School started last Wednesday for 75% of my kids. That’s three out of four for those of you keeping count. Jake (my oldest and only male offspring) moves to The 8th Grade Center, Jenna starts middle school at The 6th & 7th Grade Center, and Emma, starting Pre-K, goes to school for the first-time-in-her-life. Even if it is for only a half day which isn’t really HALF the day per se since she’s actually only out of my hair the house for 2.4 hours.

Not that I did the math.
Six weeks ago.

Emma is in the afternoon Pre-K class with all the other children whose parents are still in their pajamas working on their first Mocha Frappe when the morning class starts.

I don’t mean me, of course.

That time of day I’m still in bed asleep.

So that day, after Jake and Jenna were long gone on their respective buses, I dragged myself out of bed and quickly remembered that I needed to buy Emma some tennis shoes. By noon. See, none of the seven pairs of sandals and flip flops she wore this summer were going to work out on the playground because according to her teacher children who wear sandals to Pre-K spend their recess dumping woodchips out of them. I’m not sure if she meant out of necessity or as punishment and I wasn’t about to ask. Teachers intimidate me.

We went shopping and had the shoes taken care of in record time. But unfortunately, Emma bears the curse of having really fat feet so her new shoes were just a smidge too snug when worn with athletic socks, so I decided to run into Wal-Mart on the way home and buy her some Cuffed White Bobby Socks which are quite a bit thinner than athletic socks.

ON A SIDE NOTE: At this point I feel compelled to say that I don’t need any grief for admitting to being a Wal-Mart addict shopper because 1. Our Wal-Mart is less than a mile from our house whilst Our Target is FOUR miles away. and 2. Our Wal-Mart is a small store NOT a Supercenter. It’s quiet and clean and the cashiers and greeters are very friendly and besides I’m still working the steps of my program and also I’m looking for a sponsor so e-mail me if you’re interested. Although do hurry since I will be going Wal-Mart-free cold turkey as of October 15 when they are closing Ours due to the fact that they are building two (TWO!) new Supercenters to replace my small one, the closest being FIVE miles away. Which is the suckage because of the comparatively longish drive and the fact that I don’t do Supercenters.

Moving on.

I made a quick stop in, bought Emma’s socks, and we were home by 11:30. Aces! After I fed her lunch and gave her a spit bath I grabbed a pair of the new socks. As I placed one brand new Ultra Low-Cut Ankle Athletic Sock on her right foot I realized my error. No amount of cramming was getting that foot in that sock into that shoe. Crap. Back to Wal-Mart to make an exchange.

I found a decent parking space and entered Wal-Mart with the erroneous socks. As the pneumatic doors slid open I was greeted by . . . silence. No greeter on duty. I probably should have taken this as an omen of things to come, but instead I shrugged it off, figuring the scheduled greeter must have gotten sick or died and I don’t mean that in a bad way, our greeters are just really old.

I walked over to the Return-Exchange Desk and took my place in line behind a young mother and her two children. Who were in line behind three other returner-exchangers. With only one Return-Exchange Processing Cashier on duty. I’m not kidding. This. is. my. hell.

At first I was patient. I flipped through a fantasy football magazine (the only reading material in a twenty yard radius). I chewed a piece of gum. I checked the voicemail on my the cell phone and sent a text message to my husband to tell him what it’s like in hell. I gave the lone refund cashier the look. You know, the look that says “Are ya gunna call for some backup already?” She didn’t call for backup.

About this time, Young Mother’s two children started getting really bored. And really bratty. They started running circles around Young Mother and smacking each other until Little Girl was crying. Young Mother put them both in her shopping cart. They commenced whining and playing a variation of “Are We There Yet?” that shall be called “Is It Our Turn Next?”. To occupy them, Young Mother sang the ABCs twenty times off key, while I checked the sales flyer for specials on handguns.

Twenty long, miserable, eardrumbreaking, homicidal minutes later, it was Young Mother’s turn. She stepped to the counter and said hello to uberslowcluelesscashier who reached out to take Young Mother’s items for return. It was only then that I noticed what she had waited in line all that time to give back to Wal-Mart.

Three.
Pocket.
Folders.

Which at this time of the year are in huge supply at the Wal-Mart Everyday Low Price of — y’all ready for this? — TEN. CENTS. EACH.

Her refund jingled.

If only I had noticed sooner, I would have given her a dollar and let her keep the folders for her place in line. And some peace and quiet while I waited.

The end.