Tag Archives: Target

A Letter to My New Vacuum

Hey there, bagless buddy!

Welcome to the family! Before you get too comfortable in the front hallway closet, I think I should let you know what you’re getting into and just who you’re dealing with here so we start out on the same page.

For a little background, I should let you know that I’m actually pretty excited about having you here. I’m a little OCD and I have to admit that there’s an odd, slightly-sick sense of satisfaction when you’re running the vacuum and hear it actually sucking up crap from the floor.While this means there was crap on the floor, this also means that the vacuum is doing its job and the floor will be clean again.

vacuumletter

 (You know this, as you are a vacuum yourself and familiar with job satisfaction.)

Anyway, then there comes a day when you’re going about vacuuming and note that there is no sound of things being sucked up—presumably because you live in an immaculate abode and never accidentally knock a measuring cup of uncooked rice on the floor, hypothetically speaking—and blissfully continue on your cleaning journey.

But then you remember that you’re me, and that last night you knocked a measuring cup of uncooked rice on the floor. And despite your best efforts with the dustbuster, you know you were bound to miss a few grains of spilled rice because there were about a million grains of spilled rice and your rage was slightly blinding.

So you snap out of your delusional state of flawless floors and start to pay a bit of attention.

One pass over the couple stray grains and no satisfying sounds…hmmm. Maybe it’s because they’re so tiny. After the second pass without any sounds, you realize that this vacuum sucks—and not in the way it’s supposed to—and that it’s starting to smell like burned rubber.

In the blink of an eye, it’s like the vacuum is suddenly offended that you asked it to do what it was bought to do and starts sending off odorous smoke signals that roughly translate to, “Oh, you wanted ME to pick that up? Well, I never….”

If you’re me, you’ll keep trying for a couple more minutes, yelling instructions and possibly profanity at the vacuum as it passive-aggressively pushes the rice over the floor before realizing you are now the proud owner of a large noisy thing with a light on the front that in its own special way, has requested an early retirement.

That brings us back to today.

When I sufficiently recovered from the vacuum betrayal above, I set out on a mission to fill that hole in my appliance arsenal, headed to Target and returned home with you—as you know—and half a dozen other things I more than likely didn’t need.

After a quick assembly and a trial run, I’m happy to report that so far, so good. You seem more than up to the task, and I have no doubt that together we can embark on a mutually beneficial relationship of sucking crap off of the floor, from in between the couch cushions and possibly the front of my shirt.

 Don’t judge. You don’t know my life.

And while I’m happy to have you aboard, I would also like to remind you that if at any time you decide to get a bit lazy yourself, I always keep the receipt.

Abby

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The 5 Stages of Shopping at Target

Listening to people talk today, Target seems to be the suburban equivalent of Las Vegas. There are no clocks on the wall, no windows to let you gaze outside and I wouldn’t be surprised if they pump oxygen throughout the store to keep you alert.

I’ve heard it suggested they might as well implement at $25 cover charge, as it seems to be impossible to walk out of the store without spending at least that amount. And as aware as I am of the hypnotizing logo and siren song of sales, I still find myself traveling through the five stages of shopping at Target every freaking time.

target

Denial

I’ll only go in for one thing. In fact, just to ensure that I make it quick, I’m going to drink at least 24 ounces of tea and water—not Starbucks from the Target location, as that will simply caffeinate my craziness—and “forget” to use the bathroom before leaving. Given my aversion to hovering above public pissers, this is a fool proof plan.

Plus, if I go at a time in which the store is most likely to be full of screaming children who feel they need ALL THE THINGS when in fact they just need a nap, the constant soundtrack of shrieks will serve as a not-so-subliminal reminder that although the appeal of a discounted chevron towel in the SAME EXACT COLORS as my kitchen—only $4!—my greater desire will be to escape from the ear-splitting screams.

Anger

After finding the one thing I went in there for, I come across bright colored melamine plates that would look great stuck in my cupboard for months—only $2!—and a 3-pack of gel fresheners in a variety of seasonal scents—only $2.79!

What the hell, Target? This wasn’t in your ad and I didn’t bring my 75-cent off coupon! I haven’t planned for these additional purchases! Crap. I also have to pee.

Bargaining

Even though I only came in here for one thing, at least I didn’t grab a cart. I WILL NOT GRAB A CART—or as I prefer to call them, “enablers.” Better to carry what I “need” by hand so that I have a palpable feel as to my prospective purchases. If I can’t carry it, I don’t buy it.

