I don't know about you, but every time I go to Target, no matter what I've gone there for, I also wind up buying two things: something completely random and unnecessary, and something snacky in enticing packaging.
It's like my trip is not complete if I don't purchase and immediately use or consume something shiny and something fattening.
Or rather, this is how it used to be. I fear I now have a new standard.
Now, it's not a trip to Target if there's no poo and public display of mammaries.
Betty and I checked out the Target on 14th Street. With the exception of the bathrooms, it is large and very nice. They have this cool ramp between escalators that will take your cart up for you as you ascend the escalator.
As a child, I'd definitely have climbed in for the ride. Hell, I was tempted. But it seemed very imprudent with an infant.
So we were browsing, and Betty was pushing Big J and chatting with him and then suddenly she said, "Ohhh we need a bathroom. This is a big one."
And so we headed to what turned out to be a fairly small, gross women's bathroom. With a dirty changing table, located about two feet inside the bathroom door.
So everyone who comes in or out has to squeeze by you, your soiled baby, and the poo-cloths you are flailing around with.
I recently lost the changing mat that came with my super cute and stripey diaper bag. And so I've been carrying around large trash bags. I'm typically kind of embarrassed to change my kid on a trash bag, but in this instance, I felt lucky.
There we were, baby on a trash bag, removing his massive, poo-sodden diaper, his socks, which somehow got poo on them, and his poo-laden onesie. Trying to keep him calm. Which was kind of impossible, because of the fucking hand dryers.
These hand dryers! They are those mega-dry ones - but not as nice as the kind at Founding Farmers that I would to put my penis in if I had one. They rippled your hand skin, they were so strong. They sounded goddamn jets taking off.
So we'd be all, wipe, wipe, "It's OK, sweetie!"
And then someone would stick their hands under. WHOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!
And he would flinch, all, "HOLY FUCK! WAAAAAAAAH!"
They scared the shit out of him - ha - every time one went off.
So we finally, finally got him unpooified, into a new diaper, new clothes, and off the trash bag and into the stroller.
He was traumatized. He was hungry. And really, he needed some Comfort Boob.
We were traumatized. We needed to sit down.
So Betty suggested we head over to Furniture. She'd seen a couch.
Which led us to install ourselves on Trendy Sofa or whatever it was called. To settle in for a good lunch.
Except for the very public nature of it - the sofa is up on a display stand - it was pretty ideal. Which is a very large except.
Because nearly the entire Target-shopping world and every single employee walked by as we hung out. Which in that instance, bothered me not one bit.
Truth be told, I was kind of itching for a fight. I was all angry about the bathroom and ready to give them the stinkeye and be all kinds of salty if anyone told me I couldn't nurse on display furniture.
You'd think I'd feel vulnerable, but somehow, I felt empowered. Like, I am woman, I can feed my child with my very own boobs, right here on this display couch, and just you try to fuck with me.
But nobody said a word.
Well, one man did, but very jovially. He asked if we were going to hold a meeting at the table behind us after our meal.