Understanding Walmart

I would just like to state now that, for me, Walmart is God. Seriously, just think about it. Everything in the world you could

ver want, short of a pony, can be found under one big WallyWord roof for, at least for me, or at least for my father's credit card, very affordable prices. I know every shelf in my local store, and if I can't find it in under five minutes, they don't carry it. And sense they carry everything, I guess that means that, at least on some fundamental level, I can find everything. And I don't know about you, but for me, that's a real comforting thought.

Anyway, it was no surprise that I found myself walking down the underwear slash shoe isle on my 16th birthday with a box of five-inch stiletto heels under one arm. My father had been after me to buy a new pair of shoes for awhile now, ever since that time the straps on my sandals broke off and I put them back on with duct tape. Well, I went and found him in his usual spot under the golden arches sitting next to one of those giant plastic clowns glued to it so little kids can sit on his lap and feel special.

Now, before I go on, I feel I need to explain. My dad and I love playing jokes on each other. That's why I brought out the heels. He's not quite used to the idea of me being interested in stuff like looking nice, so I've found the best way to mess with him is to do something like pull out a low-cut napkin of a dress, or a transparent black lace bra, and act like I've suddenly found a deep-seated passion for revealing my cleavage. Gets him every time.

It's a fair fight though. He knows how to push my buttons too. Which is why five minutes later he suddenly jumped out of Men's Sleep Wear with a pair of tiny sequined boxers and said "I've got a pair just like these at home, and Sally just thinks they're sexy."

The scream I gave off made about half the store turn and look at me, and we left Wally world that day with him ahead by one. I mean, at my age, you just can't play off of something like that. At least, I can't.

So we're in the car, laughing, talking, big bonding moment. He cracks a comment on finding me a boyfriend so I can vent all feminine wiles without giving him a heart attack in the store. I ask him what Sally thought about the sparkly boxers the first time they met offline. He went into his little "my baby's all growing up and I'll be left all alone" rant, and I respond with a question about how my real mom reacted to his obsession with glittery underwear.

That was a mistake. His face got all tight, like when he's thinking about her. Thinking about those 33 years of marriage spent making the money that he eventually had to give her in alimony to get her out of his life. We both suffered a lot of crap under that woman, and ever since I moved to live with him, we've been discovering these stories about each other. I had that pit inside of me that just knew he was about to tell me something big.

So, sitting in the car on my sixteenth birthday, I learned that in the last 25 years, the only time she ever let him touch her was the day I was conceived, because she ovulating, and she wanted a little girl. Just another little tidbit of life that I didn't need to know. Shouldn't know. I mean, all a girl my age should know is every shelf in her local Walmart, knowing that if she can't find it in under five minutes, they don't carry it. And she's supposed to be comforted by the thought that since they carry everything, that means that, at least on some fundamental level, she can already find everything. Knows, that if there's a isle she doesn't want to walk down, that she can avoid it.