965. Open Letter to Target Corporation

Dear Target Corporation,

You have ruined my life, on multiple levels. 

First, I must point out that although your uniform of a red shirt and khakis is attractive and pleasing to the eye, it is also an outfit that I myself used to favor, but can no longer wear because if I happen to wear it to shop there, other customers inevitably confuse me for a Target employee and start badgering me about where light-bulbs or kitty litter are located (aisle 17 and aisle 19b respectively, since I do happen to know those two).  Anyway, it is disconcerting to be doing my normal shopping and repeatedly have people coming up to me, when I at first think I might know them from my kids’ schools, and I start out cheery because I think they just want my opinion on something (green leaf printed beach towel or flamingoes?) when they actually want information.  They get very rude when I say “I don’t work here” and I even had a woman once accuse me of lying. 

So, right off the bat, you need to change the uniform. 

Next, you have too many choices of cookies, all of them good.  This should be self-explanatory:  you are making me fat.  I do not weigh 118 125 140 my goal weight like I did in college, and it is all your fault.

Third, we need to discuss the dollar section.  I, for one, love the dollar section and can quickly spend multiple dollars on useless junk that I do not need just because you have arranged it in a flattering way and have good lighting.  Everything there is colorful and persuasive, and instantly turns not-as-good the second I get it home.  WHY IS THAT? 

Last, the Starbucks.  When I initially saw that you had built a Starbucks inside your hallowed walls, I was super-excited.  But now, just like the three things I have listed above, it is merely another way that you are wreaking havoc on me.  The question becomes, do I get my Starbucks coffee right when I walk in and start to shop, or do I get it at the end?  A smart person would get it at the end so that they would not spill it all over the toothpaste and deodorant and paper towels that are in their basket as they are shopping.  But I am not smart.  Therefore, I normally buy it first and then have to juggle it around like a hot potato as I shop.  You need to post very clear signs, signs that say, “We will not serve Starbucks to patrons entering the store, only those leaving it.”  It’s the right thing to do and you know it. 

Thank you for taking the time to read my letter.  Feel free to send me some coupons for compensation of having ruined my life.  I like coupons for Mint Milano cookies. 

Sincerely,
MOV

964. Open Letter to a Loyal Shirt

Dear Loyal Shirt,

I remember when we first met, at the mall of all places.  You beckoned me over from a metal rack where you were hanging out with your colorful comrades. 

I noticed you right away—your basic black hue, your stunning embroidered neckline, and your flattering boxy cut. 

You were different somehow, longer.  You offered more coverage than is typical, obscuring not just the tumucular region, but even offering a respite from the viewing of the hips.     

I knew I had to have you, and when I found out you were on sale (!), well, that was just the proverbial cherry on the whipped cream of my shopping expedition sundae. 

I got you home and for years you behaved even better than expected.  You had no qualms about accompanying me to work, school functions, even doctors’ appointments.  You could be counted on for holidays, vacations, sporting events, or trips to the grocery store.  You unilaterally embraced every climate; every raindrop or snowflake or ray of blazing sunshine was your pal.  You were flexible and could be paired with virtually anything in my closet:  denim jeans, floral print skirts, cotton khakis, plaid shorts, striped capris, even a formal interview suit.  You made numerous appearances in several family photos.   

You were my silent workhorse, my prized clothing chameleon. 

Until. 

There’s always an “until,” isn’t there? 

You know what I am talking about.  Don't pretend you don't.  The Husband made the grave miscalculation to …

No.  It’s too painful.  I can’t talk about it yet. 

… he made the grave miscalculation to put you in … the washer … and then … the dryer. ON HIGH HEAT. 

Has he never had a wardrobe component like you, Loyal Shirt?  I always dry cleaned you.  In fact, I know for a fact, factually speaking, that The Husband had accompanied you to the dry cleaner (for drop off AND pick up) on several occasions.  I have witnesses!  Gray Skirt and Navy Linen Dress had seen you there.  Red Cashmere Sweater Made In England told me you two stopped and had lunch.  Even Black Work Jacket had cozied up to you in the very same plastic bag. 