Depression

Crap again. I can carry a lot in my arms.

Acceptance

Fine. You win. Where the hell is the wine aisle? I might as well go all-in. A full-bodied red would look lovely in the two new Room Essentials wine glasses I have perched precariously on top of the Nate Berkus towel I found over on clearance. Next time I’ll stick to the plan, but this is simply too good to miss.

Now where are the bathrooms again?

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High-Tech Hypochondria

Anyone who has ever logged on to WebMD knows that typing in more than one symptom can result in a diagnosis of hypochondria and then side effects from drugs you’re not even taking.

That’s why you have to be careful and make sure you don’t have too many tabs open—on your computer or in your brain—and focus on the website you’re looking at, especially when it concerns your health. To serve as a visual warning, I have created a few Someecards to illustrate my point.

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-the-food-network-site-and-just-diagnosed-myself-as-down-in-the-dumplings-fcd38

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-animal-planet-and-diagnosed-myself-as-a-shitzuphrenic-with-a-reptile-dysfunction-bbe2a

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-the-target-website-and-diagnosed-myself-with-a-broken-budget-c2a01

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-the-weather-channel-and-diagnosed-myself-as-emotionally-frigid-a3fdd

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-pinterest-and-diagnosed-myself-with-creative-constipation--396ec

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-good-housekeeping-and-diagnosed-myself-as-domestically-disabled-33d0c

i-mixed-up-webmd-and-my-bank-and-diagnosed-myself-with-an-earning-disability-4c05e

What would you add to the mix?

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A Letter From My Yoga Pants

It has been more than a year since I wrote a letter to my new yoga pants welcoming them to the family. In that time we’ve had our share of ups and downs—often from the couch—and upward/downward facing dog positions, which is to be expected.

What I didn’t expect was a letter in reply, and I feel it’s only fair that I share their rebuttal today.

yogaletter

Dear Abby,

Here’s the deal.

The honeymoon is over.

It’s been a year since you scrounged up the $20 or so at Target to bring me into your life, and while I admit that did have slightly higher hopes for where I would end up — maybe some fashion-forward type with a perky butt that would fill me out better and wear me only once every few weeks while “slumming” and sipping wine on a veranda —I never held that fact against you.

From the beginning you made it clear that I would be put into a small rotation of “good” pants worn out in public before being relegated to “home” pants put on the second you came in the door until you hit the hay at the crazy hour of 10 p.m.

But it’s been a year, and well, I have a couple of issues.

First of all, can we talk about this gym situation a minute? Because I’m still considered your “good” pair, I always have to go out and quite frankly, being in public is exhausting.

With the exception of seeing Hot Gym Guy on the treadmill in front of us—talk about dangling the carrot in front of the horse, am I right?—I can only take so many elliptical sessions and small talk with the woman next to you who apparently marinates in perfume before I’m tempted to use my drawstring for violence.

Second, let’s talk about food.

Sometimes I feel like you should keep me in the fridge because of all the little pieces of hummus or avocado that find their way onto me. I know you try and do that whole, “Wet a towel and wipe it off” thing, but who are we kidding? I hate to break it to you, but no one, that’s who.

Finally, I’m tired and it’s starting to show.

There’s wear and tear on my cuffs, and the aforementioned weaponized drawstring has even broken off in one spot. Sometimes I even feel like even the Walmart cashier is judging how we look.

So let’s just get it all out there, my friend—it’s time to buy a new pair.

Yes, I want you to move on and wear other pants in public so I can enjoy being your “home” pair, which as you said is pretty much like retirement in the Florida Keys for me. I want to swap the gym for power yoga—and by “power yoga” I mean corpse pose on the couch for hours—and only for long walks to the fridge.

Will I miss Hot Gym Guy? Sprinting to put out the recycle as the truck comes down the street?  At times, I’m sure that I will. But all in all, I’m content providing you nothing but comfort from “real” pants that just don’t get you.

I get you.

Now with my blessing, go and get some new pants.

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A Humble Holiday Letter

Seasons Greetings!

Can you believe it’s already the holiday season again? This year’s perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself (check out my store on Etsy!) to tell you what we have been up to (in case you don’t follow my Top 100 mommy blog.)

