Okay, let’s get one thing straight right off. The disaster was not all my fault. Today is a very windy day. On an even playing field with no wind, I could have saved the others.
A lack of furniture forced me out of my cave and into the new world, the one where the next generation lives. As far as technology is concerned, I give them their fast and clever thumbing. But when did the kids take over furniture? Not that technology hasn’t led me down the path of updatedness. In fact, the 60” HD at the end of the bed is the reason I’m out shopping in the first place. Ah…I recall how innocently “the incident” all began. Since we upgraded the television to larger than life, my special person and I live in bed. (Make what you want of that remark, I’ll take the image.)
Living in the bedroom means both of us will be at our computers for hours each day. Currently, this is accomplished by using a card table and a convention table (long), one on each side of the bed. This means to go anywhere else in the room, we must turn sideways and squeeze through. This means many breakable things leap off the tables and crash to the floor on a regular basis. This means the dog babes are subjected to streams of unpleasant language.
Thus, today, I set out to find a couple of daintier tables. Not hip to the furniture culture, (It is often said that–if I moved into an apartment or house and the furniture was stacked in a pile in the living room–when I moved out, the furniture would still be in the pile.) I started with the big name local store where I’d bought furniture, say twenty-five years ago. I described what I needed to a woman who must have been on her way to an audience with the governor, given her outfit and hair. When did that happen? This is Austin, Texas. I thought I’d blend in my t-shirt and over-loaded cargo shorts. Wrong. I felt a desire to plaster my credit card on my forehead so they would know I really could afford a table or two. 
I’m guessing it was the shorts, but governor-visiting-saleslady “suggested” I try the big discount stores. Not one to jump on someone’s advice, I plowed through three more real stores. Apparently, the governor of Texas is busier than I thought. Lots of ladies planning on visiting. Alas, I said, “Okay, I can get with the times. I can go to Ikea like everyone else.”
I drive the 20 miles to the gargantuan shopping city. I parked the bug as close as I could, which was about a half mile from the entrance. But, hey, it’s exercise, right?
I entered Ikea City. Ikea World. The clouds were Ikea boxes, the rivers were Ikea boxes. I followed the signs. I am reminded of my first time inside a Costco. Thus, we divert.
The Costco Virgin: We are staying at the favorite resort in Cabo San Lucas. After a few days I ran out of chocolate. (Isn’t that what starts us all down the wrong path?) As we were taking a taxi into town, I’d find some good, dark chocolate, at least 75% cocoa, in San Lucas. No luck and there’s even a Starbucks which had only milk chocolate. Yeah, as if. Thus, I took another step down the road, the step every addict knows.
As we left town, I leaned forward and asked the driver if he knew where I could score. He said, sure. But if I was going to take long, I’d have to flag another taxi. I’ll only be a second, I promised. All I wanted was a candy bar, 75%cocoa, at least.
The taxi pulled up in front of a giant store with Costco on the front. Well, okay. I was thinking someday I’d take a weekend and find out what the store was about. But, today, all I needed was a candy bar. Just take a sec.
I enter. I am asked to show my membership card. Right off, I was in trouble. Even without the cargo shorts I was wearing, the fine looking attendant could tell I was off the shopping equivalent of the farm. That I’d never done Costco thing, or even the Sam’s Club tango, though the other girls at school all had boyfriends and adventures. The attendant pointed to a desk with lots of people crowding around. If I had a driver’s license I could get a day pass. But, wait! I told the taxi driver, I promised this was going to be quick.
I should have run back out through the entrance. But, I had to have 55% cocoa chocolate, okay even 45%. I sputter through the application in Spanish. I am awarded a Get Out of Jail card good for twenty-four hours. I’m on it. I belong, at least for now, like Pinocchio was temporarily almost a real boy, I am almost a real shopper. Next: Part Two. The Costco Virgin Goes All the Way.
