Stuck on a Big Red Bulls-Eye

They say the first step to healing addiction is to admit you have a problem. So here goes...

My name is Laurie, and I am a Target addict.

It started innocently enough. Occasional visits to buy clothes for the grand-kids or stock up on storage bins. Soon, the need escalated. I would madly rifle the Sunday paper for the Target sale circular. Find any excuse to pop-in "just to see what's new." When the cashiers started greeting me by name, I knew I had a problem.

But can you blame me? The comforting "whoosh" of the automatic doors; those cute red plastic carts; those delightful dollar bins; the sassy bulldog mascot, dazzling commercials, and surprisingly chic discount fashion. These guys are good! That giant red bulls-eye sign? Well, I finally realized the Target is ME!

I'm not a church-goer. I'm not a joiner of reading clubs. I don't do group-think. But at Target, I feel like I belong. Yes, I know the store is cleverly designed to pull me deep into Small Electrics, but wandering the aisles is a mini-vacation, a break from dull routine. As I cannily scan the endcaps for the best "Clearance" merch or daydream of mountain streams in the Camping aisle (I've never actually been camping but that's the addiction talking) I believe anything is possible, even CHEEZ-IT's for $2.94!!

Anyway, I know this has to stop. So I've embarked on my own 12 Step Program to rid myself of this terrible Target compulsion (with apologies to AA, I'm a bit impatient, so it's actually 5 Steps):

1. Admit I have a problem. (See above.)
2. Believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity (Thanks, Suze Orman!)
3. Make amends for the errors of my ways. (Hmm, this is tough. Should I return my purchases? Cut up my charge cards? I know, I'll make a donation to Toys for Tots! I'll just run to Target and buy something....DOH!! See how insidious this addiction is?)
4. Learn how to live a new life with a new code of behavior. (Made good progress here. Vowed to shop Wal-mart occasionally even though I think it's ruining small-town America and I hate those goofy greeters.)
5. Help others who suffer from the same compulsion. (Note: People in the checkout lane can get downright nasty when told they are addicted and need a Sponsor.)

You'll be happy to know I'm now completely free of my previous obsession. I realize that there is much more to Life than whiling away the hours in Target. Forget about "Expect More. Pay Less." I'm all about "Live more. Shop less." I'm all about Art! Music! PBS! (Okay, American Idol).

Life is short, time is precious and ...oops, hold on, I just got friend-ed on Facebook. Gotta run!

The Masquerade

It wasn’t the kind of thing she normally went in for. Not with this crowd. This crowd really wasn’t her thing. Her people were far more interesting, certainly. Artistic types. Playwrights. Musicians. These people were, well, country club people. Not her sort at all.

But the invitation couldn’t be refused. She’d wanted to, truthfully. Make some excuse, plead family obligations. But Big Ed said no, they had to attend. They’d known the Birthday Girl too long, he said, and you don’t turn 50 everyday. They had to make an appearance. They would duck out early at least.

What a bother, this whole costume thing. She had to admit that S. looked charming, the “biergarten maid” outfit showing off her curves and gap-toothed smile to full effect. The men seemed to love it. Lucky she herself had access to the theater’s wardrobe. The “contessa” was a brilliant choice. Black lace always suited her glacial blonde-ness. She couldn’t help comparing her own elegance to the camp and frivolity around her. That ridiculous cowboy and cowgirl. The silly man dressed as a nun. At least the couple doing Frida and Diego showed some wit. She doubts half the guests even recognize who they are.

Lord, don’t tell me there’s a speech. What’s Birthday Girl going on about? Oh, yes, her family. She’s always talking about her family. Like they’re so special. Newsflash: we all have family issues. Does she ever hear me bitching about my family? Now, there’s a family to bitch about. But I have the decency not to focus on myself all the time. Sometimes, girlfriend, it’s just not all about you.

She gives Birthday Girl a hug, compliments her speech. So heartfelt, she says. Very touching. Wonderful party! Big Ed catches her eye and does an eye-roll. Checking her watch, the contessa sees it is too early for polite leave-taking. The music starts again, and as Birthday Girl gets up to dance with her husband, the contessa drinks her third cup of coffee and watches.

