779. Muse Found

After being tipped off by my friend Andrea that Muse might’ve gone to Target, The Husband eagerly and wholeheartedly agreed to let me borrow his truck to track her down. 

“Let me get this straight:  she stole your car, you want to go after her, and you want my truck?” 

“That’s right,” I nodded.  “Where are your keys?” 

“Umm, no.  You’re not using my truck.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why not?  Because I don’t want you driving over there.” 

“How exactly am I supposed to get my car back?” 

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you left your keys in the ignition.” 

“They weren’t in the ignition, they were in the keyhole of the trunk.” 

“Okay, whatever.  So, let’s say, hypothetically, I loan you the truck, you find her, and then you get the car back …” 

“Yay!  That’s the plan!” 

“How are you going to drive two vehicles home?” 

“Wait—what?” 

“You drive the truck to Target, you find her, you get the car, how are you going to drive the car and the truck?” 

“Oh.  I guess I didn’t think of that.  All right, Plan B.  You drive me over there, I track her down, and then I drive the car home and you drive the truck.” 

“I don’t feel like spending my entire evening chasing Muse around Target, and with both kids, no less.  And how do you even know that’s where she went?” 

“I don’t.  But my friend Andrea said …” 

“Forget it.”  He walked out of the room. 

This had happened once or twice in our decade-long marriage:  we had disagreed.  I did what anyone would do in my shoes.  I walked over to 7-11 to buy some M&Ms for renewed strength and emergency sustenance.

I was just about to complain to the manager that they were out of Peanut M&Ms when I happened to catch a glimpse of her out of the corner of my non-mascared eye.

“Muse!  What are you doing here?!” 

She was holding the last King Size bag of Peanut M&Ms.  She shrugged and responded predictably, “I needed some chocolate.” 

“Where’s my car, Muse?” 

“It’s out front.  Here, here are the keys.”  She handed them to me.  They felt cold.      

I went over to the front plate glass window to see if my car was there or if she was lying.  My car was there, and it looked like she’d even had it washed and waxed.  That was unexpected. 

I turned back to face her.  “Thanks, Muse, thanks for getting my car washed.” 

“Excuse me?” replied the 7-11 manager. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was talking to my friend.” 

“Your friend?” 

I looked around.  The place was empty.  And she’d taken the M&Ms. 

MOV

456. 10 Easy Steps for Authentic Parenting

1. First, drag out dictionary and look up “authentic” to make sure you aren’t misusing the word (again). Sigh a big authentic sigh of relief when first definition listed is “true to oneself.” Yay—lying to others is still acceptable!
2. Give children solid positive role models, other than lying parents. Maybe there are some nice authentic neighbors who live close by?
3. Be true to yourself by lowering (obsessively high) pre-children standards. Replace gorgeous glass coffee table that must be Windexed every five minutes with wood coffee table that can withstand being kicked and spilled on every five seconds. To go with new child-centric lifestyle, consider painting formerly pristine “Snowy Morning” white walls a popular new shade by Benjamin Moore called “Spit Up.”
4. Try to maintain a regular routine to make life easier. For example, go to library Tuesdays at 9 AM, music class Wednesday afternoons, swim lessons Monday and Thursday mornings, and happy hour every day starting at 5 on the dot. Children crave consistency!
5. Make your children follow rules. Rules like cleaning up art supplies after making clay dinosaurs, clearing the table after dinner, and paying all your bills for you. Hey, isn’t that what a paper route is for?
6. When nosy people in your life criticize your questionable parenting methods, look them right in the eye and say sarcastically, “Sure, I suppose I should listen to you because you obviously know all about children because you have some yourself, huh, Mom and Dad?”
7. Try to add cultural enrichment to your children’s lives on a daily basis. For example, go to the zoo, or if you don’t feel like driving anywhere when it is 95 degrees out, just flip on the Nature Channel. Try to teach your kids how to cook, or if you don’t feel like turning on the oven and getting any pans dirty, just flip on Top Chef Masters.
8. Studies have proven that children of all ages can benefit from naps. The best times for naps are 9:30 AM, 10 AM, 10:45 AM, 1 PM, 2:30 PM, 3:15 PM, and 4:20 PM. I recommend all those times.
9. Feed your children authentic food. Good choices are foods made with real sugar (not fake sugar) like Baskin-Robbins ice-cream. (That is only if Haagen-Dazs is not available in your area.)
10. When your children are behaving in an unacceptable way, such as whining incessantly in the check-out lane at Target, authentically turn to the clerk and say, “They are not with me. They followed me in here.”

