I Am a Cart Thief

I really try to act like I am not better than the people at Walmart. Sure, their clothes don’t always fit, personal hygiene is not the highest priority, and the men folk have no issue with spitting cat calls at anything that resembles a female (even if their main woman is nearby), but the Walmart shoppers and I, tragically, have one thing in common—we both shop at Walmart. I could sit here and write a defending statement telling you all that I only go there to buy cat litter, but, really, what difference does it make?

In the early years, I used logic to convince myself. I was not overweight. I bathed regularly. My buttcrack was nestled happily inside my underwear, which was inside my pants and away from the public eye. Therefore, I was better. And yet, I wasn’t treated any different. If anything, people picked on me more because I was buying brand name Tidy Cats instead of the Walmart brand Cat Tidy. Because I thought I was so much better than all of them. Which I did. But I didn’t admit that to myself right away.

Then I turned to denial. I only went there because they had cheaper prices than the grocery store. Did Safeway think I was stupid? I wasn’t about to pay fifteen dollars for a thirty pound bag of cat litter when I could get it for six bucks somewhere else. And that was for the good brand! The brand that would hide my dear little cat’s odors and make his litter box virtually vanish into thin air. No, I was smarter than the system. And if I was smart, I was better than the people of Walmart, right?

Wrong. It was still the same syllogism. The people who shop at Walmart are no good. I shop at Walmart. Therefore, I am no good.

But being in college has taught me a lesson or two about pride and frugality. I go to Walmart because my cat deserves the best. Just not if it’s over six bucks. And it turns out, like all the other Walmart shoppers, I have flaws as well.

Whenever I begin my shopping experience at Walmart, I always go in through the Garden center, because I don’t like to be greeted. Frankly, I think that job is a waste of human flesh, and certainly a waste of my time. I don’t like conversing with customers—and I certainly don’t like conversing with people when I’m a customer. Also, I can get my own cart unstuck from the tangled mess a lot faster than the elderly lady who is inevitably employed as the universal Walmart Greeter. The parking lot makes me depressed enough. I don’t need my day to be ruined by watching a frail old lady duke it out with the shopping carts. I’m stronger than she is. She and I are equidistant from the carts. It’s much easier for me to hulk smash my way through the shopping carts, but the Walmart Greeter will not have it. It is her sole responsibility to get me a cart and she will get me a cart, goddammit. So whenever I offer, she shoots me a look of disdain, as though I doubt the seriousness of her task (which I do) and hobbles off to begin another battle all so I can get two bags of cat litter. I’ve heard that they have taken to having the cart all ready when you walk through the door, but this is America. Let me do things on my own.

Although I like to boast my super strength, it only comes to me in times of severe anger. I’m never angry at Walmart, because I think most of the customers carry concealed weapons of some sort. The point is: I can’t carry two thirty-pound bags of cat litter without a cart, so I have to find some way past the greeter. However, Walmart hates me because I am an aloof bitch who used to think she was better than everyone there so they roped off the carts. During Superbowl season, they surround the carts with cardboard towers filled with potato chips. Either way, they are only accessible by way of the greeter, so I must find another way to get my shopping done.

The first time I figured out that the carts were isolated, I backed away slowly into the abyss of the store to rethink my strategy. I could go back into the parking lot and take an abandoned one. I could steal it from the greeter when she’s not looking. I could—that was when I stumbled over an abandoned cart. It was empty, save a three pack of Chapstick. I shrugged, tossed the Chapstick out and wheeled it over to the pet section. Upon my retreat, I heard someone bellow, “Ma, the cart’s up ‘n’ dis’ppeared on us!”

Thus, I became the cart thief. Sometimes, it’s easy; I’ll find abandoned carts and take them under my wing. Sometimes, I have to wait until backs are turned before I make my move. Sometimes, I take certain items with me to save on shopping time; thus, lessening my time spent in Walmart. Sometimes, I do that without meaning to because I’m about to get caught. It’s low and inconsiderate, rude and uncalled for. But I realized that it makes me no better than the people who shop at Walmart. And I’m okay with that. Of course, the people who shop at Walmart aren’t all bad. But if they’re dumb enough to leave their cart in the middle of the aisle, then they have just allowed me to have a good day, a way to transport cat litter, and a less-stinky bathroom.

And that’s how I roll at Walmart.

~ToriannaLamba

Portland Loves Everybody...Except Californians.

So, these past two weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of visiting my sister in the great Pacific Northwest. We spent a lot of our vacation time in Portland, Oregon, which I’ve heard much about (admittedly, mostly from my sister). She has been fervently attempting to convince me to move up to Washington with her, but I really do love Cali too much to leave it. Or maybe I love the sun/tan skin/the beach/rain for a specific period of time per year. Besides, with all those other starving artists, The Burn Book would have a lot of competition, and I don’t compete well.

So on my very first trip to Portland, I am greeted by a gigantic sign demanding, “Keep Portland Weird.” They have no reason to make those demands, for weirdness is in high supply. I guess it just serves as a threat to us “Normies.” I never considered walking around barefoot and not wearing deodorant to be weird. Unsanitary, maybe. But that’s why I am frowned upon in this society of hipsters, hippies, and hobos.

