I had just signed whatever federal warning crap thing they make you sign to get the good, meth-grade allergy pills. The pharmacy lady at the unSuperT was super perky and I was itchy-nosed, red-eyed, muzzy-headed in serious need of some pseudoephedrine sulfate mixed with loratadine. It’s my favorite.

So I’m standing there as Perky talks about all the allergy pills people have been buying, mostly minding my own business, smiling politely the way we Minnesotans do when being yammered at, when a small old lady strolls by with her cart.

“Well you’re nice and tall,” she said as she glided past me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I got lucky.” I didn’t say with any kind of snark. I wasn’t being sarcastic or anything. I was just trying to add some sort of inane thought after “Yeah.” I mean what the hell am I supposed to say?

Then in a tone most often heard cackling “I’ll get you my pretty” by green-faced old witches, this small old lady yells/shouts (from two aisles away), without turning around “YOU’LL SHRINK SOMEDAY!”

I looked at Perky as she handed me my box of pills and raised my eyebrows. She looked at me and shrugged. It was nice to know that it wasn’t just my allergies making her sound like the wicked witch of the Target toothpaste aisle.

Oh, and then as I was leaving, with a trio of Tibbles hanging off my cart, I was stopped by another woman. This one was not old, probably in her fifties. She had long dark hair and black bedazzled clothing, as well as some sort of glittery sticker (or perhaps it was a piercing) stuck to her face.

“Good,” she said emerging from the Office Supply area, and hailing me down. “You have glasses.”
“Yeah,” I said, because again, what do you say to the obvious?
She thrusts a well-loved, mostly-used tube of Maybelline lipstick at me. “This is my lipstick.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Can you read that number?” She points to the bottom of the tube.
“Yeah. It’s zero-one-zero, Ultimate Blush.”
She takes the lipstick from me and hands me two new tubes. “Is either of these that color? I can’t read it. I was looking for a magnifying glass.”
I read the bottoms of the tubes. “It’s this one,” I said, handing her the new tube of Ultimate Blush.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “I just can’t read that small anymore.”
“You’re welcome,” I said and shuffled off toward the check out.

“How come people always talk to you?” Liam asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “Probably because I look like a chump.”
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s probably it.”

The post Strange Women Like to Talk to Me When I Go to Target appeared first on I Will Dare.

Interlude: I thought about going back and high-fiving that kid but by then I was in the toothpaste aisle on the never-ending quest for cinnamon-flavored dental floss. I’m pretty sure I could find a Sasaquatch, the Yeti, the Loch-Ness Monster, and probably a suitable boyfriend before I find cinnamon-flavored dental floss. For real people, if you find some buy it. You could probably auction that shit off on eBay for some serious cash.

Two: While I was searching for cinnamon-flavored dental floss, a woman entered the toothpaste aisle. She was talking loudly on a cell phone. I didn’t catch what she was saying, but that’s only because I was too busy laughing about how she had not one not two but THREE copies of Fifty Shades of Grey cradled in her arm. Like I said on Twitter, I wasn’t sure if she were buying them for her bookclub or if they were Mother’s Day Gifts. Both options crack me up.

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If you are me, you’re quite taken aback and wonder, what the fuck? Is this something people do? Really?

I guess I could see it if I were about 88, if I had a car load of kids, or if I seemed to be struggling. But it was just me and I like to think that I don’t look a day over 36.5. I could have even understood it if it were -30 degrees out. But on a crisp, clear fall night?

It totally weirded me out. Because even after my initial, no thank you, the dude asked me if I was sure. And while I didn’t say it, I thought, yeah I am perfectly capable of walking three entire parking spots away. Instead, I just said, no thank you again.

Maybe I strike people as someone who can’t properly return her cart to the cart corral. Or maybe hippie-looking dudes at the Savage Super-T are just excessively polite and helpful.

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Apparently I can’t.

I’m not a person to talk about my cats. I have a phobia of being the crazy cat lady. I have an extra-special, super-duper phobia of being the messy-haired, stained-t-shirt-wearing lady who goes to the SuperT and talks to the cashier about her cats. I AM NOT THAT WOMAN. It was totally the cashier’s fault. And you’d better believe that I thought about telling every other shopper around me that it wasn’t my fault. Because it wasn’t. At all.

Really.

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