target is hell
Target is hell and all the shoppers are little devils
For a person who loathes shopping, I sure have done my share this past week. School clothes, school supplies, tourist-type shopping, spending our small cache of wedding money on video games and comic books and toys - we hit every mall, every strip mall, every free standing store in ten different towns the past few days.
I thought I hit the wall on Saturday when we went to the smarmy, uppity Roosevelt Field Mall. I nearly killed at least three different people, and had to be physically restrained from driving my foot up the ass of another.
But no, I take on more than I can handle, as usual. I lost it in Target today.
As much as I hate to say it, it's women shoppers that drive me crazy. Not just any women shoppers, but upper middle class suburban moms who think that the world belongs to them and their children and anyone else in it is an annoyance.
The back-to-school aisles at Target were teeming with moms and dads and kiddies all frantically trying to do last minute shopping. Everyone had a list, everyone was cursing one thing or another on the list that they just couldn't find. A ruler. I wanted a simple, 12 inch ruler and there wasn't one to be had.
Mrs. BitchMom wanted a ruler, too. She also wanted crayons, markers and loose leaf paper, all of which (besides the ruler) were within five feet of her, clearly marked. Instead of getting them herself, she held the list out to the poor kid in the red vest and asked which of those items they had in stock. He pointed to the bins full of crayons, markers and loose leaf paper. She said Well, can you just get them for me while I look for a bra for my daughter? The dude blinked his eyes in surprise. And, much to his credit, he said no, he couldn't. As he walked away, Mrs. BitchMom turned to me and said "well then what the hell do those lazy asses do to earn their minimum wage, anyhow?" I looked at the floor, where she had dumped out an entire box of erasers looking for that one elusive purple eraser that her daughter had to have. "They clean up the messes that customers leave," I said, and walked away.
I run into her again later in the backpack aisle. Her son is standing up in the cart and jumping up and down while BitchMom says in a bored voice, "Danny, no. Danny, sit down. Danny, stop." Danny doesn't stop. Danny falls down and goes boom. Danny hits head on the side of the cart. He begins to wail and mommy reaches down and hugs her little pumpkin, because the bad, bad cart was so mean to him to treat him like that. She actually hit the cart and said those words - bad, bad, cart! Danny, who couldn't have been more than five, looked up at his mom and said "you should sue the fucking idiots who made this cart!" BitchMom giggled.
Daughter Bitch, who was about twelve, came running down the aisle, slamming into my cart with hers as she did. "Could you like, move?" she said to me in that teenage girl smart ass way. "Like um, no," I said in that way I answer my own daughter when she is being sarcastic.
(Let me interject to say I have quit smoking again. Yea, it had only been about twelve hours or so at that point, but if you ever quit smoking I'm sure you know what my mood was like, given the absolute need to have nicotine in my system plus my frayed nerves from having dealt with assholes in malls all week.)
So, the daughter moves her cart back, back, back, back all the way to the end of the aisle until she can't go any more and she backs into a display of notebooks. About forty books fall to the floor, scattering all over the aisle. The daughter, amazingly, bends down to start picking up the books. BitchMom grabs the daughter by her shoulders and says "Don't do that. that's what the help is for." Mom and daughter and son strut away, kicking fallen books to the side as they go.
There was smoke coming out of my ears at this point. I wanted to stab her. I wanted to slice and dice her. I wanted to pull every piece of her hair out and tear off her head and shit down her neck. I wanted to hurt her so very, very badly.
I took a deep breath and followed behind her, watching her ass shake back and forth, a size sixteen behind in a size six pair of low rise jeans. I walked. She shook. The love handles she had collected since she probably used to be a size six blubbered up and down and up and down as she walked, her midriff t-shirt not nearly long enough to cover the fatty deposits on her hips. I mean, I'm no size six either, but at least I don't dress like I think I am.
Anyhow, I followed her to the registers and lost her when we got on different lines. I did hear angelic little Danny cry for some gum and call his mother a bastard when he didn't get it.
We checked out at the same time. We headed for the door, side by side and I had to fight the urge to start ramming her cart with mine and challenging her to a battle right there in the entrance to the store. And then I took a deep breath. And I was going to leave it all alone. That is, until my car accidently (I swear) caught on hers as we were trying to get out the door. "Can you watch where the fuck you are going, idiot?" she says to me.
I stop. I stare. I could do a million things here, but they would all end up with me calling a bail bondsman. I could say a million things, but most of them would probably go right over her head. So I say the only thing I could think of that would most likely make her cry herself to sleep tonight:
"You really should not wear that outfit in public. You look totally fat."
The look on her face was better than any satisfaction a cigarette could have given me.
*I would like to end this by saying that I am not going shopping again for a long time, but sadly, I am addicted to Target and will probably be back there tomorrow. Maybe I'll bring a stun gun.