Yes, I’m venting. Yes, this is imaginary . . . well the phone-call part is anyway.
Damn you, Walmart!
Walmart: Thank you for calling Walmart. May I help you?
Me: Yes, I need to speak to the manager please.
W: This is the manager. May I help you?
Me.: Yes, I have an issue with your deli department.
W: Ok, what seems to be the problem.
Me: Yes, I had spoken with your deli manager and placed an order for an 8-piece fried chicken. I stopped by to pick it up today and it wasn’t ready. I was told I’d have to wait 20 minutes.
W: I’m sorry that this happened ma’am. Is there something that we could do to improve your experience here at Walmart?
Me: I’m not sure because this isn’t the first time this has happened.
W: It isn’t?
Me: No. The last four times I’ve stopped to pick up fried chicken it wasn’t ready.
W: And you had called in an order?
Me: I placed my order in person! I remember it specifically because I was ordering a cake for my kid’s birthday . . .
Me: And I spoke with your deli manager . . .
Me: And I explained to her that on days that I had too much shit to do, to please have an 8-piece fried chicken waiting for me.
Me: I mean, there is NEVER any chicken at your deli counter. I see the empty spaces for it but no.fricking.chicken. So me, being a planner (cuz I’m a planner!) took it upon myself to pre-order my chicken. Ya know, to cut out any confusion and frustration on both our parts.
W: But ma’am, you didn’t schedule a date to pick up your order.
Me: Yes I did.
W: And what day was that?
Me: On the day that I have too much shit to do.
W: Ma’am, that is not a day.
Me: It most certainly is.
W: Ma’am (sigh), how is my deli manager supposed to know the exact day that you will be in to pick up a fried chicken?
Me: Because.I.told.her.the.day. The day I have too much shit to do.
Another uncomfortabe silence.
Me: Ya know, maybe we could resolve this. Maybe, just maybe you could start keeping fried chicken in your deli counter. Maybe in that section that is labeled “8-piece Fried Chicken only $6.99!”
W: Ma’am, we do but . .. .
Me: No you don’t. Everytime I go in there it is empty. EMPTY! The only thing you have left is that lemon-garlic-rotissierie crap. Do you really think a two-year-old will eat that?
W: Ma’am . . . .
Me: I mean, all I’m asking for is that you actually keep fried chicken in your deli counter. Is that to much to ask for?
W: Are you currently taking any medications?
Me: I mean, how do you expect me to work all day, go to Girl Scout meetings, soccer practices, science fairs, and still have time to cook a meal?
W: Would you mind giving me your name for the restraining order?
Me: Don’t even get me started on the laundry! It’s ridiculous.
W: Or perhaps a physical description?
Me: This whole thing reeks of false advertising. And, and, and . . .Walmart is against families having dinner together. Yes, that’s what it is!
W: Or maybe an address I can send the authorities to?
Me: Well, Mr. Manager! You and Walmart can stay the hell away from my family! Good day, Sir!