Friday, December 30, 2011

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Crazy People Target

Here in Palm Beach County, there is an overabundance of Target stores.  I think this cheapens Target and makes it less special.  Sure, Wawas are everywhere up North...but, with only a few exceptions (like the Wawa on Chichester Ave. off of I-95.  It has store-mange and Chi Dirt customers.), all Wawa stores are gems.  I miss them sorely.  Back to this area, I have a terrific Super Target.  It's in the nicer town (Royal Palm Beach), has somewhat polite workers, and the majority of customers seem sober.  The Target closest to my job is surprisingly tame.  I work in an absolutely disgusting town, so I had tried to avoid the Greenacres Target.  However, I recently went to the Greenacres Target to pick up a pair of Trim Step flip-flops.  Since many folks in Greenacres are not exactly concerned with fitness and/or have flat feet, that store actually had those flip-flops in stock.  By the way - I didn't really buy them for the fitness aspect.  I bought them because they're black patent pleather, don't hurt, have a wide strap, and just might pass as "sandals" at work. 

The Target that is closest to my house (of course) should really be a Wal-Mart.  It's full of loud-mouthed chicks in black showercaps, drunken/strung-out mongrels, Rasta gang members with their dirty underpants popping out beneath their housecoat-sized t-shirts, screaming kids with bare feet who are being ignored by their intellectually disabled parents, and gang members' chicas with their numerous illegits.  Thus, the Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard Target has earned the name "the Crazy People Target."  Not unlike the Chichester Wal-Mart (horrific), there are vegetative security guards mulling about.  Their haunting stares are not the "I'm watching your every move and enforcing safety" type.  They display the vacant stares of individuals with developmental delays and general unawareness.  The cashiers would rather be crunking (krunking?  however it's spelled) or glamming up for a night out at El Toro Loco nightclub (the scene of many recent shootings).  Good news - the staff at the Customer Service counter will let you return anything...they just don't give a shit, and they know they're not paid enough to put up with an argument.  There are always customers screaming at each other or yelling into a cellphone. 
Earlier this week, I was short on time and needed a new bottle of Target cranberry vitamins, trashbags, and pencils.  I picked up Daniejla from school (she's the 1st grader that I babysit each weekday), and we headed to the Crazy People Target.  The sliding glass door opened, and a 12 or 13 year-old boy was holding a huge skateboard under his oversized black hoodie.  it was not a normal skateboard, it was a rocking skateboard.  Huge.

Stealing is wrong.  Being a dumbass makes it even worse.  If he felt the urge to steal, why shoot for the stars?  A snack-size Cheetos (or those scrumptious Target-brand Chickadees) would have fit nicely into the front pocket of his hoodie.  What a moron!  His concealment strategy did not work, and the two security guards sauntered over to him.  The alleged thief then lifted the skateboard over his head and started swaying back and forth.  Huh?  I took Daniejla by the hand and went up the stairs to the main part of the store (it's one of those goofy upstairs-downstairs Targets).  As we were standing in the vitamin aisle, the unintimidating security guards led the young thug to the security office.  I leaned down and whispered (loudly) to Daniejla that they were taking the kid to the "bad guys room" to wait for the real police officers to show up.  We agreed that his mom would be very mad at him.  The good choices vs. bad choices lesson was in living color!  At that point, Daniejla looked at me and robustly proclaimed, "This really IS the Crazy People Target!" 

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

I don't have enough adults to talk to....

I moved to Florida (from Northern Delaware) in August, and I haven't made many friends.  It takes time, and I know I'll make many quality connections.  The bummer of it --- I don't get a lot of opportunities to hang out and have laughs with folks who share my experiences.  So, maybe a blog would be fun?  Maybe not.  We'll see. 

Today, I once again witnessed the kryptonite-like power of my QVC diamonique ring

Despite the tornado watch today (and my undying love of laziness), I went to the gym.  Unfortunately, my gym is frequented by men with staring problems, older pervs who (thanks to society and the "Notables" high society photos section of the Palm Beach Post) believe that much-younger women are hot for them, and other weirdos with inappropriate behavior.  Oh, and scary-looking 'mijos' with gang tattoos from the neck down.  With the exception of the mijos, my Special Ed Teacher tendencies kick into action, as I observe them at short intervals and look for arm-flapping, unusual visual interest in ceiling fans, and self-stim actions.  I want to find an acceptable reason for these socially inept weirdos.  Maybe they have an intellectual/social disability.  Maybe these folks are the type that are deserving of the somewhat compassionate saying of my Gammy, "Poor souls - God help them."  Ummmm, no.  They just seem to be jackasses.  Jackasses who want to invade my personal space with lame-ass attempts at unique intro statements. 

