Adventures in Being Complicated in Wal-Mart

My life can be particularly complicated, like when I am trying to give birth in Wal-Mart or in a barn with no medical or adult supervision and either a small child or a large baby monkey keeps throwing bananas at me.

My water broke in Wal-Mart. Yes, the birthing water stuff, not the bottled water stuff.  I have popped a water bottle in Wal-Mart.  Two different spills.


It began in the back of the store, in Sporting Goods.  I knew that I was having a boy, so I was just a little eager to buy him a football.  When my water broke, I didn't know what was happening, so I nonchalantly walked from department to department hiding in the aisles.  I had "wet pants syndrome."  


I singlehandedly turned the entire store into a lake.  Ducks and everything.

The store employees actually would not let me leave. I think they were afraid I would flood my town and cause mass chaos.  I was held hostage.  I think they also wanted my baby because he was going to be awesome.  You know what it feels like after you have been wading around in the swamp all day and you just want dry, warm clothing while not standing around in Wal-Mart? Yeah, I felt like that.

Facebook wasn't around then or I would have gotten ALL of the "likes" that day.   Yep, they were as good as mine.  I feel old now just thinking that Mark Zuckerberg was probably in Kindergarden at the time.  He was busy drawing thumbs.

Now, he is old enough to go to Wal-Mart himself.

I worked as a radio personality at a radio station before I had my son.  I had to be funny on air whether I was funny or not.  There was no time to think.  Being funny is an art, like dancing, except there is no music (ever), no choreography and no combination of me ever shall be a comedian.  My handle was "Foxy T."


Besides the fact that my last name was "Fox" at the time, I was very foxy, but mostly my last name was "Fox." When I am nervous, my comedy skills come out, like skunks and possums do at night, only with my comedy the mange and rabies are usually not involved. 


I always thought that comedy would be my ticket out of the flophouse.  It wasn't.  

So, there I stood trapped in Wal-Mart...battered, wet and million-dollarless hiding in the women's bathroom because the people greeter was blocking the door.  I had only one prayer.

I actually had a different vision about where my baby's birth was to take place.

I don't always hit a homerun with comedy and I am OK with that.  There have even been times where I have walked into a room, tried to be funny and the room became completely bereft of laughter.  


I had sucked any and all life sources even remotely related to happiness or laughter out of the room.  


Crickets didn't even bother chirping.  I can't swear by it, but I think a mouse shot me the finger once.  Not a good finger.  The bad one. 


At least I try and if I fail, I try again.  I know people who won't even post on Facebook because they are afraid that their "friends" will laugh at them.  Well, either they aren't really your "friends" or you are afraid to try.  Maybe both.


If I had lived in medieval France they would probably have had one of those people reading a scroll to me. A scroll reader person.

I can't say that my shopping trip that day rekindled my lifelong love affair of laying on a wet bathroom floor, though. 

It's not nearly as fun as you think it would be.  I did have the capacity to be like a normal person and get to the hospital when my water broke instead of being in a Mexican Standoff in the bathroom of Wal-Mart with the Wal-Mart employees.  


As I lay on the floor and no one around me was laughing, I knew then, that this was serious. 


Even the spiders crawling around on the floor were unusually well-behaved.

I metaphorically began to make a "deal with the devil."  By "devil," I mean the manager and by "metaphorically" I mean I sat there and cried like a baby and begged and pleaded for them to let me go.  Finally, they got a hold of someone who would come and pick me up.  I had to leave my car there.


Life doesn't always seem to go into the direction I would like it to go into, but I had my beautiful baby boy.  I know that he is here just to replace me.  Out with the old and in with the new.  


And I'm OK with that, too.  Things do get better. 


I am in this continual state of remote disbelief that the supply of well-behaved parents was exhausted and Someone made a bet on me that I would do a good job as a parent.  

I admit that my comedy skills and my parenting skills can always be called into question, but the fact that my son is an amazing person and I am the luckiest person on the face of this Earth never will be.