MOV

388. Your Kryptonite

So you’re working and you’re mom-ing and you’re just trying to scrape by, and that’s when it happens—someone shakes your life up. And that someone is: your husband.

He comes home from work one day and says, guess what, we’ve sold the house, and your first thought is: Damn realtor, why didn’t he call me instead? Why does the husband get to know before anyone else? Your second thought is: Yay—I don’t have to clean the bathroom for potential buyers every day anymore! That is your favorite thought.

Next thing you know, your life is a swirl of newspaper and cardboard boxes and bubble wrap and searching recycle bins outside of Starbucks for oversized boxes.  You score some good ones this way, ones that might even hold a small child or two. You pack and you wrap and you tape and you bubble and you order Domino’s (again) and you subsist on burnt cheese pizza and Chinese take-out.

And the kids? What kids? The television has become their new BFF, and when you call all the utility companies to suspend service, this is the last phone call you make: to the TV company. You politely ask the customer service rep on the phone if you can keep your cable going right up until the verylastsecond, and she laughs—a cheerful laugh (she’s heard it all before). And she says, “No problem,” and she seems like she is typing it in somewhere, somewhere important like the computer base, and before she gets off the phone you ask her what her name is and she says “Chantel.” Or something Chantel-like, maybe Channel or Charel, it’s a modern name, trendy, and definitely a sincere and helpful-sounding name.

So. Your life is in boxes. Your husband decides that it would save a lot of money to move everything into the storage facility yourselves. This is the moment where you are questioning your initial judgment in making a lifetime commitment to this man. But it is too late for that. Now you are wearing sweats and lifting objects three times your body weight, objects like queen-sized bed frames and antique dining-room tables. You are beginning to hate your dining-room table, and in fact, you seriously consider leaving it for the new owners or perhaps on the street corner. When your husband reminds you that dining-room tables are expensive and that you will “just have to buy a new one anyway” you attempt (weakly) to convince him that a folding card table is as good (if not better) than your old table. He sighs, and looks away.

You start searching for a temporary apartment for your family because the house you bid on has some “issues,” namely scary mold, that need to be addressed before occupancy is even an option. Plus your closing date keeps getting pushed back, and for a split second you wonder what this would have been like with your baby due dates:

Scene 1:  A doctor's office, day time. 

Doctor:  Ma’am, I know I initially told you December 10th, but honestly, it looks like you’re going to have to carry that baby a little bit longer than we anticipated … how about we adjust that due date to, say, February 19th? Is that doable for you?

You are snapped back to reality when your husband comes across a newspaper listing you left out for rental apartments (there is a post-it note you’ve stuck on there that reads: “Pool use included!”) and he tells you the bad news: you and he and the kids and the cat are all moving in with his parents.

Just for a month. Or two. Three at the most. Promise. Just until the mold/ loan/ dining-room table thing is all cleared up, four months tops.

You struggle for two hours on Thanksgiving to get along with your in-laws, so what the heck is two months going to be like? You do the only thing you can in this tense moment of stress and denial and angst: you run right out to get some much-needed help and moral support.

You drive there quickly, your car knows the way, your tire marks are probably permanently etched into the asphalt. You pull up and get the best parking spot, the one right next to the handicapped and near the door. You enter Target, your kryptonite, your Mecca, and you try to blink back tears—but it’s no use. You are searching, seeking out your happy place, and there it is: the magazine aisle. You start grabbing shelter magazines, like a deranged victim of an undecorated desert island. First Elle Décor, then House Beautiful, next Architectural Digest, and pretty soon you’re grabbing anything, even Dwell or Better Homes and Gardens. You are balancing a large slippy stack in your left arm, and you are lamenting the fact that you didn’t get a cart.

Your mind wanders and you start fantasizing for a moment about the selection of chocolates Target has by the check-out lane. Yes, you reassure yourself, KitKat bars are usually on the top shelf next to the batteries.

You are heading toward the main check-out area, arm collapsing from the weight of the multitude of design Bibles (you will soon know how to decorate that moldy house with the fold-up poker table in the dining room, dammit), and that’s when you spot it flashing your name in neon letters, like a welcoming beacon:  the wine aisle.