The hubs got another promotion that we’re all just thrilled about. It means longer hours, but that’s okay seeing as we haven’t been sleeping in the same bed for the past few months, anyway. But we still see each other in our weekly therapy sessions—it’s so important to make time for a date night!

Earlier this year Alexander won the Local County Quiz Bowl for Gifted and Talented Blond Children, and he also volunteers to teach multiplication to less fortunate kids who have to shop at The Target and similar shops. We’re so proud that he gives back.

It’s been a little bit rougher with big sister Alexandra this year, but great news! She was finally paroled from juvenile detention last month. Although she remains on house arrest, having her at home has really helped us bond (no pun intended.)

Dr. Phil recommends doing activities together, so we’ve created several decorative adornments for the house tether she wears on her ankle. They’re really quite lovely!

Anywho, it snowed last week, so I got up early and made a sled with my trusty glue gun and old barn wood. While the glue set and the homemade bread was rising, I churned the butter, cured the bacon and squeezed the oranges for the 20 guests we had over for our annual 7-course brunch.

(Secret time! I didn’t have time to blow glass for new glasses and goblets, so I used the ones I had on hand.) 

The hubs was able to pull himself away from work, Alexander serenaded the guests on a violin he whittled himself and of course Alexandra wasn’t going anywhere, so it was really a delightful way to spend the afternoon. We were all just really tickled!

Well, I must run. I need to soak the herbs for my homemade deodorant before a mani/pedi with the gals. Busy, busy, busy!

We hope all is well on your end!

Happy Holidays!

Pollyanna


Dear Polly:

I’m writing this on the back of an old grocery list, so pay no attention to the tea and hummus stains. I just got home from a full day of work and am cleaning up cat puke again, but least the carpets get cleaned!

I haven’t received a promotion, but I did dream of work last night before going into the office this morning, so I suppose you could say I’m still living the dream! To be honest, I’m not that impressed.

Still no husband over here either, but a 93-year-old man at the old people’s home called me “Sir,” so it’s not like I don’t have options. Maybe I should pretty up my own feet, but it’s been so long since my last pedicure that the salon girl would probably recommend amputation instead. I just wear socks.

Sorry to here about the incident with Alexandra, but when life knocks you down to your knees, remember you’re in the perfect position to look under the couch for dropped snacks!

Speaking of which, the smoke alarm is going off, so that means my dinner is done.

Talk to you later! 

Abby

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How to Survive Shopping at Target

When I was little and the first Target store was built in my area, no one had heard of the company. Construction was going on and given the placement of the actual target in the logo—a target I’m now convinced is actually a hypnotic symbol that draws you in—I thought the name was “O Target.”

Listening to people talk today, Target seems to be the suburban equivalent of Las Vegas. There are no clocks on the wall, no windows to let you gaze outside and I wouldn’t be surprised if they pump oxygen throughout the store to keep you alert.

I’ve heard it suggested they might as well implement at $25 cover charge, as it seems to be impossible to walk out of the store without spending at least that amount.

I’m not a big shopper, but I swear to avocados that once I start roaming the aisles I find bright colored melamine plates that would look great stuck in my cupboard for months—only $2!—and at the very least, a 3-pack of gel fresheners in a variety of seasonal scents—only $2.79!

But being the frugal female that I am, I have also devised a few tips and tricks to outsmart the hypnotic trance and underhand Target tactics.

target

The first is obvious in that you should never venture to the superstore wearing khakis and a red polo—the Target uniform—unless you’re prepared to answer questions from shoppers about where to find moisturizer or Archer Farms cereal.

If you’re at Target a lot, this might not be a problem because you’ll know the store layout by heart. But if you’re not looking for an interruption during your retail rendezvous, ditch the khakis and polo.

With your outfit selected, be sure to drink at least 24 ounces of a beverage of your choice—not Starbucks from the Target location, as that will simply caffeinate your craziness—and “forget” to use the bathroom before leaving.

If you’re anything like me and don’t enjoy hovering over public toilet seats, the pressing needs of your bladder might just serve as a gentle reminder to get in and out of the store ASAP.

The day you choose to shop there can have a significant impact on both TSIS (time spent in store) and MDD (monetary damage done).

If you’re confident in your ability to shave time off your TSIS with no issues, go whenever you would like. But if you’re feeling weak and fear the possible MDD, choose a time in which the store is most likely to be full of screaming children who feel they need ALL THE THINGS when in fact they just need a nap.

