The People of Walmart

I saw the parody of Jim Carey dancing to the song Chandeliers on SNL.

It was hilarious.

And when the song played on the radio on Monday morning I burst out laughing—I could not help but visualize the flailing and indelicacy of Carey’s motions.

Yesterday on The View each co-host expressed that they have difficulty conversing with actors and actresses (and sometime politicians) after having seen them (the actors and politicians) naked on the screen.

The cohosts find it difficult to delete the image of the revealed private body parts from their brain.

 Pictures often polute the mind.

Which is why my brain veered into an unintended direction when I heard that there was a backlash to Walmart selling fat girl costumes. Because several times a year for as many years as I have had an email account someone sends me a pictorial of The People of Walmart.

No one in the photos is thin.

Not even close.

I thought I do not think there is a single shopper at Walmart who needs a padded costume to look fat—the padding is already built in. Why would people spend money on a costume to look like themselves?

And then I was made aware of what the contoversy was really about—costumes for fat girls—in other words: plus size.

Oh.

Well that makes sense.

But I still cannot get the visual out of my mind.

Cash Crop

I pretend that I just happen to be in the kitchen when the program comes on.

I putter around to justify my presence.

But the reality is that I am not just listening; I am engaged.

   

I find his message affirming.

I find his message to often be enlightening.

His words are more in line with my philosophy than those with whom I am affiliated.

Because truth be told, I am a secret fan of Joel Osteen.

Fairly recently Osteen spoke of the parable of a farmer who had planted wheat only to discover that an enemy had sown weeds among his crop. But instead of destroying the weeds, the farmer allowed them to grow undisturbed. It was at harvest time, that the weeds were most easily identified and discarded. The crop then went to market as planned where it yielded profit.

The point of the parable was to demonstrate that weeds are ubiquitous—that there are those who will always try to ease in on your growth. There are those whose purpose is to lessen you. But the best recourse is to ignore and keep your focus. Because in the end, all is revealed—and only the worthy show their worth.

And that is what popped into my mind recently when someone looked straight at me and then turned a cold shoulder to ease me out. I thought Oh no you di-n’t with a finger waving in a Hispanic accent.

I thought Oh no--You cannot make me small. You cannot distract me from my purpose. I thought I You are nothing more than a weed.

 So I marched into the circle of conversation--- and stood my ground undaunted--with zero sign of affect.

Because I believe the parable to be true: At some point all weeds reveal their unworth and objective. One cannot allow others to dictate your path. And when the sickle inevitably falls, true crops yield reward and weeds decay as mulch.

Who says one cannot learn much from Sunday morning TV?

Women Are Crazy

I am not opposed to purple—if it is the paint color of a Victorian or a house somewhere tropical .

But I am opposed to purple—even as an accent color—if it is on an English Tudor.

Which is why I became crazed just a little tiny bit when I opened the tester for my soon to be restored/painted front door and noticed that it was not slate blue as the chip depicted, but mimeograph purple.

And so I drove up to the Sherwin William store to suggest to the salesman that an error had been made and request  that the correct color tester might be remade.

What I was met with was The computer does not make mistakes and then The paint always looks different in the container than when it is dry.

And so he dipped some paper into the sample and used the dryer to prove me wrong only to find that the paint when dry was an even  deeper shade of purple—not slate blue.

Yet the salesman still would not accept that there was an error and  quipped “well the color is off because it is such a small sample—if we make it up  in a quart it will be fine.”

I responded I have a hard time believing what you are saying is true since the color of all my other paint samples were true to the chip. But, if you can guarantee me that if you make up a quart of paint with that same formula and that it will no longer be purple, I would be willing to buy it.

So he made up the quart---and it was still purple.

The man said What color are you painting your stucco and trim?

Graphite gray for the trim and windows and very pale gray for the stucco I said.

The saleman snapped then your door should be red—that’s what people do.

I said I am not people.—and I  am not a red person.

He said isn’t there brick on your house? Then the door should be red.

I said there is also blue stone on my house which is why I want a slate blue door. I know you can color match—just color match me a quart of paint the color of the slate blue chip.

Annoyed, he got the mixologist who took out the purple and added more black resulting in the perfect (while still a bit off from the chip) slate blue hue of exterior paint.

And as I walked out of the door satisfied yet miffed  I was reminded of something George Carlin once said Women are crazy. Men are stupid. And the reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.

George Carlin was one smart man.

Hazards to Your Health

As we sat in the cart waiting for our turn to tee off, she said to me: I have decided to focus all my (athletic) attention on golf. My profession relies much too heavily on my specialized (manual )skills and physical mobility—I simply cannot afford to get hurt---And golf, as opposed to tennis or platform tennis, is a very safe sport.

I was in total agreement with her until 4 holes hence when I witnessed this same woman so completely  wiff a golf ball imbedded in a sad trap that she rose about a  foot up into the air like a cartoon character and then landed squarely on her buttocks.

Part of the reason the doctor prescribed walking instead of hardcore physical therapy for me was that it was his belief that walking was/ is the best exercise a person can do. The joints, heart, and musculature all receive a balanced workout. And the added benefit is that walking is easy to do, low cost and safe.

And I believed him on all counts---that is until I actually began walking.

Because I routinely trip on raised (or not raised) sidewalks. I have nearly been hit by people racing out of their driveways in their cars. I have nearly been hit by people in their cars who wave me on to walk and then change their minds midway. And my own distraction has lead me to whack my head on tree branches as well as nearly fall flat by accidentally stepping in unmarked wet cement.

Walking can be hazardous to your health.

Walking is not safe.

And after overcoming my momentary paralysis at witnessing a 5’ 7 woman soar upward gripping a hard swung 9 iron and landing with splayed sand which eventually compacted itself into every crevice of her body,  I ran over to see if she was okay.

She was—just her ego was bruised.

And the first words out of her mouth after assessing the peculiarity of the aforementioned event  were Who knew golf could be so dangerous?