The one where my daughter fails to use her inside voice
We are there for two things:
1. To pick up a prescription and
2. To buy me a new bra
We have just visited the ladies room, because for some unknown reason the interior of Target seems to put my daughters' bladders into hyperdrive. I do not know why liquid passes through their body at a greater rate of speed in Target than anywhere else, but even the shortest of Target trips always require at least two potty stops, and one of them always comes when we are as far as humanly possible from the restrooms.
So I've learned--after nearly six years--to make a pit stop immediately upon entering the store.
We are just walking down the main aisle leading straight into the store from the main entrance when I say, quietly to Peanut, "I need to get a new bra."
And she says, at the absolute TOP of her lungs, "I'LL HELP YOU MOMMY! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR BREASTS?"
I stop the cart and look up. Two teenage girls are standing at the side of the aisle. They are clearly horrified. Their mouths are hanging open and they are staring at me. Moments later, they turn and begin to laugh. Loudly.
On the other side of the aisle is a man in his 30s. Looking. Directly. At. My. Boobs.
Now I suppose, on some level, he really can't be blamed. We all know that men have a certain - um - fondness for them and we also know that their functions are not really so much ruled by the brain on their head as they are the head between their legs, but still. STILL. I mean the guy was practically drooling. A little dignity, please, because that, my friend, is not going to get you any where with any woman any time ever. PERIOD.
Peanut, by this time, has already reached the bra section and is riffling through an end-cap display of lacy black bras. "WHICH ONE, MOMMY? WHICH ONE? THESE SAY 'D'? IS THIS THE ONE?"
Drool-man looks like he is going to pass out any minute from all the excitement. I shoot him a dirty look, which finally seems to snap him back to the reality where I am a forty-year-old mother of two in Target on Sunday afternoon and not some stripper winding herself around a pole. He turns quickly and disappears into the ladies' clothing section (let's not even go there, OK?)
Peanut is standing in the aisle, holding a HUGE black lace bra up to chest and prancing.
"I LIKE THIS ONE!" she is shouting.
I can hear the teenage girls behind me howling with laughter. If nothing else, I feel assured that I have helped prevent two teen pregnancies with this trip. I'm a glass-half-full kinda girl, after all, and have to find the bright side somewhere in this.
I approach her. The bra she is holding up is a double D.
"Not this one," I tell her. "Smaller. B. We need one with a B on it. And not these - something a little less . . . fancy."
We search the aisles - her pulling every bright pink, loud patterned, adorned with 8-pounds of lace style she can find off the displays and me searching quietly for a basic, flesh toned, not overly padded, comfortable-looking bra. I finally find one, which I toss in the cart.
(And I need to say that at this point, though it's probably been no more than 10 minutes, Loaf announces that she needs to use the bathroom. Seriously?!? Is there some type of diuretic in the air in there?! So off we go - again - to the restrooms.)
We exit the restroom, hit the pharmacy, pick up the prescription and go to the other registers to pay for the bra, which I could have paid for in the pharmacy, but I completely forgot about.
I hand the clerk the bra and Peanut leans over the conveyor.
"IT'S A B," she states boldly. "I HELPED HER PICK IT OUT."
Standing behind me is another horrified teenage girl - eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open and face flushing red. Score! One more teen pregnancy prevented.
Mission accomplished, in all ways, we leave the store.