This constant soundtrack of shrieks can serve as the soundtrack and not-so-subliminal reminder that although the appeal of a discounted chevron towel in the SAME EXACT COLORS as your kitchen—only $4!—your greater desire is to escape from the ear-splitting screams.

Finally, when you do enter the store, do not grab a cart—or as I prefer to call them, “enablers.” Unless the one item you need is too large to lug through the store, carts are simply vehicles for maximum MDD. Better to carry what you “need” by hand so that you have a palpable feel as to your prospective purchases.

If everything goes according to plan, your tired arms, full bladder and desire to escape the screams of Satan spawn should aid in your valiant effort to maximize the foolproof formula:

Less TSIS = Less MDD

Good luck staying on target.

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A Dozen Delusions

It’s very important to be honest, but we all have those little things we tell ourselves that we know probably aren’t completely accurate. I hesitate to call them “lies,” as that implies some sort of deliberate manipulation, so perhaps calling them “delusions of grandeur” would be a bit more accurate.

With that said, I have included short list of the things I tell myself without entirely believing.

A Dozen Delusions

1. I don’t need to write something down because I’ll remember it. Despite the fact I don’t have solid evidence to back this one up, I continue to employ this philosophy. So mental note—real notes work better.

2. Pushing the pedestrian crossing button at crosswalks actually makes the light change quicker. Is it magic that the little white person on the light appears 10-20 seconds after I push it or simply coincidence? I also tell my self I won’t actually say “Ped Xing”— as in “ped exing” and not “pedestrian crossing”— out loud, but I do.

pedestrian_crossing_sign_l

Why doesn’t he have any feet?

3. That I’ll be able to put a key on a key ring in less then 10 minutes. I don’t believe this is humanly possible without the use of heavy machinery, yet I still wrestle with the damn things each time.

4. When going to Target, I tell myself I only need one or two things and to act in a civilized manner. Yet a few minutes into my jaunt I more closely resemble a skinny Tasmanian devil who forgot to write down what she needs—see point No. 1—and walks out with a bag full of “prizes.”

5. That I can discreetly manipulate two grocery carts that are stuck together, after which point I will be rewarded with a perfectly functional cart for my shopping. However, 99.99 percent of the time, I end up going Hulk on the metal pieces of shit, violently ripping them apart and being left with one that has a wonky wheel that veers into displays.

6. That faking my own death is an overly dramatic reaction to being asked to attend a webinar or fold laundry.

7. When my phone cuts out, I tell myself to wait a few minutes and let the other person call back. However, I get impatient and am the best at playing the “let’s keep calling each other at the same time so it goes straight to voicemail” game. Solution? Avoid the phone.

8. That turning up the radio in my Blazer so I can’t hear any weird noise that it’s making means there’s nothing wrong with my Blazer.

9. Because I feed the squirrels and birds in my yard, I would like to believe they respect me as a neurotic Dr. Doolittle of sorts. But with each acorn that lands on my head by the feeder and each bird gang bang performed in the bird bath, this mutual respect is called into question.

10. That if SpongeBob Squarepants–a freaking sponge–can find pants that fit, I can find a pair of “real” pants that aren’t uncomfortable. Actually, I don’t think I believe this myself anymore and should probably remove it from the list. Let’s move on—in workout pants.

11. I clean my floors simply to keep things nice and not because I inevitably drop food every day. Also, that I can stand next to the toaster, anticipating toast, and not jump every time the toast is popped up.

12. That the fact people found my blog with “snowman in a thong and sombrero,” “elderly squirrel Fight Club” and “mosquito boobs”—that one stings— is cancelled out by whoever found it with “Please. Like you’ve never Febreezed grandma.”

Your turn. What delusions of grandeur can you share with the class?

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Hitting the Target

I was in Target the other afternoon for one thing, meaning the second I walked in I suddenly felt like I needed to buy ALL the things.

As I was walking down an aisle silently praising myself for not grabbing a shopping basket—if I only grab what I can carry, it cuts down on the damages—I saw a little girl with sun-bleached blonde hair and a deep summer tan by the toys.

She looked to be about four or five, but then again I’m a horrible judge of age when it comes to kids. She could be 12 with a criminal record for all I know, but she was little.

Anyway, a second later a boy who looked to be her slightly older, tanned blonde brother came and told her that their mom was waiting. She put down the toy and flip-flopped her way through the store.

