Celebratory Masochism

This afternoon, I received a sudden flurry of good news - both on the financial front, the South Cackalacky Unemployment Commission, and a few more interviews lined up, and my guy at the agency is going to tout me as the best candidate, cause he's cool like dat. All this took place on the phone within a half hour, like a hailstorm of good karma.

Feeling buoyantly optimistic and cheerful, with significantly more money in the bank than I was expecting to keep (relatively speaking, the sum total of my liquid assets could only be referred to as "significant" in third world countries), I decided to go hit up Target for some things I've been needing for myself and for the house.

Let me be clear. I loathe shopping. It isn't that I don't like acquiring new things, but that is what the internet is for (besides porn). I can't stand large chain stores, the huge parking lots, the crowds, the seven trillion square feet of consumables. I have not set foot in an actual mall in nearly eleven years. I have to give myself a pep talk to run to Publix for a basket full of groceries. I can't really pinpoint what exactly it is about it that causes me such anxiety, but it does, and there's no reasoning my way through it. Sometimes, though, making a quick run to Target or someplace like that is the only option that makes sense. When I do this, I have a list. I get in the door, grab my air filters and eyeliner and DVD-Rs, beeline it to the checkout line, and am normally in and out in less than fifteen minutes.

But every so often, the things I need cannot be snatched up in such a frenzied, focused mission. Sometimes I need things that take consideration. Color. Texture. Quality. Size. Patterns. Price. Things like curtains, sheets, dinnerware, lampshades, gifts for others, thank you notes, whatever. Or, god forbid, clothes. These are things that require me to stand around in aisles considering the array of choices before me. This is the kind of shopping I did today.

For these occasions, two xanax does the trick. I can wander about the stores for hours without feeling the need to abandon my cart and bolt out of there. Problem is, that's exactly what I do. Wander about. For hours. Putting stuff in my cart, and often taking it out again later when I remember that's not what I came for. Sometimes I get obsessed with finding the perfect X, and will even go to the adjacent stores (World Market, Bed Bath & Beyond, Pier 1), looking for the tangible exact match of whatever I have pictured in my head. This NEVER works, because my imagination is too vivid, and dammit, if I suddenly want a cast iron bistro table with a white and green tile mosaic of vines, I will accept no substitute for the table I just conjured up in my mind's eye.

There are exceptions to every rule - I need not psych myself up to go places like... Staples. Most of you know how much I love office supplies, with an inexplicable enthusiasm. So when I noticed that the back to school supplies at Tar-jay were 75% off, I cheerfully zombie-shuffled my way over there in happy expectation.

I got nothing. Know why? Because EVERYTHING looked like this.

 

















No folder, no binder, no notebook nor pencil nor backpack was free of vampires and werewolves.

If Stephanie Meyers ever comes near here for a book signing, I am going. I will camp out on the sidewalk all night. When my turn finally comes and I get up to the table, I am going to go all Buffy (pre season five) on her ass and make some snarky remark as I ram a broken table leg into her left ventricle. Sparkle sparkle, bitch.