I always end up shopping a few times a week, usually at the grocery store and/or Walmart. Yes, Walmart. I’m condemning entire generations of children in Rajikistan or Indirijab to a life of servitude every time I even walk in the place. I know. But I’m not gonna’ lie, I still shop there. Come on, have you seen the prices on their fake diamond encrusted dog collars? So worth it.
Anyway, I do try to bring my own canvas bags though. Exploitation of child labor may not hit home, but the environment? This is California, after all. But if you peeked into my pantry you would think that I never remembered them. There are at least a gazillion plastic bags wadded up and stuffed together, hanging from hooks on the wall.
Am I the only one drowning in a sea of these things? There has got to be a better way. I could wallpaper my entire house in that filmy white stuff. Not even my two dogs can keep up with the abundance of bags I’ve got in there. Seriously, I’m thinking of inviting the guy at the recycling center over for Thanksgiving.
Which all leads me to wonder, does my spinach really have to be separated from my bananas? Really? Like in a completely different bag? I keep waiting for the day I’m checking out and someone whips out a bag big enough to wrap around my 40 lbs. of dogfood.
You know they’d do it. Twice, ‘cause it’s heavy.
Even Walmart acknowledges that their plastic bag usage is out of hand. See: Walmart to Stop Giving Out Bags, But Will Customers Buy Reusables? | News10.net | Sacramento, California | News
Having never worked at Walmart (can you feel the restraint I’m showing here?) I can only assume baggers are trained to separate my soap from my blueberries. Oh how I do love asking them to mix it all together, just to see the reaction. (Maybe I spend too much time alone).
I’ve had the young baggers who smile and act appreciative (this is pretty rare), and the steady plodders who ignore me as though they are deaf, proceeding as trained. Don’t let that pair of socks rub up against the bleach! Double bag it!
I’ve had the guys who stare at me with dead eyes and silently comply (I always wonder if I’ll be seeing them later, ya’ know, like hiding in my backseat with a knife), and the bitter women who just snort and say they aren’t allowed. Not allowed? Okaaay. Is there a siren that goes off in the event of an infraction?
My favorites though are the crusty old ladies (what I wouldn’t give for a smoke-filled day’s worth of their stories) who shrug their shoulders and make a face, shaking their head in disapproval the whole time. Whatever you say, young lady. Go ahead, put that poison next to your food, see if I care. Your mother must be so ashamed. You’re probably not even wearing clean underwear.
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that the packaging on the Tide and Lysol are thick enough to keep them from actually mixing with my juice (which is also locked down in heavy duty plastic).
I can be pretty neurotic, but this one’s a no-brainer. Pack it all together. The day I start worrying about my oranges accidentally bumping up against the box my toilet scrubbers come in, is the day I hang it up. Right next to the giant nest of bags.