A Wal-Mart Adventure

I am in limbo, in a prison without walls, caught forever between two hells, and sliding rapidly towards my 19th nervous breakdown. I began this blog at the end of a hellacious week spent at my parents home. Why am I here yet again so soon after the last mind-boggling visit of two weeks ago? I'll try to answer that question as I lay here staring at the ceiling, still in my nightgown at 4PM, several valium coursing through my veins, and half a plate of brownies consumed. I would like to add even though my mothers main focus has been on my candy consumption lately, which is driving both of us up the wall, when she sees Paula Dean bake brownies, she races like a bat out of hell into the kitchen to start baking, and 45 minutes later slowly glides the plate of brownies under my nose.

Back to my answer, I am here cause it's preferrable to being in my own home which has become intolerable. My husband and I live in the lovely historic district of our city and there are some elderly eccentric women who are my neighbors. One in particular has become the bane of my existence and has raised her "snooping level" to new heights. For years this woman has circled my yard like a hawk, peering in my windows, and trying to get a glimpse of any wrongdoings. My husband and I have thought of many ways to stop this woman and finally decided to purchase a Twister game, place it in front of the picture window, get the Wesson oil out, a bottle of vodka, and a fake joint. And then, "Let the games begin..." Unfortunately the thought of my naked body is so frightening to myself that I had to abandon this plan. My new plan involves downloading monkey-mating ritual noises and placing them near an open window. Then turn up the volume!!! I know by the next morning, the rest of the biddies, would be wagging their tongues and calling me a fornicator. After a week of this and the pressure of getting ready to open Daphne's Cottage, I could no longer stand the look of agony and irritation on my husbands face, his many maddening quirks and strange personal habits, his endless questions, and imperial statements. I had to flee or I would be operating my boutique behind prison bars. I was beginning to have thoughts of where I was going to bury his body. A large hairball from my cat finally sent me over the edge and I began frantically packing my tiara, a dozen nightgowns, a pound of Reese peanutbutter cups, and some happy pills, and I headed to my mothers peaceful oasis. (Of course I tell myself it's a peaceful oasis everytime... but I must be delusional)

As usual the first 24 hours at my parents home is utter bliss. Mom and I have a ball spreading out all the new goodies for the boutique. We put on our nightgowns and jump in her king-sized bed, which is the most scrumptious, enticing, and most heavenly bed in the entire world. If I could be in that bed everyday, I'd be a happier person. I hope I die in that bed.

For dinner, she fixed all of my favorite southern delicasies (ALL FRIED). We model all the new handbags that have come in and try on the fabulous new jewelry. I also like to torture my mother and model skimpy trashy thongs so I can see her rolling on the floor in hysterics. I then take Pussilicious out of her cat village in my mothers closet where she tries in vain to hide from me. I like to torture her and my mother with whiny cat noises and off-color songs about body parts. My mother is a real lady but she cannot control herself and becomes hysterical with laughter and begs me to quit, while gasping and pleading. The 24 hours end and the fun-fest is over. The dookie begins to hit the fan. We make the fatal decision to go to the Wal-Mart!!!!!

There is no Target or crafts stores in her small town, so it's the only game in town. We were in a crafting mood and hoped to find something fascinating to work on. It didn't exist but there was plenty of excitement and "shock and awe." I try to avoid Wal-Mart at all costs because of an incident that happened several years ago when I was surrounded by a herd of massive Yankee women who were there to have their screaming brats photographed. Mom and I were cut off in the lingerie aisle and I began to hyperventilate and lost my ability to speak. Momma, becoming severlely alarmed, had to help me to the car. When I was finally able to speak, I uttered the words "Mom, I saw huge outlined va-j-jays in tight bicycle shorts!!" At this point my mom calls me "crazy-bitch" drops me in the parking lot and glides serenely to the car. I have not learned to live with the va-j-jay situation as it seems to be spreading over the civilized world. I do not understand how a woman can check her hair, makeup, teeth, and even her nose, but not her most prized possession, the look of her va-j-jay. Is it a new fashion statement, a mating ritual, I don't know. I do know these women must have some feeling of being uncomfortable in that region. My mother was highly concerned about using the word va-j-jay but I assured her that I learned the word from Oprah who uses the word at least once a week on her national TV show.

On this particular day at the Wal-Mart, obviously there were many redneck women sniffing out a mate. None of them seem to notice they were 80lbs overweight, missing a few teeth, had six inch roots, unwashed hair, severe purple eyeshadow, a ripped up NASCAR tanktop, made for a small child, that encased two of the largest, saggiest, deflated water balloons that I ever saw. A certain sector of women in the south only wear a bra on their wedding day and in their caskets. It was clear that most of these women had not consumed any food that day because their cracks were gnawing on their shorts. One of these women had what we hoped was a decorative birds nest sitting atop her crack. All of these women seemed to have flat butts but inexplicably acquire hundreds of dents and dimples that ripple like water on a lake with every step. The foot fashion is always a pair of dirty flip-flops that house black bottomed feet and long toenails that are yellowed and have chipped red toenail polish. Alot of these toes have their own decorative patch of hair. Most of these fashion Diva's have four or five barefoot childeren that are screaming and feature threads of mucous running down their noses. Many of them seem to become flatulent, especially when I come close. They get very excited when they see a Diva of my caliber.

There must be a husband or two wearing rebel yell hats, hiding in the hunting or fishing department, planning their next hog hunt, and savoring their only peaceful moment of the day. When I pass these men and they see what they would call "one of them fancy types" their tongues become lax and they are in danger of losing their cheek full of dip. There also seems to be a strange movement in their tattered blue jeans. These are the only men that terrify me. I envision them capturing me in a burlap sack and forcing me to do chores, butcher wild hogs, and bear many children, all the while living in a single wide mobile home with no electricity.