What does she see in him? He’s so…too much. He thinks he’s so great. Smug. With his country club friends. She’s changed, since she married him. With the big house and the trips to Europe. Insufferable, really. So damn ‘supportive’ when I was off the wagon. So earnest. Thank god I bailed doing that speech at the wedding. That’s what gave me the relapse – I just couldn’t face standing up there the next day. The fact that I showed up at all was a huge sacrifice on my part.

The table around her is littered with half-empty glasses, crumbs, and the obligatory disposable camera. Someone is pointing it at her now. She declines to smile. How did she get seated here? Ah, these are the co-workers, she realizes, so she‘s relegated to former associate status. That’s rich, she thinks. She should have known, that first day Birthday Girl walked into the office and the boss volunteered her as welcoming committee, there would be…something, between them.

I was just a peon then. She was the new ‘star.’ Galling, really, considering she had no real experience. I had to pay my dues. It took me years to work up to the title they just handed her on day one. Who showed her the ropes, who told her where the bodies were buried? I sweat blood for that place. I put their needs before everything, even my family. But I had to go when I saw they would never give me the respect I deserved. I’m much better off now. I’ve made so much progress. My boss loves me.

Finally, time to leave. The countess grasps Birthday Girl’s hands, looks deeply into her eyes. Thank you so much for inviting us, she says, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Let’s do lunch soon, she offers. She turns, and leaves the gathering, sweeping her black lace skirts behind her, breathing a barely-concealed sigh of relief. She never looks back. As she slides into the front seat next to Big Ed, she says: The things we do for friends.

The Rewards of Really Bad Behavior

A small article tucked away in the Local section of today’s Philadelphia Inquirer caught my eye. It seems 39-year old Anthony Miller of Lancaster was so desperate to get away from his bossy wife that going to jail seemed like a rosier alternative. Talk of divorce only triggered threats of suicide from a wife described, perhaps kindly, as “overbearing.”

Mr. Miller decided to escape – by robbing a bank. During the heist, he surprised tellers by checking on their efforts to call the cops. Sure enough, he was apprehended, pled guilty, was sentenced to three to six years and skipped off to prison, if not exactly happier, at least considerably less henpecked. He and his harridan are now divorced, sans slit wrists. True story!

Some may say this was the act of a truly desperate man. I say, how creative! That’s what I call “thinking outside the box”, though poor Mr. Miller is now literally boxed-in for the foreseeable future. Yes, one man’s felony is another’s innovative problem-solving. We all know the old “squeaky wheel” adage. And all around us, we see examples of people, hell, entire countries (can you say North Korea?) being rewarded for really bad behavior.

So, taking a cue from Mr. Miller’s brilliant example, I’ve compiled a handy list of ways the average non-felon can use this high risk-high reward approach to solving everyday problems:

• Housework. No sane person likes housework. It’s not so bad occasionally, but the conundrum is, no matter how often or how well done the task, eventually it will ALWAYS need to be done again. And again. It’s like the NBA season – endless, and full of sweaty socks. The Miller Alternative? Set a fire. Not a large one, mind you, but a smallish one you can easily control. The goal is to have some visible damage without depriving your family of shelter or oxygen. When neighbors stop by or your mother-in-law visits, wave a hand toward the scorch marks and complain that you can’t properly clean house until the insurance adjuster arrives. This should buy you two, maybe three, blissful housework-free months.

• Homework. Students today are way too busy to do homework – all that texting and time in the shower, I guess. Look to that wily octogenarian Kim Jong-Il for guidance. Say the kid next door walks past your house. Or a cookie-selling Girl Scout rings the doorbell. Take them hostage and lock them in your bedroom closet. Then, announce to your parents that unless they let you buy your homework off the Internet like everybody else, your “guest” will do hard labor making your bed and scrubbing your toilet (another silver lining!). If they don’t cave, your parents may be persuaded to send in a VIP peacemaker. I doubt Bill Clinton would be available, but I’ll bet Al Gore would consider mediating. He might even agree to do your homework for you.