Since when does Target carry wine? You loved Target before, you have always been loyal and would never cheat on Target, and this has merely cemented your viewpoint: ah, yes, Target IS your kryptonite.

MOV
("Moving Or Vacationing?")

197. Why Target Is My BFF

After Our Computer’s near brush with death, it got me thinking: who is important in my life? who do I love and cherish and want to spend more time with? It didn’t take me long to think up an answer: Target.

Target has been my best friend for, oh, about twelve years now. I try to think back to the time before Target was a valuable member of my inner circle of friends, and, honestly, my memory goes all hazy. Was I even alive before I discovered Target? Could you even call that living?

I think not.

My best friend Target has enriched my life in so many ways (and I don’t just mean material ways, although she has always come through for me there too). Target is one of those pals who seems to somehow know just what you are missing in your life (say, a trashy celebrity gossip magazine or a new sports-watch or perhaps a jumbo bag of peanut m&ms) and then provide it.

Who was there for me at 9:55 PM to offer brand new pacifiers when my infant would not stop screaming? Target. Who found me a new soft and fuzzy red cardigan sweater when The Husband ruined my old favorite by tossing it in the dryer? That’s right: Target. Who came through in the end with last-minute school supplies for Tall when we waited until the day before school started to shop? You guessed it! Target.

Like most great friendships, this one did not develop overnight. It began as a sort of innocent crush from afar. One day I happened to pick up House Beautiful magazine, and there on page 132, was a small silver and white birdhouse with three little drawers in it (I know it sounds kooky, but you’ll just have to trust me when I say it was exquisite). The fact that I did not own a bird, nor a yard in which to attempt to capture a potential bird, did not stop me from coveting said birdhouse. In fact, there was no deterrent at all, as the price was listed as a mere $19.95 plus tax.

Having never heard of Target before that day, I immediately asked my elderly landlady if she knew where the closest Target was (she did), and I got directions and drove there.

I decided to use my new birdhouse to put mail in. Junk mail in one drawer, bills in another, and my new subscription to House Beautiful in the third. (Today I admit that the drawers were a little small for this purpose, but like any new infatuation, it seemed like a great idea at the time.)

Flash forward to now. Target and I meet up almost weekly for our special “girl time”. Like that trendy girlfriend she is, Target will helpfully point out special new jeans I might like to try on. Or maybe a new throw pillow for the living room couch. Target has her finger on the pulse of all that is new and hip and fun.

Additionally, my best friend Target is very thoughtful. She sends me things in the mail, like coupons or a $50 "Limited Edition" Buzz Lightyear two days before Christmas even though they were back-ordered. Yep, good ol’ Target comes through once again.

(Friendship, as you know, is a two-way street, and to that end, I have shared with Target too, namely a portion of each and every paycheck.)

The other great thing about Target: she doesn’t judge me. You’ll never once hear her say something like, “Don’t you already own three full sets of dishes?” or “Those purple suede boots don’t match anything in your closet.” No. Target is supportive.

Oh, sure, we’ve had our tiffs over the years, who hasn’t? Like the time I tried to return that navy blue jacket (tags attached) without a receipt. Target took one look at me and rolled her eyes (tough love). You know a receipt is required on all returns, I remember her saying with more than a bit of impatience and condescension in her tone. She ended up giving me a store credit knowing full well that I would use that store credit in about 15 seconds. But that’s the kind of thing that girlfriends go through—we laugh about it now.

The only thing (there’s always one thing, isn’t there?) that annoys me just the teeniest tiniest bit about my best friend Target is: she seems to have other friends besides me. I’m talking A LOT of other friends. She can be a Party Girl; I have to compete with everyone else to get her attention, and I’m just not 100% comfortable with that. We used to have so many good times together, just the two of us. It makes me sad. I wish Target would think back to what a loyal and devoted friend I have been over the years, and, well, maybe Target could make an effort to spend more quality time with just me. Say, open the store an hour early for me to just shop by myself—yes, that would be nice.

Maybe I’ll mention it next time I see Target, but for now, I have some coupons to go through.

MOV

180. I Choose Candy

So, unfortunately, I have become one of Those Mothers. You know, the ones who wait until the very last second to buy the Halloween candy because of their (in my case, justified) fear that they will eat all the candy themselves?

