SSA Ep. # 28: I Don't Work At Wal-mart, but I Play One On TV

I live in a small (but quickly growing) town that is extremely close to a much larger town.  Because I'm originally from a town that's about as small as the town in which I am currently living, large towns are too big for me.  Most people would consider the much larger town near my small town to be...well, still kind of smallish.  I think of it as a big city...a metropolis, if you will.  I've only been downtown a couple of times, and even then, someone else was driving.  It's because I'm scared of the metropolis...even if the metropolis is really just a large town.

Now, I was either in middle school or high school when something remarkable happened in my small hometown.  It was an event that changed that small town forever.  What was this remarkable event? 

We got a Super Wal-mart.

Never again would we have to make trips to multiple stores.  Wal-mart now had Wal-marty things AND grocieries.  It changed my life, I tell you.  And I knew it was because I was from a small town.  Only in small towns would people get excited about the opening of a Super Wal-mart, right?

Only...a few months ago, in this large town/metropolis that is near the small town where I currently reside, a new Super Wal-mart opened.  And people went crazy.  Apparently, Wal-mart is a big deal whether you live in a small town or a big town. 

I like Wal-mart.  I like it a lot.  I like it because I can get a week's worth of groceries, a birthday present for my niece, a hair dryer, a pair of jeans, and a turkey baster--all in the same place.   If I can find a short check-out lane, I can get in and out in about half an hour.  I like it because it's comfortable.  I know the layout of the store so well that I don't even have to plan my shopping route.  (Other people do that, too, right?  You plot out the best path from the shampoo aisle to the produce aisle, taking account the possible traffic you might find in women's clothing and jewelry as compared to the open aisle next to electronics...right?)  I like it also because I know I'm going to spend less money on all my random purchases, because let's face it--nothing says "CHEAP" like Wal-mart.  The thing I have to be careful about is getting distracted by shiny objects and buying things I don't really need.  But if I'm careful and stick to my list, I'm safe. 

Wal-mart and I are good buddies.  BFFs.  We get along just great.  The only problem I really have with Wal-mart is that I've heard they don't treat their employees very well.  I've had a lot of friends who have worked at Wal-mart who have confirmed this.  The way they spoke, Wal-mart was like the darkest, deepest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

Shrug.

I've never worked at Wal-mart.  Never.

I've been mistaken for a Wal-mart worker more times than I can count.

The first time it happened, I was standing in the deodorant aisle, looking for...well, deodorant.  This older middle aged woman came up to me and asked me where the tampons were.  My first thought was to say, "Are you sure someone your age still needs them?" but instead I just smiled and said I wasn't sure.  She got a all moody and huffed away, which only confirmed my original suspicion that this woman was long past her need for tampons.  Then I realized what had just occurred.  She was asking me where something was because she thought I worked there.

This was the first of many incidents.  There was the lady who asked me if I had any more shirts in her size.  There was the gentleman who asked me to do a price check for him.  There was the other gentleman who wanted me to help him find something.  When I told him I didn't work there, he asked to speak with my manager. 

...?

Yeah.  I'm not sure what it is about me that screams "I WORK AT WAL-MART"...because I don't.  I mean, I can understand how some people might assume I work at Target since I accidently wear red almost every time I go there, but seriously.  I do not have one of those "How can I help you today?" blue vests.  I don't have a name tag with a smiley face on it. 

Maybe I just look like someone who's desperately trying to claw her way out of the deepest, darkest, most depressing pit of evil imaginable ever.

...only I don't get an employee discount.

SAA Ep. #27: Cooking with Fail!

Tim Hawkins is probably my favorite comedian.  He's got this fabulous routine about biscuits being so good they'll make you want to slap your mama.

My grandmother, now she was the best cook in the world.  Don't argue with me on this, because if you think your grandmother is/was a better cook, then you're wrong.  My grandmother was the best. 

I mean, I love green beans.  I love them raw or straight out of the can, no salt added, whatever.  If there is such a thing as a green bean connoisseur, then I am one.  Oh, but my grandmother was an artist.  She could do things with green beans that would make me want to slap my mama. 

Only, yeah, Tim Hawkins was right.  I don't really want to slap my mama, and no amount of culinary genius could drive me to such a point.  I love my mama.  She's the greatest mama in the world.  I am, and have always been, and will always be a mama's girl.  Nothing in the world is going to change that.  So don't get me wrong when I say that my mama did NOT inherit her mom's cooking gene.