• Unhappy Marriage. Mr. Miller has already demonstrated one clever solution by going to jail. But ladies, if you’re not quite up for communal showers and stripes make you look fat, try this: join the convent. You’ll get free food, shelter and rosary beads. The vows can be tricky, but really, who needs talking or sex? After all, change the N to F and what do you get? FUN! Once in the nunnery, I don’t recommend bad behavior – you may get away with it in this life, but you might catch hell in the next.
  

As you can see, really bad behavior need not go unrewarded. It just takes some imagination to turn your bad deeds into your best assets. Good luck, and remember what Mae West said: “When I’m good, I’m really good. But when I’m bad, I’m better.”

What's So Grand About Grand-parenting?

It’s happened again. The stuffed animals flung into a corner and found days afterwards. One tiny sock surfacing in a load of otherwise grown-up laundry. The Hello Kitty toothbrushes languishing in the guest bathroom. Little reminders of two little visitors who take over my life and then vanish.

I adore my grand-daughters, don’t get me wrong. They are two bright, funny, surprising, loving and challenging little girls who regularly say “I love you” and squeal my name with delight (no better ego boost) at the start of every visit. I cherish all the traditional grandma moments – the nightly bedtime rituals, the silly jokes at the dinner table, endless rounds of Simon Says, the cuddles and confidences. I love all that stuff.

It’s the leaving I struggle with, the aftermath of their sunny presence. How badly I miss them when they are gone. It’s embarrassing really. I’m a relatively young and (dare I say) “hip” grandmother, I have a full life, a secure identity, a busy schedule with work and friends and travel and interests beyond baking cookies and here I am wandering around the house like my puppy just died. What’s going on here?

I think back to my single-mom days when my only child left for college and I found myself, for the first time in 18 years, coming home to an empty house with no one to cook for and no pressing responsibilities. Did I mope, did I sigh? Did I feel sorry for myself? Sure, for a day or two. But in short order the overwhelming emotion was exhilaration, as in “Hey, I can do anything I want! Cereal for dinner? You got it. Meet a gal-pal for drinks and a few laughs? No need to rush home. Read magazines and munch popcorn all evening? Go for it.” Then, I reveled in a new-found freedom that, having married at 19, given birth at 20, and divorced at 33, tasted sweet and not at all bitter. If anything, I felt a teensy bit guilty for enjoying my independence so much.

So, is this hollow ache from the grandkids’ departure karmic payback? Or just a sign that I’m slipping into maudlin sentiment that will find me tearing up at Hallmark commercials and cooing at random babies I encounter in the Acme? At least I’m not alone. My friend Sylvia confides that, after her three grandchildren leave, she feels so bereft her husband warns that future visits may have to be curtailed to avoid the moody hangover. Luckily, unlike Sylvia, my husband is not yet retired so is not around the house to catch me stuck in “woe is me” mode.

I ponder the change in my attitude. Clearly, I’ve traveled some distance from my 30s, when the prospect of freedom and the solitude of a quiet apartment felt like an unexpected gift. Back then, as I celebrated the synchronous independence of my college-bound daughter and my liberated self, I began to see how change that feels painful at first can reveal itself to be a blessing. Now I ask myself if I can apply the same lesson to the Grammie in me.

My thoughts stray to another friend, a dear woman who is several years older and not in the best health. At 60-something, she’s married off two daughters in the past few years and pines for grandchildren in the worst way. Her prayers were answered recently when her youngest got pregnant. Alas, a miscarriage shattered those hopes. In time, perhaps, her wish for a grandchild will be granted. For now, she’s heartbroken.

I wander the empty rooms echoing with the phantom shouts and laughter of my dearly-missed grand-daughters, and I realize I am blessed. Being a grandparent is a grand gift indeed, despite the pangs of separation. I reserve the right to mope for a few hours, and maybe even gush over babies in the grocery store occasionally. I won’t wallow, but I will count the days to the next visit.

The Hello Kitty toothbrushes are ready, and waiting.