So what is one tumble in the dryer between friends, hmm?  After all we have been through together?  Why would you insist on shrinking up like that?  Why?  I always did treat you well, before this one isolated incident, I swear.  And you know it was not my fault anyway!  So why punish me?  Isn’t that like blaming the victim? 

Tell The Husband you are mad, don’t take it out on me when I am getting ready to have a conference with my sons’ principal and need to match you up with Boat Print Skirt.  You know that White Rayon Sweater shows every bit of deodorant or cat fur, how dare you even mention such a substitution. 

What I am saying is:  It’s over.  It is.  I, for one, wish it could be different, we all do.  The kids do (who wants to see their mom with deodorant or cat fur at school conference day?).  I know that deep in my heart of hearts, even The Husband wishes things turned out differently. 

Why?  Because I took his credit card and I am headed to the mall. 

It won’t be easy to replace you, but I’ll try. 

Your Loving Friend,
MOV

963. Oh, Great, You Get to See Me Sweaty

I leaned over and groaned.  Why should I have to pick it up?  I wasn’t the one who dropped it.  It must've weighed 40 pounds.  

“Bend your knees!” he shouted. 

From everything I’d read, lifting weights would extend my life, make me stronger, and oh yeah, make me look better, too. 

“I said, bend your knees, MOV!”  

I did as I was told, while I was silently cursing the day I had signed up for my One! Free! Training! Session!  I knew it was a ploy to get me to register for a full month of personal training, but I was a sucker for things that were free. 

Right then, Carla walked by.  You know, Carla?  From the bus stop?  She looked like a cover model for Shape or Fitness magazine:  healthy glow, perfect outfit, cooperative hair. 

I, on the other hand, was wearing wrinkled shorts, a faded t-shirt, and a frayed baseball hat.  I looked like I had been dragged in the mud by wolves.  Wolves with rabies and a mean streak. 

“MOC!” she squealed, getting my name wrong.  “How are you?  I didn’t know you belonged here!” 

“It’s MOV,” I corrected, under my breath, but she had already walked past.  Hers was a drive-by greeting, not meant to be responded to. 

“Shoulders straight, MOV, shoulders straight.” 

I tried to focus and do what Jared said, but it was hard.  There were so many damn mirrors in this place, and none of them were aimed at me. 

Out of my peripheral vision I watched the reflections of the other moms.  I saw Sally from basketball camp.  There was Marina from the PTA.  Danielle from swim class.  Pretty much everyone I had ever met in the past nine years and chatted with about school and sports while waiting for my children all belonged to my new gym. 

I had joined in a hasty moment when I thought it would be good to escape and go sweat and take a break from my reality.  Apparently, 688 local moms had done the exact same thing. 

Except they all looked like Carla—perfect. 

For a brief moment, I thought about dying my hair purple so as to make myself non-recognizable.  The Husband might not respond to that positively, though. 

“Not like that, MOV!  Stop!” interrupted Jared.  “Let me show you the proper form.” 

He demonstrated the lift, and I pretended to pay attention.  Denise belongs to this gym?  And Wendy!? 

“I used to be athletic,” I said to Jared, but more to myself.  “Back when I was … younger.” 

“Everyone says that, MOV, but don’t be so hard on yourself!  You are doing great for someone who is 50.” 

FIFTY!  Did he just say 50? 

“Jared, I am only 44.”  I gave him a look, a look that said, I will definitely not be signing up for a full month of personal training and if I did, it would not be with you. 

“I was rounding up.” 

I studied Jared in the mirror.  How did he not know that an error of rounding up 6 years was punishable by imprisonment, death, being fired, or at least a dirty look from me?

I set the weight down and took a deep breath. 

“MOV, let me get you some water.” 

He disappeared and I stretched like I knew what I was doing. 

Sally walked over to me. 

“Hey, MOV!  I almost didn’t recognize you.”  She smiled genuinely.  “I always see you with your kids, doing the mom thing, and without kids, you just look, so, well … young and unencumbered.” 

I made a mental note to invite her to lunch.  She was my new best friend.

MOV

962. I Have a Really Good Sense of Direction ...

“Mom, turn here! I know a shortcut!” 

