Every now and then I like to go to Walmart. It's a form of masochism, but it hurts a little less than whipping myself. Just a little.The other day I gave in to temptation and checked out the nearest Wally Mart. Right away, I remembered why I'm a Target girl. From the dingy floors to the dank stench to that freaky smiley face, everything about the store made me want to take a long, hot bath. There were a few surprises - a cute bowl, a decent pair of shoes - but most of it was lackluster.
When I went to check out, I took an item out of my cart and set it aside because I'd changed my mind about buying it. Before I could say anything to the cashier, she hollered, "Could you give that to me now so that I don't have to walk around and get it myself and put it back where you found it?" I went to explain that I was going to do just that, but before I could say anything she said, "Now, please!" Um, OK.
Then, the woman behind me in line began to gush over Miss Dub, commenting on her elastic-banded Robeez shoes. "What cute Indian shoes," she said, which is probably culturally insensitive and totally weird but not my point. Hearing this the cashier said, "Lift up one of those Indian shoes so I can see it" ... since it was blocked by the debit card machine and her neck was apparently incapable of turning. I lifted up Miss Dub's shoe so she could see one, to which she responded, "What's the point of those? I don't get it." I just stared blankly.
Finally my total rang up on the debit machine, but before I could pay the cashier directed me to the screen. "It's a survey. You have to say if I was friendly or not to you, ma'am. Hurry up. Pick an answer." Of course, I wanted to say, "NO!" but she insisted on watching me complete the survey so I settled for, "Ignore."
And I dare you to find someone who prefers Walmart over Target.
Clearly Walmart knows their customer service is lacking. So does the rest of the world. Just read this.
But maybe it's just me. Maybe it has to do with a car accident I got into in a Walmart parking lot seven years ago. Yes, it was technically my fault, but the guy who hit me was cruising through the lot at 40 mph and ultimately paid my bills. And the stop signs in the lot didn't coordinate with the curbs or lane intersections, prompting the cops to say, "Stupid Walmart! We're out here every day for an accident."
But the best part is that after my car stopped spinning following the impact, I was jolted by another thud - the wreck had propelled me into a parked car. And who do it belong to? A sweet, old Walmart greeter, who I could tell prides himself on customer service in a sea of angry employees.
Maybe the whole ordeal prompted him to get a job at Target. Let's hope. It's much less dangerous. Oh, and it doesn't smell like mildew.
What's your worst Walmart story?
