In Defense of Wal Mart...

11:16 AM Elizabeth Seckman 2 Comments

It’s cool to hate Wal Mart. Well, cool in the sense that comfortable shoes and mini vans are ‘all that’. Wal Mart is the fat, ugly, beastly bully that everybody bad mouths. And by bully, I mean…
1.       Wal Mart uses virtual bull dozers and shoves out the competition to make way for their gigantic super store and…
2.       Wal Mart twists people’s arms and forces them to spend millions of dollars a week in their gigantic super store…
But me?

I LOOOOVE Wal Mart. I suppose my little black capitalistic heart is warmed by exceptional values, the fawning customer service, and absolute convenience of the place.

Values? No merchants can beat them. Because of course, if they can, they’ll match them. I don’t pay full price for milk as long as there’s a sale anywhere in the Northern Panhandle. I just ask the cashier to match it. Cha ching, every store in a 50 mile radius just set up shop in my hometown super store. 

Customer Service? With the exception of opened videos and software, I have never been denied a refund or an exchange. Nowhere is it easier to do returns. After Christmas, I’ll even return my Target stuff to Wal Mart…that multi line, nearly every other cash register is a return spot? Genius.  Messed up internet order? They’ll fix it, even if the screw up might have been mine.

                *As opposed to say…Canvas People online. I ordered a canvas of my boys in the mountains; I received a group of smiling strangers at the beach. Three phone calls, an email, and a bad online review later and I’m still getting, “Are you sure you didn’t download the wrong picture?” Hmmm….I do have that rather large file of random strangers in my photo gallery from my stalker days….

Convenience? Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Ah, be still my beating heart. 

Who needs that, you ask? Who shops at 3 am? 

Well, there was this one time GI Joe flushed himself down our bathtub drain in pursuit of a storm trooper…and of course they got stuck in a death struggle in the drain trap and until they were either rescued or evacked…no one could shower. So here we were, 2 am Friday night, freshly home from a football game and our little players needed to wash the filth and stink from their bodies. And as bad luck enjoys a good pile on, my oldest son needed to be back up by 6 am for an egghead competition of some sort. Oh, and by the way…did I remember to get him new khakis and dress shoes? 

So, off  I went….off to Wal Mart in the middle of the night for a drain snake, liquid plumber, khakis, dress shoes, aspirin, chocolate, and wine coolers. And as I stood there looking over my items on that slow moving conveyor belt, I couldn’t help but sigh and think, ‘thank you God for Wal Mart.’

2 comments:

My Grandma's Hands

10:34 AM Elizabeth Seckman 5 Comments

My grandmother taught me many things. Almost every interaction was a life lesson. Even my wedding card came with a note of guidance. It was who she was, the matriarch and teacher, the gentle scolder, the do right prodder. I can honestly say, most all of my conversations will include at some point the words, "my grandma told me".

Even when she wasn't intentionally spewing wisdom, she made me a wee bit wiser.

My grandfather passed away in April 1993. He and my grandma were more than husband and wife; they were the best of buddies. They were Bud and Rose. Even their names were intertwined. Everyone worried about my grandmother adjusting and surviving to life on her own. Then in April 1994, almost to the day of my grandfather's death, my first son was born.

My grandma arrived at the hospital near tears. She told me Caleb was God's way of reminding her good things still happen in life, even among the April showers. She stood over the little plastic hospital bassinet and smiled. I told her she should hold him. She grinned at me and scooped him up. As she patted and cooed she said something that taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life. She said, "I AM going to hold this baby. Normally I don't. Babies are so beautiful and perfect and my old hands just look like twisted, bony crone's claws against their new skin."

Seriously? She thought those hands were ugly? In a stunned instant, I thought of the countless times those hands tended boo boos, gave hugs, or amazingly peeled the skin from a potato without an ounce of flesh lost. They were my grandma's hands. They were beautiful and perfect, even in their imperfection. I gave HER a scolding. She argued her point a bit...her hands were calloused. Bull. Those were just a testimony to her strength. She threw hay bales and hoed a garden as well as any man. Her nails were always broken and she never had them manicured. They weren't very lady like. Not lady like? My grandma’s hands could knit lace finer than any belle from the deepest south.

 She lost the argument. She had to admit that she didn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.

 I smugly felt like the student had become the teacher.

 At least until I hit the post partum wall of blah. I found that even though the scales said I was back to pre baby weight, it was all shifted and so NOT the pre baby same. I was depressed. I made the mistake of whining to my grandmother.  She reminded me that we are most beautiful in our imperfections, are we not?

 TouchĂ© savvy lady, touchĂ©. I will certainly miss her ALWAYS besting me.