I made a right. Then a left. A u-turn. Another left. I circled the block. I was getting dizzy. What should be a three-minute jaunt turned into a 20-minute epic journey of every street, alley, boulevard, or cul-de-sac within a two mile radius.   

What the heck are they teaching my kid in first grade in public school, I wondered, because it certainly isn’t navigational skills.

For the first time in seven years, I was having doubts about my genius child and his future as an airline pilot. If the tower told him to fly from Denver to San Francisco, who’s to say he wouldn’t take a little detour to New York and perhaps Canada? He would get fired on his first day.

Don’t panic, MOV, don’t panic. It’s a joke! He’s messing with you!

“Tall,” I began, “Who taught you this shortcut? Was it Grandpa? Because he lives in Colorado and doesn’t know our streets. If you drove this way with him, he might’ve been lost.”

“Mom, don’t vilify me yet! I know exactly where I’m going. Trust me.” And then the kicker: “I’m trying to do YOU a favor.”

Maybe he was unclear on the definition of “shortcut”? Maybe he thought it meant something about wasting time and making other people in the car lose patience?

“Sweetie, what do you think the word ‘shortcut’ means, exactly?”

“It means ‘a shorter way home’.” And then to his brother in a whisper, “Why does she have to be so pedantic?”

Right-left-left-turn-right-across-back-right. I glanced at the gas gauge: it was on empty now.

“Look, Mommy!” piped up Short, “We’re almost home now! You’ll recognize this next street. Just look around and think hard.”

All I did was look around and think hard. My whole life was look around and think hard. I was afraid my brain would explode.

“Okay, Mom, last turn,” announced Tall triumphantly. “There’s our house … this is precisely the way our school bus goes.”

MOV
*****
this is a modified version of a story I wrote a while ago/ trifecta writing challenge / exactly 333 words, required word is "pedantic"-- meaning unimaginative or pedestrian

961. This Is What Heaven Looks Like

 

I topple

underneath waves,

gulping Pacific foam, like honey. 

Surfers romance me with their ocean ballet. 

Dolphins compete for my attention.  I marvel at my luck,

my front row seat to

their dance. 

 

 

MOV

*****

Trifecta writing challenge/ 33 words/ the bold words used were from list of required

960. The Day I Found Out I Wasn't Married

“What do you mean, we’re not married?” 

“Just what I said:  Not.  Married.”  He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he said, Hon, we’re out of toothpaste.   

 “Sweetie, I paid the minister.  Signed papers.  Ate cake.  It’s a done deal.” 

“According to the Los Angeles’ Registrar, it’s not a done deal.” 

“Registrar?”

“Don’t worry, I’m petitioning it.  But in the meantime, we’re not married.” 

“Is this your way of telling me you have a girlfriend?” 

“No.  This is my way of telling you not to go to the ER.  You’re not covered under my insurance if we’re not married.” 

“WE ARE MARRIED.” 

“Please don’t get sick.”  He gave me a deliberate look that said, I hope you’ve been saving because you’ll be paying your own medical bills out of your Starbucks’ latte fund. 

“What if I die?” 

“Dying is not covered.  Don’t die.” 

“Ooh, if we’re not married, can we get remarried, have a big party?  That would be fun.” 

“No.”    

“What about a honeymoon?  I deserve it for putting up with you for 13 years.” 

“Sure, we can go on another honeymoon, as long as we go separate places by ourselves.” 

I was flabbergasted that he said that.  Although I agreed completely.  I was mentally picturing myself in Hawaii and him at the Grand Canyon.  Separate honeymoons was an idea whose time had come. 

“I’m kidding.  You know we’d have to take the kids.  Or maybe they could go somewhere by themselves.  Hmm, that could work.” 

This was the first time I considered our (il-) legitimate children.    

“Sweetie, what will become of our illegitimate children?”  

“They can get sick.  They’re covered.  But you’re not.” 

Suddenly, I felt a violent headache coming on. 

“I think I have a brain tumor.  Maybe I should get it looked at.” 

“You have to wait until the State of California straightens out this mess.  No brain tumors this week.”          

I turned and walked out of the room.    

“Where are you going?” 

“Online.  I have four separate vacations to plan.”   