My son never did play football.
  

Pajama Pants Day

I recently gained 30 pounds.


Yes, I said recently, not over a time period.  Like, last week.  I basically took my hotness, laughed at it and shoved it forcefully down the stairs.

Inside of me is that thin person struggling to get out...fighting, clawing and biting. Fortunately, she can be easily sedated with a spoonful of Nutella and Peanut Butter .

I have tried many forms of exercise.  I have started sleeping with ankle weights on and hope to see the benefits of that soon.  Just a few months ago, I was looking so hot that the butter in my pocket would melt right away.   I started putting butter on everything, even skittles.  I traded my hotness for that little luxury and now I feel like I have been bludgeoned repeatedly all over my entire body with a large bag of cellulite, butter and rocks. 

I used to eat healthy cereal, you know the kind that tastes like the inside of your pockets. Then, a few months ago, I started mixing it in with the fun cereals...the ones with the free toys.  Gradually, it became more "Choco Choco" and less "pockets."  Realistically, the only thing that is free is the 10 pounds you gain from eating it. 

I tried "Tofu."

I now understand "Pajama Pants Day"  at Wal-Mart.  Pajama pants are so much more comfortable than my size 3 jeans that dangle on the hangers in my closet, laughing and taunting me with their tightness.

Most of you know by now that I am famous for making lists.  This is my latest one:

Well, I guess I need to go to Wal-Mart.  Thankfully, my wardrobe is up to date.

Wal-Mart for Dummies

My handicap is my own heroism; it is like a raw, dripping ham dancing on the limb of a tree over a pack of slightly unbalanced wolves.  Nothing good ever seems to come of it and eventually my heroism will fall to the ground where the wolves patiently wait to tear it to shreds.   The wolves are always there and not always guised as wolves.

I have an acquaintance who is constantly sick or has some type of injury going on at all times.  You name it and she has either had it, broken it or is perilously trying to get her hands on it.  She is what I like to call a professional sick person.  Her ongoing drama with herself exceeds the normal capacity range for what the allowable amount is for drama queens in the professional sickness category.  I've often thought of buying her a book to help her with her already exploding career in the sickness field.

Here are some sample pages from the bonus section on how to get sick, but in no way am I endorsing the book.  Us famous people have to be careful about things like that.

I volunteer to clean her house, free of charge, on a weekly basis.  I have no idea why I do this, except for the fact that I know if I don't do it, no one else will and she will crumple and die into a fetal heap of dark morass on one of her self-loathing days.  Her daily lists are always the same:

Before each visit, I have to pump myself up like one of those karate people do before they have to break a pile of bricks with their bare hands.  Yesterday, she whimpered into the phone for me to swing by Wal-Mart and pick up a few things for her before going to clean her house.

I am not sure about your town, but my town is infested with Wal-Marts, like fleas or taxes.  They are everywhere only you can't get rid of them, ever.

I decided to stop at a Wal-Mart that I don't normally frequent, closer to her side of town.  Fortunately, it wasn't "Wear Your Slippers or Pajama Pants to Wal-Mart Day."   I walked in the door and walked straight to the only shopping cart that had water dripping off of it. I hesitated before touching it and decided with great thought, much like that of a cat, that I didn't like the feel of water on a cart.

My glance immediately went to a shriveled up elderly gentleman who was lining carts singly in front of the doors.  I had to smile.  Wal-Mart "people greeters" rock! He was making it so easy for the rest of us...we didn't have to step to the side for our carts, but walk right into one, whether we wanted it or not.  Once again, a Wal-Mart employee going over and above his call of duty.

I quickly theorized that he was the oldest human being alive on the planet, but not a day older than 300 years.  He had on the typical Wal-Mart school uniform colors of a blue shirt and I surmised that he had somewhere in his lifetime stolen a pair of Lyndon Johnson's khaki pants and had the pants pulled up high almost to his face.  His belt was actually where his Superman logo should be and his eyeglasses were thick enough to catch his face on fire if he stood in the sun for too long.

