Tinkerbell's a Slut

I've been on a mad search for the world's most offensive chair.  Two of them actually.  Oh, don't lecture me on decor, toots.  I've been trying to instill good taste in my children from day one, to no avail. They want this chair and they want it yesterday.  My sisters' kids have them and when we're there my girls sit for hours like (at the risk of dating myself) Archie Bunker while I wait on them hand and foot like Edith. The key is they sit there for hours. 

My search today took me from Target to Kmart to BabiesRUs to Walmart like some crazed discount shopper on amphetamines. I'd never had the pleasure of frequenting a Walmart before today. This was more a factor of Walmart's proximity to my house rather than some kind of highfalutin snobbery.  That was before today. From now on my avoidance will be based solely on snobbery. Which kicked in full force the moment I entered and smelled the foul aroma of Fluky's, Walmart's questionable on-site eatery. It was filled to the brim with people eating lunch.  Who says, "Let's go to lunch. And you know what I feel like today? Fluky's!"  The smell reminded me of those atrocious hot lunches from a grade school cafeteria that you'd sooner trade with someone at your table for a vat of steaming vomit. 

If you want to witness first-hand why America might not be a superpower much longer, one need only visit the Walmart in Niles, Illinois on a random Thursday at noon.  Everyone looks like their parents are first cousins. Or brother and sister. Please don't send me hate mail.  If you shop at Walmart, I'm sure the the one in your neck of the woods is perfectly lovely.   The one, however, in my woods makes me want to fly to Bentonville, Arkansas to Walmart headquarters and give the CEO a swift kick in the ass. (As an aside, what kind of company is located in BENTONVILLE, ARKANSAS?  It must be a cult! A cult where you are encouraged to marry members of your nuclear family.)

Upon leaving Walmart empty-handed (the chairs I wanted were sold out, and looking at the clientele I could see why) I high-tailed it to my car trying to calculate how many minutes until I hit Chicago city limits and, ultimately, my shower.  Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn and was closing in on Milwaukee by the time I realized my error.  Intellectually, I know this isn't Walmart's fault. But emotionally, I want to file suit for significant damages:

$30 -- gas

$42 -- three hours of babysitting fees

$300 -- three hours of precious personal time I can never get back 

$1 million -- assault on the senses

So, finally, I'm on my way back and start thinking about the really important things in life. Like why all the Disney fairies and princesses look like whores.  Tinkerbell (I think that's who's on this chair) has a skirt up her ass and is showing cleavage. Who the hell is Tinkerbell trying to impress?  Captain Hook?

So then George Thorogood's Bad to the Bone comes on the radio. And I'm sitting in my car, singing Bad to the Bone at the top of my lungs and pondering what kind of homemade muffins I will make the girls when I get home because we ran out of the Cinnamon Banana Apple Spice this morning and suddenly it occurs to me: WHO AM I? 

I used to have a life. I used to be somewhat interesting. I used to think about things other than muffin-making and the promiscuity of Disney characters.

Now I'm someone who's been running their ass ragged for hours trying to find an abomination of a chair that retails for $24.99, which is about $24.98 too much.  I've had my hair in a ponytail since early 2007. I wear ragged sweatshirts covered with splatters of Yo Baby yogurt.  "Why bother changing?" I often ask myself before leaving the house. (On this particular occasion, it worked out fine. I was the best dressed person in Walmart.)

As I neared my exit, I had this incredible urge to keep driving until I reached the Peninsula hotel downtown, check in under an assumed name and order up some champagne with a cheese plate. Instead I went home and ordered those damn chairs online.