"You from Jersey?" heckles the close-to-50 guy who, at odd hours, tries to sculpt his pudge.  He has large, pudge-sculpted arms and a solid belly that reveals that his liver doesn't appreciate all the brewskies.  "No, I'm not," I said, as he quickened his step to catch up with me.  I just want to get in my car and go home!  I don't want to talk to this perv who has been staring at me for an hour in the gym.  His prepared statements start to roll out.  "You must be from around there."  God, give me strength.  No, he's not the amazing Kreskin.  He's just a jackass who arrived at the gym at the same time that I did, and saw me emerge from my Delaware license-plated car.  I tell him that I'm from the Philadelphia area, and he claims that he just knew it because I look like the teen daughter of a woman he dated in New Jersey.  He says that he lived in Cherry Hill a long time ago (which tells me that I'm probably correct in thinking that he is not a Gentile).  I wonder: am I showing my expression of disgust?  To gross me out further, he tells me that he'll probably call me "Jen" because that's what the girl's name was.  Ew.  He powers on with his social retardation: "How old are you anyway?"  Is this ass serious??  I just stared at him.  He pushed, "You must be over 18, right?"  Oh, barf.  First of all, the days of me being mistaken for 18 are long gone.  I'll allow 26...but 18?  Shove off.  Secondly, that comment is ripped from a Chris Hanson Dateline takedown.  Take your pudgy pedophile self back to your sad apartment in Greenacres (yuck) and troll your 'barely 18' websites.  "Excuse me?!" I say to this guy who obviously has no home training (as Gammy would say about someone who was never taught manners and probably came from a lowlife family).  Consistent with Social Retardation, he does not pick up on the cues that say GTF Away from me!!!  I tell him that I have somewhere to be, I get in my car, and promptly lock the doors and drive away.

Two days later, after sneaking out of work when the dismissal bell rang, I return to the gym (before the last ounce of my energy escapes me).  I climb on the elliptical, and pump up "Don't Stop Believin'" by the cast of Glee.  Corny but motivating.  EWw - who just touched me??!  Hard taps on my back, while I am on the elliptical.  Are there mechanical problems that a staff member has come to warn me about?  Is there a fire?  No, I'm not that lucky.  That jackass is standing behind me, popping a peace sign, and mouthing "hey, homie."  What in the hell?  I'm not a stiff, pursed-lip, Angela-from-The-Office type.  However, I'm a girly-girl, and I try to be ladylike and mannerly in public.  I'm not a butchy gym hardbody that wants to be one of the guys...errr, one of the homies.  I sneer at him, show him the palm of my hand (not quite a wave), and turned around quickly.  Insert eye-roll.  After an hour of working out and being stared at, I decide that I'm starving and want to go home and have some popcorn (Jolly Time, I love you).  As I'm walking to the car, I hear a whistle...the kind of whistle you make at a dog.  I don't know how else to describe it....see, I wasn't encouraged to learn how to whistle as a child.  "A whistling woman is a cackling hen," my granddad (Boppy) would say.  You know what - that's true.  I hate whistling.  It actually bothers my ears.  You think I respond to someone whistling at me?  What are you, kidding?  Oh, ok, there goes the second dog-call whistle.  I am disgusted.  I continue walking to my car.  "Ya goin ta lunch?" he hollers.  I continue walking to my car.  It's 3:00 pm.  Was he seriously thinking of asking me to share a meal with his stupid, old, fat ass??  What - to discuss my age and his persistence in shaping his pudge?  He needs to 

So, today, my beloved Diamonique masterpiece adorned my left ring finger.  Oh, how it sparkled in the gym lighting.  Some mijo who was past his prime started to approach me, I flashed the kryptonique ring, and he vamos'd away.   That's right, go sientate on the biceps machine.  The jackass wasn't there today, but the Kryptonique Pilot Program had favorable results.  I look forward to finding out the severity of the jackass' Social Retardation.  Will the Kryptonique deter him?  Will I put him on blast for his rudeness?  To be continued...