Last night, The Husband and I had the same conversation we have every October 30th. It went something like this:

The Husband: Did you buy Halloween candy yet?
Me: No. And why is it my job anyway? You can’t drive to Target?
TH: Oh, come on, don’t be ridiculous! You know I’d buy the wrong kind and then you’d be mad.

It’s true: he would buy the wrong kind. I drive to Target and am immediately sorry—there is not a parking place to be had. Uh-oh. When I finally do park on top of someone else’s car, I walk in and realize that every customer in the store is doing what I’m doing: panicking. Moms and dads and toddlers and babies and grandmas and teen-agers and twenty-somethings—everyone is here and accounted for, shoving each other out of the way in a futile attempt to locate the “best” costume or the “best” candy. It is October 30th; let’s not fool ourselves, there is no “best” left. There is not even a “second-best” or “eight-best” or “fifteenth-best”: no. There is only worst.

I maneuver past a man holding what looks like a giant beetle-goat-hybrid costume (“Sweetheart, they’re out of StarWars Luke Skywalker costumes for Jacob, can he be a beetle-goat-hybrid instead?”). I stare at the vacant shelves in disbelief—is this the first sign of the Apocalypse?

The next aisle over, I find the distinctly unappetizing leftover candies, the ones No One Else Wanted. There are a few ripped jumbo bags of Easter Skittles (I am well-aware that that is the wrong holiday), some sort of generic brand licorice that is clearly a knock-off of “Good-N-Plenty” (“Great-N-Abundant”), Organic pepper-flavored gummy balls (not surprisingly, there are several bags of these languishing on the shelf), some sad little mini chocolate bars with images of skeletons wearing devil costumes, and an abandoned bag of pretzels. As I consider the bag of pretzels, a woman clutching a tree costume grabs them out from under me.

Sigh. What am I going to do?

Target has never let me down before. I push my way through the hordes and back to the front of the store. I quietly ask to speak to a manager. A small boy all of fourteen years old steps forward and says politely, “I’m Toby, the week-end evening Shift Manager,” his voice has not changed yet, it’s high and squeaky and sounds like my six-year-old’s voice, “how can I help you, m’am?”

I explain my situation (summed up in four words: “desperation; name-brand candy”) and he nods sympathetically. Then he turns to a tiny girl who I assume must be his little sister and says, “Heather? Can you radio back to Carl and find out what’s going on with remaining pre-packaged candy in Pumpkin-Land?”

I’m liking Toby more by the minute. After a brief pow-wow with Heather about the crisis that they are now referring to as the Candy Situation, I’m whisked away to some secret back warehouse room entrance. I don’t know if this is a good idea. It’s kind of like seeing Mickey Mouse take his giant (fake) head off: disconcerting. Maybe we should forget about Halloween this year and turn all our house lights off and pretend we’re not home? Could we get away with that, or would genius neighborhood children see through our flimsy sham and retaliate by toilet-papering our house?

Carl, in all his pimply glory, meets us at the door. Toby leans in and says Something Important to Carl, who now looks very somber and serious. Toby turns back to me, hands me a coupon for 20% off and a free popcorn at their snack bar, and says apologetically, “I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience. Carl here has located a last shipment of a few boxes of candy; I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for there.” He smiles, and I notice he has what looks like a Reese’s Piece stuck in his braces.

“Thank you, Toby,” I murmur admiringly. Carl leads me back to the main receiving area, which is stacked full of cardboard boxes. We come upon some boxes that someone (Carl?) has hastily torn open, and there—lo and behold—are several giant bags of Peanut M&M’s and KitKat’s tumbling out. I gasp. It’s like Target had reserved special boxes of candy with the words “MOV’s Favorites—hold thru Sat!” emblazoned on the front.

Carl shakes his head. “I am so sorry, m’am, this is absolutely all we have left. I hate to say it, and don’t take it the wrong way, but maybe next year you might want to consider shopping for your candy a little bit sooner than October 30th…….. say, maybe August or September so you’d have the best selec…..”

I cut him off. “Carl, I appreciate your concern, but this is perfect. I’ll take all the M&M’s and KitKat’s you have.”

After I pay, I drive my SUV around to the back loading dock. Carl meets me at the curb with ten enormous boxes that could each fit a couch. I guess I’m all set for next Halloween, too.

MOV
("Mother Of Vampires")