Wal-Mart instituted those school uniforms for their employees so that the employees would stand out from the rest of the customers; either that, or they wanted them to enroll in high school.  I love older people, but they tend to stand out on their own, though, without the uniforms.  By virtue of having lived forever, he probably knew everything there was to know about anything.

Then, I noticed that he was in a bind.  One of the wheels from the cart he was moving became caught up with the wheel of another cart he had lined up at the door.  He stood there struggling with all of his poor little strength trying to yank it free and there I was a perfectly good superhero standing there like a Trojan waiting to be utilized.

I needed a cart and he was struggling with one, so after doing the math in my head, I quickly ran to his rescue.  This would score me extra brownie points for my daily citizenship goals with myself.

I swiftly grabbed the cart and tried to pull it out of his hands so that I could do the untangling process that was so desperately needed.

One good yank and I had it, but I needed the cart to do my shopping so proceeded to go in the store with it,  only the people greeter wouldn't let go.  As a matter of fact, he yanked it back.  I decided not to report him to his boss and still try to salvage my heroic efforts and so I pulled the cart back.

"I'll take it," I said with a smile, "I need this." I thought I was being pretty nice about it considering he was being rude.

He yanked it from my hands and said, "No! Give it back!"

The wheel became tangled again after his new yanking episode and at that point I figured there was something more serious wrong with him and maybe they shouldn't have put him at the front door.  I now knew that he needed me more than he thought he did.

I ,once again, saved the day by yanking the cart away from the other one and while I was at it yanked it away from him and said, "Look, it's OK, I'll take this one."

I was quickly losing my patience and thought about not helping him anymore.

We both had our hands on the cart, each pulling.  I waited for him to let go, but he quickly yanked it out of  my hands.  What was wrong with him? I was about to call his manager when what he did next completely shocked me and threw my mind for a loop.

He pulled out a whistle that was on a string around his neck that had been tucked under his shirt collar and proceeded to place it near his crusty lips, ready to blow at any moment.

Yep, he was going to blow a rape whistle.  On me. Then, he screeched this with hundreds of years of vent up anger, "Let go of my cart, it's the one I want to shop with! Let GO! Let go!"

Suddenly, my life was a slow motion video as I closed my eyes and silently berated myself inside of my own head. Thoughts sorted themselves inside of there like dirty laundry.  He didn't work for the store. Wal-Mart didn't make him dress ugly, he was dressed ugly on purpose.  He was just sorting the carts into everybody's way until he found the one he liked.   I wasn't helping him at all. I was harassing him. Oh, my brownie points!

I let my hand slip off of the cart while his lips desperately clutched the whistle.

"I am so sorry," I sputtered, "I thought you worked here."

Like a hostile behemoth he jerked the cart out of my hand (oh, now you muster up strength) and left me standing there with the lineup of carts he had pulled out and tears in my eyes.

My apology meant nothing to him and I felt horrible.  He callously walked off while I looked for a hole to crawl into, but that is the one thing Wal-Mart doesn't have, is holes.

Then, from out of nowhere, comes the real people greeter.

"Ma'am," she snapped at me, "you can't put all of these carts here in the way!  This is a walking path!"

I suddenly felt as though I had been mauled by wolves.

If they ever make a movie about my life, that part will be so confusing.

Well, this was my rambling story of heroism gone awry, but at least this trip to Wal-Mart didn't involve rabid raccoons (another story, another time) or a slipper fight (sigh).  Also, I didn't get bitten this time.

I just want to shop and leave.  False hope--gotta love it.  Now, I have to go flail myself with humiliation and shame and hope that one day somebody writes this book because I sure need it:

Just a few pics of some friendly Wal-Mart shoppers 

This is why I stay home...