Dollar Store Danger

First, I'd like to thank the blog gods, without whom none of this would be possible. Next, I want to thank my husband who has been so supportive of  my need to bitch to strangers. Thank you, honey! Oh, and I can't forget all the dumbasses who have given me endless blogging topics what with all their dumb ass antics. I love you all. Without you, there is no me.

I'm back now. Just having a little dream of blog fame. Seriously, though, I would like to thank all of my wonderful friends and readers who have given me awards and nominated me for The 2011 Bloggies. I am honored and deeply touched. I knew that I was going to nominate my favorite blogs, but it never even occurred to me that people would nominate me. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This is my new Stylish Blogger award from Jumble Mash:

and here's my Life Is Good award from Semi True Torystellar:


I will get to passing the awards on and their conditions later. Right now I have a promise to fulfill...the Dollar General story.

Last week, I promised to tell you the harrowing story of why I refuse to go to the dollar store on Friday mornings. Here goes. May my pain be your entertainment.

Follow me, if you will, to a cold Friday morning in the winter of 2008. Our antique washing machine (or was it the dryer? I forget) was on the fritz, again, so I had to venture out into the cold to wash, dry, and fold a week's worth of laundry for six people at my local laundromat. The one good thing about using the laundromat is that you can get it all done in one swoop. So, instead of taking a whole day to do laundry, you could be finished in roughly two hours. That's good shit.

This laundromat was located in a shopping center, some of you may refer to it as a strip mall, so in addition to laundry, you could have lunch at the Chinese carry-out, replenish your liquor cabinet, stock up on synthetic hair, buy a year's worth of unhealthy groceries for under $100, or peruse the inexpensive, low-quality wares of the Dollar General store.

There I was in the second stretch of the laundry games, drying my delicates at an unnaturally high temperature,  when I decided to take a short walk down to Dollar General. I had 56 minutes to kill. My fridge was already overflowing with cheap, unhealthy food. Of course, you already know that both my liquor cabinet and weave were tight, and greasy Chinese gives me the trots. Yes, Dollar General it was.

I was in there browsing, trying not to brush up against anything lest my clothing be covered in three month old dust. I briefly considered calling my husband to chit chat, but then I remembered he was asleep having just gotten in from work about three hours prior. No sooner had I put my phone back inside my coat pocket that I heard a commotion from the front of the store. There was a distinctly masculine voice yelling at someone. I couldn't understand what he was saying because, although I could tell it was male, the voice was muffled.

That's odd, I thought as I walked toward the front of the store like the stupid woman in the horror movie running from the killer in six inch stilettos. You know the one. You're screaming at the screen, "Bitch, take off the damn heels! He's right behind you!" But for all your helpful screaming, she leaves them on and trips over a log the size of a German Shepard and somehow, can't figure out how to get back up. I'm her now, walking my dumb ass toward the danger instead of away from it.

I get to the front and realize that the yelling is coming from the manager's office, the one cleverly concealed by a two-way mirror. Whomever thought of that one is a fucking genius. I would have never guessed that there was an office back there. You mean this isn't a regular mirror placed here for customer convenience in the baby care section? But I need to see myself as I shop for diapers and nursing pads. Whatever.

There's lots of movement and yelling going on in there now. It sounds like the manager is being attacked, but I still can't make out what the attacker is saying. I look toward the door and there is a guy in a ski mask kneeling and tying his shoe. Yes, folks, he was tying his shoe. That's how you ensure that you won't fall when your ass is being chased.

Think fast, Mrs. Hyde...the door is blocked by a possibly dangerous assailant...what do you do? Return to the rear of the store, of course. Get as far away from these thugs as possible and maybe they won't notice you. I walk back down the aisle and my heart is pounding in my chest. A man and a woman who apparently had the same idea, join me in the back. I remember that I have my cell phone right there in my right pocket. I can dial 911 while the criminals are occupied at the front! Then a little voice in my head said, "That's not a good idea. What if they hear you?" Right. I'll wait until they leave and then call.

A split second later, a split-fucking-second, the shoe-tying bandit rounded the corner, seemingly from nowhere, pointing a huge silver gun at us. "Everybody face down on the floor," he said, gesturing with the menacing weapon. We got our asses down on that floor but quick. He lingered a second too long, and in that moment, I thought sure he would shoot me in the back of my head.


No! I thought. I am not going to die like this on the dirty floor of the Dollar General. I am going to get up from here soon and I am going to get my clothes out of that god awful laundromat and I am going to pick my kids up from school. I am going to see my kids and husband again. I am going to talk to my sister again. I'm going to leave this place alive.

By the time my inner pep talk was over, they were gone. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that we were all still alive. The police were called and one man, who probably had warrants pending, made himself scarce real fast.

And now for the part that pissed me off.

While we waited for the police to arrive, my bossiness kicked into overdrive. I had worked at a bank for several years, so I knew what to do in case of a robbery. The manager was pretty shaken, she couldn't do much to help. I told everyone not to leave until the police arrived. I told them not to talk to each other about the description of the robbers, so their answers wouldn't influence the memory of the others. And would somebody puh-lease get this female off-duty police officer who's having a nervous breakdown a drink of water and a chair?

Listen, I understand that the woman was traumatized. I understand that she'd thought her life was in danger. Her life probably flashed before her eyes and all that. But....BUT doesn't this bitch get paid for this shit? More than that, isn't this bitch trained specifically to handle dangerous situations? I didn't expect her to whip out her nine millimeter and get to capping, but I damn sure didn't expect her to bawl like a fucking toddler. Anyone who carries a semi-automatic weapon around on a regular basis should not be a blubbering fool under pressure. All the take-charge shit I was doing, she was supposed to be doing. Why wasn't that bitch getting my ass a drink of water? If ever there was a bitch in the wrong fucking profession, it was she, and don't think I didn't tell her that shit, either.

To ease your minds, I want you to know that I wasn't mean to her. I made somebody bring her weeping ass a chair, didn't I? What I said to her was more like, "Honey, maybe you should think about a new career. The dangerous job you have now is, obviously, not for you." Her face flushed and wet, snot making a slimy path toward her mouth, she nodded and said, "You might be right."

Um...Ya think?