My mother is very sympathetic and compassionate towards these people and says they are doing the best they can and tells me that I am going to hell. After wild fits of laughter on my part, mom begins one of her many guilt trip campaigns and tells me that one day, I will return to the earth as one of these redneck people, and this is what I will deserve. She knows that I will go home, look in the mirror, and realize that I'm a terrible woman which will make me live at the foot of the cross for at least a day or two until my natural personality emerges again or my mother drags me to the Wal-Mart.

Back to the day in question, after wading through a sea of these people, enjoying their weekly entertainment, we head to the craft department where 9 out of 10 times there is always an ancient creature parked in the middle of the aisle preventing anyone from passing around. A bomb would not move her. On this particular day we have also brought along my Aunt. To torture her and my mother I hunt down the most vulgur, see-through, skimpiest underwear set and hang them from the front of the cart for all to see, but them. As usual, I know when we get to the front of the checkout line the clerk will hold them up for a price check as I have removed the tags. Another way I like to embarrass these two is to loudly speak in various foreign accents. I especially like to do this in upscale department stores and at fast food drive thrus. My favorite is to speak in tongues and pretend to be afflicted by Tourette's Syndrome. (Please forgive me Lord!!) My Aunt cannot control herself when I begin these self-entertainment sessions and is left helpless, bent-over, and unable to breathe. After years of this, my mother has learned to hold her laughter, pretend she doesn't know me, and slowly glide from the store with an imperial look on her face.

One of my most fondest memories was the day (which is a National Holiday for me) I discovered a remote controlled "Flatulence Machine" at the mall. I practically had to be carried out of the mall on a stretcher. I found this divine gift on Christmas Eve which was the perfect time because elderly relatives would be showing up for dinner that night. My first victims were my mother and my aunt on the way out of the mall. My mother if I recall correctly, ran out of the mall the second she saw the look in my eye and knew what was to come. My next victims were my elderly grandparents. I duct taped the machine under the chair that I knew my loud, know-it-all grandfather would be sitting in. With the remote control in my hands, like a precious jewel, I calmly waited. There are not too many lulls in conversation when my grandfather is around, so I had to be on my toes. The second a silent moment happened I pushed the button, which fired off the loudest longest trumpet blare one has ever heard, which made him jump and began a silently working of the jaw which seems to be common in the ancients. I fired off a few more, while he looked around bewildered and wondered if it might have come from the dog which is a possibility at all times or if it was he, who was eminating loud sonic booms that were beyond his control. After five or six of these offenses, he loudly demanded to know, what in the hell is that noise! This was done out of the earshot of my grandmother who is extremely lady-like and prissy. Unfortunately a certain body part has worn out over the years and my grandmother thinks that certain noises cannot be heard. I now went in for the kill and placed the machine behind a pillow that she was sitting against. The company that made this fun machine was kind enough to give us a variety of noises and sound volume control. I began to set off the loud and long ones, even threw in a few dainty ones. I did this at a rapid pace, which would give one the impression that something serious was about to take place in someones britches. After 30 seconds of this abomination, I perpetrated on my poor defenseless grandmother, she jumped up and politely asked my aunt if she was okay? At first my aunt was totally silent, with a look of bewilderment on her face she was actually considering that it actually might have been her, seeing that she had been so ill of late and also had four White Russians that night. My uncle and my son who actually compete in this type of sporting event were immediately electrified by these fascinating sounds and began to bounce off the walls! My father being extremely prissy on this matter began to sniff the air. The whole family started to eyeball one another and sniff the air. My father sensing mass hysteria, finally looked over at me and knew it was me who caused this vulgar display. He demanded the remote and my fun was over!!!

After several weeks of playing with this glorious machine and threatening certain family members with public humiliation, Father finally snatched the machine after I threatened to push the button in the middle of the Sunday lunch crowd at the Country Cupboard in North Carolina. I have many times threatened to buy another one,but after my father found my mother crying over the situation he yelled and said he was going to cut me out of the will. I will never forget my fond memories of hiding the machine in my aunt's handbag as she strolled through many stores and firing the button several times as she neared the checkout. I did buy another remote controlled machine, but I can only use it on my husband. However, I have been severely punished when I was standing in a long check out line at the ABC liqour store and the machine malfunctioned in my handbag and started to fire off offensive noises one after another. People began backing away and looking at me in horror! My husband grabbed my handbag, ran out of the store, and abandoned me. I was then left to explain to these mortified people who did not believe me that I had a fart machine in my purse. The pendulum swings both ways, karma will always catch up to you.

My mother will not be speaking to me for awhile because I have divulged this top-secret information, even though I have assured her that in every house across the world there are people and teenaged boys wildly carrying on making noises and hysterically laughing about it.

And so as we leave Wal-Mart behind and the sun sets and the rednecks go home to their barbeque grills, my last view of the parking lot as we drive away is a 6'5'' shirtless man who must have weighed 450lbs wearing only a pair of "Daisy-Duke" style shorts digging for something in the back of his pickup truck, bent over, with a plumbers crack that was a foot-long!!!!!....... He seemed very happy and content. We waved goodbye to Wal-Mart and I claimed once again that I would never go back. My mother smiled serenely and said "we'll see."

Comments

[Lisa]

I must say, I am in tears. We have a wal-mart here in Washington State- I think the same people must have relatives here. I also wish I had the fart machine! You are hysterical! Cant wait to see your store!
Lisa