5 comments:

Keeping love alive...the smelly truth

10:34 AM Elizabeth Seckman 8 Comments

My family stunk. Literally. 

That sort of admission may shock you, but hey, I believe in being candid. 

And honestly, our stench was sending me to a really dark place.

It all started with my love affair with George. I had my eye on him for years, lusted after his shiny white skin and his promises to make my life easier. I moved him into the basement and thought nothing in my life was more beautiful. I could sit for hours in front of him, staring into the open window of his soul as he tumbled and tossed my dirty laundry.

Ahh, George…with his fabulous spin till nearly dry cycle and his ability to handle any load without a fuss…he was perfection and I loved him. 

Sadly, this summer I noticed our clothes were starting to stink. Freshly washed in the finest detergents, rinsed in top of the line softeners, even line dried…a funky smell remained.

I was crushed. 

George let me down. And I won’t lie. It hurt.

This Saturday, as I stuffed him with muddy football gear, I marveled at his ability to be flexible and adjust to the awkward load. I ran a hand along his cool exterior and I wished beyond all wishes that we could rekindle that initial joy, that first love perfection. 

My husband scoffed at George and said with disgust, “Watch that damn thing last 30 years.”
His meaning was clear. He wished George dead. 

I wished he didn’t smell bad, but to wish him to the trash pile…lonely and scared…I couldn’t ask for that.
So, I did my research. I looked online and asked around. I scrubbed his tub and ran an empty load of bleach then one with vinegar (I didn’t mix together…didn't want a vapor cloud…we were out to save the love, not make a suicide pact!). I promised to give him the time he needed with his door open between washes; a little ‘me time’ for the guy who spends most of his days and nights washing and spinning. 

Today? I’m proud to admit he smells better. This morning’s laundry carries the sweet smell of fabric softener, not the foul smell of mold. 

I guess my love with George is like any other love…you can’t take it for granted and sometimes you have to invest a little energy in keeping things fresh.

Elizabeth <3’s George. BFF’s forever, or until one of our motors wear out.

8 comments:

My Side of the Story

6:55 PM Elizabeth Seckman 3 Comments

My son wrote a school essay about him and his dad and their frightful near death experience at the beach. In said story, I ‘chickened out’ and waved like a goof from the beach as they nearly drowned.
Here’s my side of the story.
Caleb wrote… “It was the final day of our annual week long family trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We planned on spending the day … on the beach.  Unfortunately, there was a tropical storm coming up from Bermuda, so the beach was red flagged. The red flag warns people of rough water. Only surfers and the Seckmans from West Virginia were undaunted.”
This is partially true. The male Seckmans were undaunted. The lone female in this brood of males said straight up…when the surfers arrive, I stay on shore.
This, according to Caleb, is chickening out. I call it sanity. Conner (the youngest) and I built sand castles. Carter and Cole quickly abandoned the ocean and joined us on shore because the water was getting deeper, the waves higher. I knew I had to force some sense into Caleb and Chad.
For them, I braved the water yelling “Get out!” as I walked. Chad kept pretending he couldn’t hear, drawing me in deeper and deeper till I was almost in over my head in the turbulent surf that tossed me back and forth. I told them they were insane and left.  I made it to shore fast…rolling on a wicked wave that ground me against the ocean floor. I emerged on my hands and knees with enough sand in my body to plant flowers and enough salt water in my sinuses to nourish them for a month.
Did they rush to my side? Did they offer a hand, a beach towel? No. They laughed. And Chad laughed the loudest. I yelled out to them AGAIN to get out of the water. It was getting rougher by the second. Caleb and Chad scoffed. I was a worry wart.
Caleb recalls what happened next… “Dad and I toughed it out till a high wave bent on destruction crashed down upon us. The wave broke over our heads and sucked us under the water. When I emerged, I realized I was also caught in a rip tide and being pulled out to sea. I searched frantically for my father. Luckily, he had a boogie board with him so he could easily stay afloat. He swam over to me and we shared the board.  We tried to get my mom’s attention by yelling and waving. She just smiled and waved back.
Now as I recall, after I picked the gallon of sand out of my ear, I heard Chad yell, “Bring us a boogie board.”  
HAH! Like I’d fall for that! Get me back in the water? Watch me roll back to shore like a beached baby whale? I THINK NOT.
I don’t recall smiling and waving…well I might have…but only with a finger.  
Caleb and Chad tell and retell this story of their bravery and how I stood on shore and failed to help. To them it’s a story of survival. For me it’s the story of insane men doing insane things and the wise woman who tried to steer them straight, but got herself buns over tin cup for the effort.
It’s a classic tale. And if you’re a woman, one you probably know well. 

3 comments:

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...