Incident in a Box

So I had to return something at Target today (yes, I said "at" and not "to"--it's an idiomatic thing). It was a humiliating endeavor because it involved random impulse purchases that I had originally made separately, but put together on the counter made it look like I was completely deranged--a hair straightener, a Cat-of the-Day calendar and 2 packages of Hannah Montana underpants. Really. I cannot imagine why I can't get a date.


I made my Michigan left onto Hall Road on my way to the Big Red BullsEye. Now for those not from the East-Side, Hall Road is a booming, gigantic, retail-a-palooza that has anything and everything imaginable to purchase and/or eat within about 4 miles. It is an 8-lane-boulevard with a speed limit of 50 (which in the D means a solid 63) where red-lights are optional and the accidents are infinite. As I pulled into the rutted, destroyed parking lot (it's been a long winter of plowing and salting) I wondered to myself why it is that I shop at Target?


I like Target. No real compelling reason--I just do. In Metro Detroit, as in most places, we have a plethora of big box stores to choose from. There's Target, Meijer, Wal-Mart, K-Mart, Steve's Mart (I'm kidding--seeing if you were paying attention), plus Sam's Club, Costco and the like. Now, I'm excluding the last two from this commentary because--well, because I just am--and don't even get me started on the Big-K. That chain really just needs to be put out of its misery.

Meijer is a Midwest phenomenon that terrifies me because of it's sheer mammoth enormity. I Googled it, and the average store size is about 200,000 square feet. Because I have no concept of size, distance or spatial relationships, I have no idea what that means, but I can tell you that all Meijers have a full-on grocery store, plus all the stuff you'd find at Target or Wal-Mart. And, invariably they have a gas station in the forward part of the parking lot, which is absolutely, positively always completely full of cars no matter what time of the day or night you go there. I can never find what I want because I don't need to choose from 14 different types of frozen green beans, the cheap stuff is always sold out, and I inevitably just wander the aisles dazed, either bumping in to people or getting smoked by the grannies as they whiz past me in their Amigos with their mini-baskets full of Franzia and Lean Cuisine.


Now Wal-Mart, I do not enjoy. I have been to a few, and have yet to encounter those happy, smiling southern folk out to save a buck by making Barilla baked-pasta dinners that inhabit their television commercials. Never, not once. For the most part, the Wal-Marts I've been to are funky, dingy edifices filled with bedraggled citizens whose tops so don't match their bottoms, and whose children run amok terrorizing those of us who are only there to get some HBAs to burn the gift card they won at work. Now, I'm not saying that all Wal-Marts are like this, but this observation coupled with the "Incident" has forever colored my impression of the place.


The "Incident" occurred about 5 years ago (35 years for you, Fido, if you are reading this). One bright sunny May morning, my girlfriend Christa called me up to see if I wanted to go shopping with her. Always subconsciously wanting to escape my loveless home, I said yes, and away we went. We went to the mall--looked at stuff at Nordstrom that we couldn't afford, went into Abercrombie & Fitch and looked at stuff that didn't fit, and had coffee at the little place in the food court that afforded the best view of the poor, emasculated fathers forced to supervise their monstrous children on the playscape.


We were almost home when Christa said, "Ooh, I forgot I have to return something at Wal-Mart." (See I told you it was an idiom). The items she had to return were 3 Easter/Springtime hand towels--retail value about $9.87. We walk in, and the first thing she says is "I didn't buy them here, I bought them at the nice one by my parents' house" which is apparently one of the happy, smiling ones I have not frequented. I didn't even get to ask my silent question, "JesusMaryandJoseph what in the hell is that Godforsaken smell and why is the floor that color?"


Anyway, we approach the customer-service desk where we are acknowledged with a most sincere head-tip by a besmocked lass named "Tamrah" which I now believe was so made up. Now Ms. Tamrah had a head of hair on her so architecturally stunning that can only truly be appreciated by a chick who grew up in Jersey in the 80's. I took notice of her spiral-permed tresses, teased to a fluffy peak at the crown of her head, admired the much shorter sides expertly lacquered in place by some sort of pomade, dare I say Dippity-Do, and coveted the bangs curled completely under into a solid, perfect pig-in-a-blanket at the front of her heavily powdered pinkish forehead. The whole shebang was held in place by a nearly-visible cloud of AquaNet or some other heavy-duty aerosol product--White Rain never would have stood a chance against that lid.


So Ms. Tamrah, with the little tiny loopy earrings all the way up both ears, grabs the receipt and the towels and starts pecking away at the keyboard with her violet-blue airbrushed nails, and a periodic, involuntary "Mmm hmm." She then tells Christa to swipe her card for the credit, and Christa complies. Or I think she did, because I literally could not take my eyes from the creature standing in front of me. Anyway, apparently, Christa couldn't get the card to swipe and before she could say a word, Tamrah snatched that credit card right out of Christa's hot little hand and proceeded to rub it all over her ample bosom. Repeatedly. We stood there absolutely agog, dumbfounded, not quite believing what we had just witnessed, and Tamrah smiled and said, very matter-of-factly, "Mmm hmm, sometimes, ya just gotta demagnerate it."


And there you have it. The "Incident," and the singularly most awesome phrase ever uttered. It is my firm unwavering belief that this is why Target has pioneered the automatic receipt look-up system--no demagneration required.