Containment

I've gone lawn crazy the last week I've been at my sister's house. Determined to get her lawn whipped into shape, I've been working away at during the day. I feel like a necromancer, actually, since I brought this rusty old lawnmower the previous owners left at the house roaring back to life through the judicious application of new gas, oil, and a fresh spark plug.


But all this yard work has carried with it an unfortunate price: trips to Wal-Mart. Since my sister lives in the western Salt Lake City developments, Wal-Mart is the only reasonably close place to buy needed supplies. Yes, I'm making excuses for going there, but the key point in all this is that I've been to Wal-Mart more in the last week than I have in the last year. And after experiencing it so many times first-hand in such a compact time-frame, I've decided that Wal-Mart needs designated "befuddlement zones" for its customers.

I simply cannot emphasize the depth of my visceral loathing for people who amble down the aisles, only to suddenly stop, turn their cart sideways to block all traffic, and then stare around them in a daze as they try to recall what they were looking for, where it is located, who they are, and what the meaning of life is. I don't understand this Wal-Mart amnesia, this bizarre stupefaction that paralyzes nearly every shopper there. I'm picturing a roped off area in the middle of the store where people can wander around aimlessly, gaping off into the distance harmlessly, all while decidedly not clogging up the aisles. It brings a smile to my face when I think of these lost fools bumping into each other with vacant looks on their faces.