Her canned green beans were still good when reheated in the microwave of evil (guess who's been watching too much Megamind?).  Since I spent most of my life being overweight, it's safe to say that my mom's cooking wasn't bad.  It was good, but not anything...ANYTHING...like my grandmother's cooking.

Apparently, my grandmother's cooking gene skips a generation, because my older sister seems to have inherited it.  I have...well...not.  And the way I see it, she's got four kids and a hubby to feed, so she's welcome to the cooking gene.  I don't have as much need for it since I've just got myself to feed.

The thing of it is, I've inherited my mom's cooking ability, only it's worse.  It's much, much worse.  Take the most evil cooking you can think of...and multiply it by six.  That's my cooking.

Sure, I can manage a few basic things.  I can hard boil an egg...usually.  I can make a decent bowl of pasta (with jarred pasta sauce).  There are even some dishes I can make that might make you want to slap your mama.  My guacamole is so amazing that it has been dubbed rockamole (and no, you can't have the recipe, because I don't use one...what I do with avocados, limes, onions, and cilantro is magic.  MAGIC I TELL YOU!!!).  I'm also pretty good at making those giant cookie cakes.  My most recent success was this masterpiece that had my friends raving (both over the appearance and taste):

Yes.  It's a cookie.  A cookie that looks like a pizza.  Go ahead, say it.  I'm awesome.

But I'll let you in on a little secret.  I don't make my own cookie dough.  It's store bought (so is the icing).  I won't tell you which brand of cookie dough I use because I'm mean.  I'm just going to say that I've tried many different kinds of cookie dough, and the kind I use is by far the tastiest.  It's also the cheapest I've found anywhere.  There's a little hint, but that's all I'm giving you.

So yeah, I can cook enough to keep myself happy.  I can even impress people occasionally.  I even went on a spaghetti squash kick for a while and surprised myself by making squash edible.  Squash typically doesn't make me want to slap my mama.  My mama knows what squash used to do to me.  I was never a picky eater--never.  I'd eat yucky broccoli or whatever gross stuff she put in front of me.  But I drew the line at squash.  I couldn't eat the stuff.  Mama tried to make me. 

One of the earliest memories I have is mama trying to force me to eat a forkful of squash.  I was three or four.  I was wearing a pink sweatshirt, or maybe she was.  I remember that pink sweatshirt vividly, though.  I remember it so well because as my mama was forcing squash down my throat, I vomited it back up all over that pink sweatshirt.  Pink and yellow.  Sweatshirt and squash.  Emblazoned in my memory forever and ever. 

Mama never made me eat squash again.

But I figured out that I like squash now...or I did...until I ate so much spaghetti squash that I hated it again.  That's the thing with me.  I usually get on a food kick and eat so much of one certain kind of food that I end up hating it.  That's the extent of my success with food.

Add to the success my many fails--like the time I blew up the microwave trying to cook an egg without cracking it first (doh!), or the time I got all ambitious and tried to make perogies and used the wrong kind of flour so that my dough was hard, salty, and completely inedible, or the time that I forgot to put sugar in my cobbler (surprisingly, it was still kinda tasty--like eating biscuits with jam--but I still fail).  More than once, I've accidentally poured pasta down the sink.  One time I did the same thing with a pot of boiled potatoes I was preparing to mash--on Thanksgiving Day, which meant I had to run to the store for more potatoes at the last minute.

I have issues scrambling eggs (they never look how they're supposed to look).  I forget to cut the fat off chicken and wonder why it tastes all rubbery.  I put cilantro in pretty much everything (seriously, I could write a whole blog about my love of cilantro, and maybe I will someday).  My idea of a good bowl of soup is something that has Campbell's written on the label (insert joke about any soup I eat being Campbell's soup...cuz that's my last name, too). 

The family I "nanny" for has learned that they can trust me with only the most basic of food preparations.  If I'm ever to make dinner, the usual procedure is: "We have plenty of leftovers in the fridge for you to microwave."  Sometimes I'm asked to nuke some chicken nuggets or stick a pre-made pizza in the oven, but they know me.  I am not to be trusted in the kitchen.

But it's okay, because green beans still taste great when I eat them with a fork...straight out of the can because I'm too lazy to get a bowl.

And come to think of it, it's kind of a relief to know that most of the things I cook aren't going to give anyone cause to inflict bodily harm upon their own mother.