Don’t get me wrong—I had a great time visiting Stumptown. I love not having to pay sales tax. I also love street fairs and wonderful food. I love strange boutiques, and I am a rather huge fan of wacky facial hair. I do not love being a complete outsider, however. One might think not fitting in would be most welcome in Portland, which it is—unless that oddity is being a Californian.

My sister had been advising me from day one to disguise my California residency. I scoffed. Being a Californian is one of the things I am most proud of, besides being able to type with my toes. I didn’t really think it would be that obvious that I was from the Golden State. Indeed, I was mistaken.

I have what is known as “Cali Swag,” and I, unfortunately, do not know how to turn it off.

Before I even got to Portland, my cover was blown. I got a sweet deal on a flight direct from SFO to PDX on Virgin America, which is a very nice (and hip!) airline. I should’ve known from that alone. Every passenger kept commenting on how ready they were to go home. Clearly, I was the only one visiting Oregon on her own volition. When asked why I was travelling to Portland, I mumbled, “Family” indistinctly and turned away before they could ask me questions about the gas mileage on my car. The flight attendants all wore ripped skinny jeans, tight graphic tees, and red lipstick. Each of them had a different hairstyle reminiscent of a ‘20s pinup girl, and they referred back to me with different eccentric pet names. Of course, the airline does not have anything specific to do with the demographic of the location in which I was flying to. It was my fellow passengers who smelled me out. I chose a window seat, for several reasons—namely because I am easily impressed with aerial views. I expected to have my nose glued to the window the entire time, with my headphones jammed in my ear blasting some classic bay area slaps, getting all that hyphy shit out of my system before arriving in the land where women are respected and people talk slow in songs. That is how I would have spent my flight had I been arriving in any other destination. However, I was going to Portland, where the people are completely friendly and all up in your biz. It’s totally not a bad thing, but it’s quite a change from the unfriendly world of my beloved bay area. I talked to so many strangers on that flight, it would have made my mother cry. They have absolutely no qualms about touching you to get your attention—regardless of if you are a surly Asian girl blasting E-40 facing the window away from all other passengers—and interrupting your present activities to talk about what kind of sweatshirt you are wearing. It’s an Element sweatshirt. Yes, it is a boy’s sweatshirt, and I bought it for me, and it is totally against the vendor’s intention for a girl to wear it. And yes, it is super awesome of me to partake in such a rebellion.

The first real giveaway was my vernacular. There are only a few places where the term “hella” is socially acceptable. Guess which place isn’t one? Regina George once said, “Stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen. It’s not going to happen!” “Fetch” would happen in Portland. Because Regina George said it wouldn’t. I also don’t abbreviate every adjective in every sentence that I ever speak. Yeah, I know my shirt is totes adorbs but how hard is it to speak the whole adverbial phrase? I thought they were making up words. Which I suppose they were, if freedom of abbreviation counts as word inventing. It’s just the ‘guage of Hipster, where e-thing is abbreves and has a “Mc” in front. And then whenever I tried to describe something, I felt everyone giving me this face like, “You talk too much.” McOuch.

Second: my demeanor towards the weather. It was mostly cloudy and 62 degrees when I landed in Portland. Luckily, that was practically identical to San Francisco, where I had flown out of. I skipped out of the plane in a sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots (they wouldn’t fucking fit in my carry-on), so I thought I would fit in pretty well. I was more than a little taken aback when I saw people trouncing around in shorts and tank tops. It was raining. But, what did I expect, right? Oh, and apparently the people there are immune to rain. During my first week, it was a sort of constant misty drizzle in which it was impossible to see unless you squinted. Nobody else had to squint—they all had fake glasses to protect their sensitive eyes. Magical hipster glasses—that’s what they are! The kind that don’t fog in the rain but repel water droplets better than Harry Potter’s when they were enchanted by Hermione. So I guess the fake glasses have another purpose besides making you look deep.

Third: I was the fool taking pictures of everyone. I suppose that’s a dead giveaway anywhere you go; however, I’m Tori. My camera is constantly in my purse, because I like to be prepared when funny things happen. My purse is also a miniature version of my car, and we all know that my car is the Turtle Car. But I noticed as I snapped picture after picture that they all had this smug, complacent expression whilst looking at my camera. That was when I realized they had no qualms whatsoever about being photographed. Naturally, that made me not want to photograph them. So, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I was the fool taking spy pictures of everyone. Take that, conceited bastards.

These are the top three among many distinguishing factors that singled me out for ridicule behind my sun-kissed back from the lofty hipsters of Portland. I’m sure they would have loved to say these things to my face after I refused to purchase just one of their trifecta of homemade jewelry, hand-crafted soaps, and deep surrealist paintings, but rudeness is too mainstream. And FYI, oh weird hipsters: I did buy a homemade toe ring. And it broke when one of my four cousins ran over my foot on her way to play in the ocean. Cheap ass hipster jewelry. Obviously it wasn’t made for California terrain. ;)

~ToriannaLamba