Sam I Am. Not.

Dear Sam,

I know you are dead but I know you can hear me. I'm writing to file a complaint about your evil conglomeration. See, the wife and I needed an odd assortment of things last night and so we voted to spend "Date Night Friday" in one of your stores. (I know, I know--there is almost nothing more romantic than spending time with you and your associates. I treat the wife like a queen.) To be honest, I try to avoid your circus of a store for a variety of reasons; but, at times, convenience, price and laziness take over my being and I find myself entering the place of falling prices and crabby, underpaid workers.

I needed several over-sized poster frames, tampons, coffee creamer, dog treats, socks, wall fasteners, thumb tacks and Dove Dark Chocolate (of which I am very dismayed to say once again there was none--just a sad, lonely space on the shelf where they should have been). The wife needed some gardening items. We could have run to several different stores. We could have gone to Tar-shay. We could have gone home.

But, you--you, Dear Sam--have all those things under one roof, so I caved. It wasn't hard. 

I left the wife in the garden center and I went to the bowels of consumerism. I found all my items with little effort, as I am well-versed at navigating your aisles. The prices were good, the expiration dates had not approached, the odd assortment of needed items easily secured.

And then, Dear Sam, it all went to hell in a hand basket & hence I'm writing you.

(I should say it all went to hell in a shopping cart.)

It was a busy Friday night at Wally World. Not as busy as "Social Security and Food Stamp Saturday," but busy, none-the-less. Many lines were open but each of them was full, most of which featured four or five full carts ahead of me. I found a line with only three carts and hopped on it. I noticed it was 7:00 pm. I perused the tabloids, studied the gift cards, stared at various types of gum. I was humming, calm, bored. I looked around and noticed no one was really getting anywhere fast in their check out lines, so I hunkered down.

About 7:10, I looked at the situation ahead of me. That's when I noticed that the three carts ahead of me--brimming over the top of each cart--actually belonged to one family. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. It was then I saw the lady waving a wad of newspaper and magazine pages in the cashier's face. Coupons. She had coupons. Not organized. Not cut out. Not in nice neat coupon holders. She had wads of papers. She was pulling this out or that out. I noticed she argued with the check out lady on a most frequent basis. It didn't look fun for anyone involved. I thought she'd eventually run out of coupons, so I stayed put. After all, a quick look around your paradise didn't suggest any other line would be faster.

I looked around. There were a hell of a lot of associates standing around, Sam. And, you know what they were doing? They were bitching about how much they hate their jobs, Sam. Usually, I would find this very unprofessional and very inappropriate. At this point, I wanted to cheer them on. Why they were all standing around why it was obvious that other lines needed to be opened, I do not know.  I didn't like that little posses of blue-vested associates were standing in the wide-open spaces in front of the registers, but I did want to cheer them on. I wanted to yell, "Run! I hate this place, too!"

At 7:19, I approached the edge of hysteria. I had been standing in the exact same place for 19 minutes and they were still on cart number one. I couldn't believe it. I was faced with a most difficult situation: I could (1) leave the cart and go home; (2) go to another line; (3) wait it out and enjoy the show. I looked at the cart and thought about my options. I guess I didn't need anything but the tampons and I could get them elsewhere....yet, I had already waited 19 minutes. Did I want to give up after all that time waiting, Sam? No. I chose number 2, knowing that this would probably not resolve one thing. You know how it goes, Sam--no line is faster. The grass is not greener in Aisle Two than in Aisle One.

Sam, at 7:25 PM I became a very ugly human being. I was frothing and taking your name in vain. At minute number 25, I was swearing about how much I hate you, your evil store, your pathetic service, your crushing of small town jobs. The only thing that kept me in that line is that I was stuck. I was between two patrons. The only thing that kept me from harming myself or others is that I could see that the lady in front of me was reaching in her purse to pay her bill.

Twenty Six minutes, Sam. Twenty Six minutes to reach the cashier. Do you think that's reasonable? No, of course you don't. But, you're dead so you can't help me. You're probably laughing in your grave.

Sam, I am going to fill out that stupid on-line "we value your opinion" survey that's listed on every receipt. I am going to be scathing in my review. I highly doubt I'll win one of the $1000 gift cards you promise on every receipt. I highly doubt you or your peeps will give a rat's ass about me standing in line for 26 minutes; after all, I'm the one who stood there. I'm the one that didn't walk out. I'm the fool that gave you my money.

Sam, I'm so disappointed at you and your circus. I'm so disappointed in me for giving you my business. Damn you for having such a variety of items at low prices.

And, Sam? I spit on you for not having Dove Dark Chocolate. You know, had you had that, I probably wouldn't fill out a survey. But, I'm filling out that survey and I'm including my disgust about you not having this essential product. How dare you have milk chocolate but not dark chocolate. That HAS to be some form of discrimination.

Shame on you, Sam. 

Disgusted (mostly at self but much at you),
Addi
Resident of the Addiverse