So I'm greatly troubled.
Our Target store is getting fresh produce.
Now, that's not what's troubling me. In fact, when I found out, I got up and did a little Scottish Reel I was so excited. I mean, come on, I'll never have to go to the grocery store again. It's the best news I've had since I found out Target was going to start staying open until 10:00pm. I honestly counted down the days until August 31st last year. So the concept of fresh produce is heavenly.
But Target....oh goodness. What are you doing to me?
I walked in...and there were movies in the active wear section. Ummmmm....what? And pajamas squeezed between socks and toddler clothing. I started to feel a little...anxious.
So I kept walking. I stopped. Where were the kitchen appliances? Where were the vegetable peelers? Where was the flatware?
The next aisle...why couldn't I get my cart down this aisle? Why was it so narrow?
Then I went to my list. Because let's face it. I spend a good hour wandering around and loading up my cart with those heart-tingling red-tagged clearance items before I actually get to my "required" list.
I needed hand soap. So I went to its usual spot. Not there. I checked the adjoining aisles. Shampoo, deodorant, hair products. Still no soap.
So I turned the corner and turned on my newly honed Holmesian skills and started looking for clues. More toiletries. Toothpaste. Face soap. First aid items. Still no hand soap.
At this point, I have passed the make-up and am quickly approaching the aisles I know to be grocery aisles, and I'm starting to panic. I've never not been able to find something in Target. Due to my approximately 116 annual trips to Target, I've learned the layout perfectly. And now the hand soap is alluding me.
Finally, there it is, facing the candy aisle, at the very end of the row, wrapping around the end cap.
Now I ask you, what kind of lunacy is this?
You have to understand. Target is my sanctuary. Target is where I go when I have nowhere else to go. Target is my second home (E even told me during a Target run, "We live here, Mommy.") When my sanctuary and second home is in chaos....where am I supposed to go???
So, Target, if you can possibly move that July 22nd produce date up, you would forever secure the loyalty of your already number one customer. When considering that, please keep in mind that I single-handily keep you in business.
Thank you.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Poetry
In honor of Mother's Day, I wanted to post a poem that I heard on a PBS special and absolutely loved. Very funny, and very fitting to honor all those moms we love.
The Lanyard - Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Happy Mother's Day!
The Lanyard - Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Happy Mother's Day!
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