I Might Like Prozac Barbie After All
I often shop at the upscale, Just Plucked Market in my suburb, but I stick out like Peg Bundy in Tiffany’s. All the ladies wear tennis outfits or dark, rhinestone-studded jeans with stilettos. I’m convinced everyone is looking at my hair and assuming I can’t afford to get my roots done. I always feel a little nervous, like Aimee on My Big Redneck Vacation when all the rednecks visited London and discovered they were having spotted dick for dinner.
Recently while shopping at Just Plucked, I noticed Prozac Barbie with her preschoolers, Babs and Ken Jr. I saw her lips cart coming around the corner first, and she looked like Lisa Rinna/Daisy Duck perturbed with the children. I didn’t know she was mad at them at first because she was botoxicated trying to stay calm. But when I got closer I heard her hiss something to her son about the cookie he was eating and his expensive Polo shirt.
While standing at the meat counter, little K used his fingers to wipe chocolate from his mouth. Aghast, at least I think, Barbie pulled baby wipes out of her Louis Vuitton and shoved them toward Kenny’s face. By that time he’d already used the back of his hand, and wiped the fudginess on his shirt. Barb was mortified. She leaned down in her stilettos and went anti-bacterial on his cookie mess.
What’s strange about this scene? First, I wouldn’t be organized enough to have baby wipes in my purse. Second, my kid would’ve worn a Star Wars t-shirt instead of a Polo. And third, I would’ve expected him to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and rub it on his shirt, like a normal boy. If not, he would’ve put his arms around me and wiped his mouth on my butt.
Speaking of my butt and lard, I saw something freakish in the dairy section at Just Plucked—containers of Duck Fat—to buy! Of course, I keep my bacon grease in a coffee cup in the fridge like regular people, but what do you possibly do with Duck Fat? Maybe deep-fry some Oreos. I’d love to ask a manager what it’s used for, but I figure he’d be real snooty like the saleslady at Glamour Shots when I only bought one slutty picture from my photo session back in ’83.
One day I’d love to yell across the aisle to the smug Regional Director of Just Plucked Inc.
“Could you tell me where ya’lls vie-enny sausages are? Wooo, I sure do love them thangs. That’s some good shit right there. They’re better’n crap on a cracker.”
That’s going on my bucket list.
I picked up a bag of organic Cheeto balls and waited for Prozac Barbie to herd her clan through the checkout. I felt a tad sorry for her because her make-up was running down her face in the Memphis heat. She must’ve moved here from the Hamptons or something. Just as I walked out, she shoved her offspring into a clown-car sized Mercedes, melted into the driver’s seat, and took a cleansing deep breath.
Then, as I watched PB’s life unfold in her little cocoon of a car, I realized we’re all alike.
She gave her four-year-old his Nintendo and her two-year-old her sippy cup, and untucked a bottle of Chardonnay from the hidden compartment of her suburban mom-mobile, and didn’t even worry about a glass.
I hear ya’ sister. We have more in common than you know.
