This month I’m happy to report that several things have been bugging me lately.
And who better to complain to than my loyal readers?
After all, you’ve listened over the years as I’ve complained about things such as kindergarten homework, teachers that hold erasers hostage, and making dinner for my kids.
So sit back and relax while I vent about the weird tea I spotted at work, the absurd thing I learned that Gen Z is clueless about, and the crazy people who cruise around my Walmart store.
Someone left this bag of tea in the kitchen at work.
I’m not surprised it was donated to the workplace. After all, it’s Titantic Tea.
In other words, it’s Death Tea.
Yup, it’s tea consumed by hundreds of people before their dream vacation turned into a nightmare, their boat sank, and either they died or their friends and family died.
Who thinks, “You know what? Let’s name our tea ‘Titanic Tea’ so that everyone thinks of a sinking ship and people dying in frigid water when they drink it.”
I’d donate the Death Tea to work, too.
(And, no, I’m not consuming the Death Tea while at work. That place is already deadly enough!)
Speaking of work, I hired a 22-year-old in December. He graduated from a Top 25 university last May.
He did something that floored me recently.
Part of his job entails sending reminder letters to research participants. We also call and text people, all in an effort to reach everyone in as many ways as possible.
I’ll give him a pass that he didn’t know how to address a letter or where to put the stamp. I’ve been around Gen Z enough to know that that knowledge is lacking from their wheelhouses.
But what blew my mind was when I told him to pop outside and put the letters in the mailbox and HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT THAT WAS.
Yup, my Gen Z employee didn’t know what a USPS mailbox was. The big, blue mailbox on sidewalks all across America.
The big, blue mailboxes he’s surely seen on many streets his whole life growing up in a suburb.
The big, blue mailboxes that he walked past on his way to classes a zillion times.
When I trained him on what is a mailbox (I can’t believe I just wrote that sentence BTW), he said, “Oh, that’s what that is.”
There are two places to get groceries in my town: a fancy boutique grocery store ($$$) or Walmart.
It’s not hard to guess where this Experienced Bad Mom shops for groceries: Walmart.
I’m there piling my cart every Saturday morning (sans when we have hockey tournaments and I’m there Sunday night at 7pm, sigh.)
But lately I’ve been vexxed by the ladies I call the Walmart Walkers.
These two ladies think our local Walmart is their personal walking track. Why they don’t go to the mall with the all the mall walkers is beyond my comprehension.
Nope, the Walmart Walkers cruise the outer rim of the store at a fast clip.
Arms pumping, feet pounding the concrete, chit chat escaping their lips, these two have either side-swipped me or cut off me and my cart 36 times in the last three months.
AND THEY ARE NOT APOLOGETIC.
Ladies, last time I checked, Walmart was for shopping, not prancercise.
A llittle humility and good old fashioned kindness will go a long way the next time you see me turning my cart down an aisle, girls. Or else I’m gonna report you to the Walmart Customer Service counter.
I’m not sure anyone is available at the Customer Service counter.
Or that they can do anything about the prancercisers.
Maybe I’ll offer the Walmart Walkers a cup of Titantic Tea the next time they zoom past?