the REI parking lot smelled fantastic.

We rounded out the day with dinner at BJ’s. I haven’t been there since I was in college, and I was amused to see they started putting calorie counts on the menu. Because if they hadn’t done that, I would totally believe that their famous deep-dish cookies the size of a large pizza are an important part of my balanced diet.