I ran into the kids again a few minutes later with a woman who was unmistakably their mother. An older daughter and a baby added to the mix, all of them chatting and shopping — mom telling the boy that they had chips at home and the baby babbling happily from her perch in the cart.

For some weird reason I couldn’t stop looking, which wasn’t hard to do considering they ended up being those people that I kept running into every single aisle.

But I was struck.

This will sound weird coming from me, but the beauty of that seemingly average family scene really touched me in some way. Maybe it was the tans and identical blonde hair or the fact that the mom seemed like one of those moms that the neighborhood kids would all like. Maybe it was the way the kids seemed so fun or the fact that they were well-behaved.

I don’t know what it was, but something just drew me back in. So the next time that our paths crossed and we did that polite, “Yes, we’ve just run into each other again and I’ll give that fake smile once more” thing, I let her know.

“I’m not a weirdo or anything,” I said as we passed once again, which is always a good way to start. “But you have a beautiful family—and they’re all so polite, as well!”

With the baby moved to her hip, she looked stunned, as if I’d just told her the little blonde midget walking through all the toys did have a criminal record.

“Oh my gosh,” she said as she smiled a bit shyly. “You don’t know just how much that means. We have our moments, but yes, we truly are blessed. Thank you so much for that. Really, thank you.”

At that the baby began shrieking, the mom made a joke about how we had cursed things and we went our separate ways, the older kids politely not making any comments about the crazy lady with her arms full of ALL THE THINGS who refused to just grab a cart.

But along with unnecessary items, I also had a strong sense of peace. I know I will never walk into Target as a mom, and will probably never walk in as a wife. Those are experiences that will elude me, experiences I’ll never have, but those are the choices I make.

And while I have not one iota of doubt, regret or envy, that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty of what I don’t want or extend my admiration for those who chose paths that I’ll never walk down.

My path is mine. Her path is hers.

And that is a beautiful thing.

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Say What?

There are times I’ll hear a song I’ve heard a million times before and suddenly realize I’ve been singing the wrong lyrics every single time. 

It doesn’t bother me that much because my version usually makes more sense anyway, but this means that when I hear someone else say them  “correctly,” I’m just as confused as when I found out John Fogerty was singing “Put me in, Coach” and not “Put me in a coma” in his song, “Centerfield.”

At any rate, things always sound better in my head—including a bunch of regular words and phrases I assign a certain phonetic pronunciation to that no one else has a clue about.

In other words, I nail 90s rap songs and pronounce “Worcestershire sauce” perfectly in my head every single time.

But there are some words that I know how to say correctly—the “real” correct and not the “Abby” correct—that I still occasionally choose to say somewhat phonetically from time to time, simply because it’s more fun.

Most of them are foreign. This means I sound fancy AND well-traveled in my own head when, for example, I talk about:

Tar-jay (Target), burr-rettes (berets), Vide-ul Sass-in (Vidal Sassoon) shampoo,  tore-tillahs (tortillas), whores de-vores (hors d’oeuvres), a kayfe (café), par-fits (parfaits), Chee-waa-waa or Chee-wah (Chihuahua) or la-zag-na (lasagna.)

Why am I telling you about a bunch of words that I say wrong because I’m easily amused? Good question, and I probably wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for an experience I had recently while at Tar-jay.

Follow along now, but don’t throw anything in the cart that’s not on the list.

So I was checking out at Tar-jay and told the cashier—“Stacey,” according to her name tag— that yes, Stacey, I did find everything I was looking for along with three dozen other things I never knew I needed. 

Because I said this out loud and know how to read, I was confident that her name was actually Stacey. However, she quickly informed me that, “It’s pronounced ‘C’, like in ‘cantaloupe.’  The s, t, a and y are all kind of silent. It’s easier that way!”

For cripe’s sake.

To preserve my own sanity and what little faith I had left in the human race, I had to believe that she thought that sounded better in her head. And while I probably should have thanked her for giving me something to blog about, I think you know me better than that.

So instead I told her, “That’s so funny! If you replace the s, t, c and e in your name, but add in two b’s, you have my name! The a, b’s and y are all silent though. It’s easier that way.”

Was that mean? Possibly, but she gave me a giggle along with my receipt so I doubt that much damage was done.

And after all, you know what they say: “S’est lah vye!”

Or to get technical: “C’est la vie” with a “c,” like in “cantaloupe.”

Put me in a coma.

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