are you picking up on that vibe?
When I was high school, I had a part-time job as a Target cashier. I loved this job for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was for the 10 percent discount on the purchase of my Wham! Make It Big album (and I say "my" because I still own it!), and because I got to work with Shane, my high school crush who led me to believe we'd one day marry because he seemed to know so much about me and my fantastic taste in pop music, a fact I later deduced was the result of all the time I spent riding my bike by his house, slowly, and (perhaps) leaving notes on the windshield of his car.
I worked at Target in the era of "touch key professionals," which meant I'd hand ring in purchases using the code numbers off price tags with my right hand (which to this day remains robotic and I must take care so as not to crush the spines of those I wish a hearty "good job!" to with a clap on the back), while also guiding the various items along the counter and into a bag with my left. This was all done while never looking at the monstrous cash register AND having a conversation with the customer about the quality of their day, the weather, and perhaps their plans for the weekend.
I'm sure there's a more concise way to map out the job description of a "touch key professional," but I am wordy, so there you go.
Every once in awhile, mixed in with the cases of motor oil, economically priced clothing items, and assorted toiletries, a customer would bury a box of condoms. As was often the case during these types of transactions, as soon as my fingers would brush the box of Trojans, the customer would go silent and the remainder of our brief time together would involve me thinking "Heh, heh, heh!" in my 16 year old, I love Shane mind.
Sometimes I'd also think about George Michael. Not so much in those tight shorts in the Wake Me Up Before You Go Go video, but more like in the Everything She Wants clip. You know that part when he's laying naked under that sheet? Yeah. That George Michael. Because I didn't realize. And the album was called "Make It Big," and that would make me think "Heh, heh, heh," too. And I was 16. So give me a break.
Anyway, this wall of condom-induced silence would happened every single time someone purchased condoms from me at Target. Every time!
Once, wanting to forgo the silence, I'm sure, a group of teenage boys stole an assortment of condoms, and their hasty retreat from Target was being matched by security personnel who were running behind them. One of the guards yelled for me to block the thieves' way by standing in front of the door (Nice. Apparently I looked like a linebacker in high school. This still hurts me.). I gauged the speed at which this cops and robbers brigade was bearing down on me, quickly multiplied it by how much money Target was paying me to stand at the express lane next to Shane, and decided that being Tubbs to the guards' Crockett really wasn't my thing.
Anyway, this story is getting hella long, so let's cut to present day. If you've been to Target, you know there's no longer any class system as regal as that of the "touch key professional." Cashiers don't have to know any codes, or attempt to ring and bag with their opposing hands, and hell, if you get the sullen teenager, you don't have to engage in witty bon mots with them. I'll admit, while there's a level of efficiency to this current system, it does make me long for the old days. Happily, I got a taste of them last night!
Last night, I ventured to Target as part of a date with my MILF labeling pastor's wife girlfriend, and OMG, how the mighty moral have fallen! Just before closing time, she took me by the hand and led me to the pharmacy aisle teeming with condoms and various aids, grabbed a Durex Play Vibrations, and cheered "This does a damn good gob!", and then we totally made out until the Target staff turned the lights off and walked by us a lot, clearing their throats, and telling us they closed 20 minutes ago.
Wait! You skipped a page in this Choose Your Own Adventure story!
Not wanting to scare my wild friend into knowing the cache of various, no doubt stronger items available to me in my nightstand drawer (yet!), I said I'd buy one and see if she was right. "Be sure you mention your husband a lot with the cashier so she doesn't think we're going to use this together after you pay," my friend said. "You're ruining the fantasy, as well as the inevitable long blog post I'll write about this evening," I pouted, tossing in a package of personal lubricant in m cart to really drive whatever point I had and lost home. As luck would have it, we got the cashier who was happy to engage us in clever banter to close out her evening.
"Look like someone's going to be having a good night tonight!" she said.
"Her husband! Well, and her! She is! She's going to have the good time tonight! With her husband!" my friend said.
And for the next two minutes, the cashier and I bantered about my sex life, and I went on and on about how my Tool Man is going to be gone all next week, and I need to store up, and hey, if this vibrating ring works as fantastically as my friend over there says, I'll come back and let you know, blah, blah, blah, oh, and hey, what do you think of George Michael?
I got home 20 minutes later, planted a kiss on Tool Man, and pulled out the Durex Play Vibrations from the bag, and told him it was on (at least for 20 minutes, which is apparently the lifespan of the Durex Play Vibrations, to which I say "Seriously? Just 20 minutes? You clearly don't know me, Durex!"), and told him to get upstairs and be ready for me.
Then I went to open the package AND THERE WAS NOTHING IN IT!!!!
Shoplifters foiled my fun!!
(Actually, they didn't completely because, like my blog posts, it took me awhile to get over the irony I felt, make a phone call to my friend and tell her, talk to her for 30 more minutes after that, AND then go upstairs, which, by that time, was filled with the contented snores of my Tool Man)
So now? Now I have to take my empty Durex Play Vibrations back to Target and have another conversation about how shoplifters are hurting not only the economy but my sex life (or lack thereof at this particular moment). I'm pretty sure when I talk to the employee manning the customer service counter, they're going to be thinking "Heh, heh, heh," when I tell them the box was empty when I bought it.
And then I'm going to ask if they'd like to sing Careless Whisper with me.