Jeepers Creepers Meepers

Yesterday, I was not having a good day, so when I left the house to run errands, I was ready to pick fights with people. I got my first opportunity at Wal-mart. Big surprise. I had to take back an outfit that I'd bought for the baby. The tag said 18 months, and it looked right on the hanger, along with another one of the same brand but different color. I'd taken them home and washed them like I always do, and viola, out comes the darker one looking like it might fit my dog (the baby was bigger than the dog when he was born, for crap's sake). So there I am with my receipt and the outfit in a bag, for ten friggin' minutes because the cue was six people long. Finally, it's my turn. The woman checks my receipt and is most of the way done with the return when I mention that I washed it. She stops mid-money-count and looks at me like my head just opened and instead of brains she's seeing a big-screen TV. Hey lady, WTF? She says they're not supposed to do returns on merchandise that's been washed. I posed an obvious question: how am I supposed to know if it will fit BEFORE it's washed? She says it doesn't matter, they can't do returns for washed merchandise because you never know if people wash things correctly. WHAT? Okay, this is absurd. Since she was pretty much finished anyway, she gave me my money back (it was four whole freakin' dollars). But to reinforce her point, she says that most places won't take back washed merchandise. So I'm thinkin', Fuck You, sweetheart.

Needless to say, I stuffed my money back in my wallet and stomped off. Not like I was in the mood to be gracious. But I'm there, and I need to pick up some things for my best friend, so I head into the store. The whole 10 feet, I'm swearing up and down to myself that this is the last, LAST, GODDAMN FUCKING LAST time I will ever spend money at this capitalist fucking whore house. And then I saw it.

A pallet, yes a whole effing pallet, of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, and for $15. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was planning to get it from Amazon or Powell's, for about $18 w/o shipping, and I was okay with that. (I bought the fifth book for nearly full price at Barnes & Noble on the day it came out, and I bought another copy for my kid, Michael). So I'm thinking this is WAY too good of a deal to pass up. But I've just sworn a blood oath and the life of my second-born child that I will never buy another thing at Wal-mart again. After I buy whatever it was I was going to buy for Missy. What was I there for again?

Standing there, basking in the glow of a WHOLE PALLET of the book I've been waiting on for about two years, I start to wonder if maybe it's too good to be true. I pick up a copy, and it feels real enough. I check to make sure there are words inside it. There are, and miracle of miracles, they aren't in Yiddish or some ancient African dialect. I hold my copy and look around, wondering if anyone noticed that I've got the definite look of someone about to make a purchase, and not sixty seconds ago I looked like I might be packing TNT under my jacket. Nobody is eyeing me strangely, nobody seems to care that I have a gigantic kid's book in my hand. So what the heck. I'm through the check-out line in a matter of moments.

Now what's the moral of this little story? For me, probably no blood oaths. And I should probably have something to eat before I leave the house.