This post is happening because of two things:
- My husband ASKED for me to write this post. Because he was pretty proud of me.
- One of the Snarkettes, Amy, wrote a post that echoes why this event happened. She is ALWAYS doing stuff like this, and I believe I was channeling her at the time.
On Saturday evening, I got a rare and splendid treasure: I was allowed to go to Target. ALONE. WITHOUT CHILDREN.
All mothers know what this means. It means leisure. Elegance. Pure, unbridled joy. It means I was going to get a skinny vanilla latte and wander around FOR. HOURS. without children, worries, screaming, checking my phone, ANYTHING. Just me. No leash. JUST. ME.
… I knew it was the night before Easter, but .. I guess I did not realize that people were just so FRANTIC about Jesus’ un-birthday.
It was packed. Insanely so. And, I kid you not, little men with walkie-talkies and red polos were frantically radioing eachother with locations of premade Easter baskets.
I giggled with superiority. I had already done all of that. I was just there for some me time and some cooking oil.
And, okay, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. BUT IT WAS LOFAT FRO-YO, so there. I deserve a medal for that sacrifice.
AN-EEE-WAY, I make my cart over to the baking aisle, where there is not one .. not two .. but THREE girls all decked out in sorority wear (and I will NOT identify their olive-green-and-pearl-white sorority), each with a buggy containing one or two items, with them perpendicularly spread out across the aisles while they ALL THREE TALKED ON THEIR CELLPHONE. About a bowl. Needing some sort of bowl.
You couldn’t get around them. And when you got up to them with your cart, they wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence.
Fine, I thought. I’ll come back. No need to get grumpy and aggressive on Zombie-Jesus Eve, right?
So I wander down to who knows where, try and kill ten minutes, and come back.
THEY HAVE NOT MOVED. STILL ON THEIR CELL PHONES.
I cleared my throat this time, nudging a buggy with mine.
They all looked at me like I had just raped a kitten in front of them, then turned their snubbed noses back to their cell phone conversation. Not moving.
“HOLY FUCK,” I yelled. (I should state here that I’ve never really used that phrase before. It must’ve been a holiday pairing.) “GET OFF YOUR FUCKING CELLPHONES AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I AM HERE, TRYING TO GET AROUND YOU.”
Although none of them ended their phone convo, they all stuttered in disbelief. “I can’t believe you would talk to us that way,” said one of them.
Which, SURPRISE, really just made me more angry. “I DON’T BELIEVE YOUR HAIR COLOR, BUT SUCH IS LIFE! AND YOU’RE STILL IN MY FUCKING WAY. MOVE.”
They all scampered off, huffing about what an obnoxious bitch I was and how they could not BELIEVE I would say that.
And then? Of course. Target didn’t even have any cooking oil.