MOV
****

trifecta writing challenge, the word is "deliberate," essay is exactly 333 words

959. I Like to Shop

So, Readers, I don't have a clever new blog post today, so I am re-running a favorite (maybe you missed it the first time around?).  Enjoy! 

J.Crucial

Today I went to my local J.Crew store to stock up on a few necessary wardrobe items.  I instantly fell in love with everything in the store.  All those rich autumn colors, all that glorious wool and cashmere and tweed … it’s like the mannequins were calling my name.  Before I knew it, my arms were overloaded with shiny essentials.  The friendly clerk—I named him Johnny Crew in my head—asked if he could start a fitting room for me. 

“Sure,” I gushed, “that would be awesome.”  I may no longer be the appropriate age of the J.Crew desired demographic, but I am at least within a decade (or three).  I knew that “awesome” was still the right word to use.    

Johnny Crew walked me back to the dressing room area, which was surrounded by full-length mirrors.  I immediately noticed that I looked about six feet tall and a size 2 in these mirrors. 

“Johnny?” I said, noticing how he did not flinch when I called him that even though his nametag read Wyatt, “Johnny, what is the deal with these mirrors?” 

“So glad you noticed!” Johnny-Wyatt enthused.  “The new slimming mirrors have, like, tripled our sales since they were installed.” 

I stood there gazing adoringly at myself in my attractive black sweatpants and Target t-shirt, red flip-flops, baseball hat, and still-wet hair.  I looked good.  These sweatpants did not even have a hole in them (that I could see from the front anyway).    

Johnny had hung up all the Fall essentials on the narrow metal rods lining my dressing room.  Just this morning when I was back at home, I had looked at my pathetic wardrobe and decided something needed to be done.  With that in mind, I glanced at my (typed) list: 

·        Khaki pants
·        Jeans
·        Black pants
·        Basic black skirt
·        Leather belt
·        Tan skirt
·        White blouse
·        Tweed jacket
·        Silk top
·        Black sweater (pull-over)
·        Red cardigan sweater
·        Striped t-shirt
·        Black ballet flats
·        Gray tights
·        New socks

I had mentioned to The Husband that I would be going to J.Crew to stock up.  He replied predictably, “Well, now that you finally have a job, I really don’t care what you waste your own money on.”  That meant I could buy whatever I wanted!  

Luckily, everything I tried on fit and looked great (thanks to the new mirrors, which I was internally vowing to have installed all over my house as well).  I went to the cash register to pay for all my goodies. 

“Wow,” said a different clerk (I had named her Jane Crew in my head), “you are being so smart to buy everything mix and match so it will all coordinate.” 

I smiled at Jane.  She was right about me and my smart shopping skills. 

She totaled up the prices of the clothes and started to get out some tissue paper so the delicate sweaters could safely make the difficult trek home in my car to my house a full five miles away.

Then she turned to me and said something really, really mean.  Something I could not believe a salesperson would be allowed to say to a shopper. 

“That will be $3497.65, please.” 

“Wait, how much?”  I was shocked.  This is apparently what I get for not looking at the price tags when I shop, a somewhat new habit I had adopted half an hour ago. 

She cleared her throat, like a stage actress.  “I said, $3497.65.” 

I looked in my walled at the four crisp twenty dollar bills I had just taken out of the ATM for this specific shopping excursion. 

“Umm, well, I think I went over budget a tad,” I mumbled.  “Please remove, uh, can you take the socks off?” 

Jane re-scanned the socks and set them behind her on a shelf.  There, I knew that would make all the difference! 

“Okay, ma’am, then your new total is $3411.42.” 

Whew, that had helped, but not as much as I needed. 

“Please subtract the black sweater, I think I might have one already that would work.” 

Beep!

“Your new total is $3218.09.” 

This went on for quite some time until the people in line behind me were shuffling around impatiently and whispering to each other.  Yeah, like they had never gone over budget by $3000. 

Finally, we were left with just the khaki pants. 

Jane squinted at the register total.  “This can’t be right,” she said.  “I have a negative $266.  That means I owe YOU $266 plus the khaki pants.” 

I was not about to argue with her, as she clearly knew what she was doing. 

“Okay, Jane, that sounds good.  And I would prefer my refund all in fifties if it is not too much trouble.” 

MOV