Hot pants.

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Ya know what, Target guy, I know I look like a crazy person pushing a cart of screaming boys, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, red booty shorts with “HO HO HO” on the butt, and black boots with knee high Hello Kitty socks, but listen to me, look into my eyes, if you don’t go in the back and tell me if you have toddler size 8 Lightning McQueen crocs to replace the ones the pug ate this morning, I will rip your beating heart from your chest rightfuckingnow go, go, GO!

And, not that it is any business of yours, Target guy, but I had jeans on when I left the house this morning, I don’t make a habit of dressing like a hooker on Christmas. But, my husband drove, and of course we had to listen to Click and Clack on NPR because we belong in a nursing home, and they were making fart noises, and I snorted a little too heartily, and I peed my pants. And, not the petty small amount that you can totally hide by walking with your thighs close together, the other kind. And, while we should’ve just turned around, we came to damn far, gas is too damn expensive, and SweetbabyJesus the fucking world will end if we don’t replace those rubber demi gods right this fucking second, the kid cannot function without those shoes, everyone will die, we will all die.

And of course, my husband couldn’t just run in and grab them, because Target is a scary place, a twisted maze of witchcraft and mirrors, meant to trick the mortal man into diverting from his chosen path of the shoe department, next to the bra section, all the way to the TV and video game area, while the kids and I waste away in the car…or rather me waste away with chapped, hot urine covered legs while the kids watch Shrek in the backseat, totally oblivious to my pending demise, just as long as I brought the Nemo fruit snacks.

No. I had to rummage in my closet of a car and come up with the only piece of clothing I could find, one of my husband’s ill advised gifts from Christmas’ Past, trashy red and green pajama shorts. Good thing I cleaned up the girly area the other day, as I am pretty sure you could see my tonsils in these shorts…bad call not shaving above the knee the past few weeks though, bad call. So, I changed into them in the Target parking lot, third parking space in, next to the rusty Buick with the old man in it, his two yippy Maltese, and a back window full of beanie babies. Sure, it would have been nice for my husband to pull to the back of the parking lot while I wriggled out of my wet jeans into something dry, but hello, third spot in…on a Sunday…nope, I had to suck it up for the good of my husband’s inability to walk more than a 20 foot radius into any store…unless it’s Best Buy…because he’s a martyr like that.

So, that brings me to now, Target guy, you and me, mano a mano. You, a geeky teenager with neck acne, me, a trashy pregnant whore in Hello Kitty socks, my husband…shit…who the fuck knows where he is, my guess is the electronics section (cough*douchebag*cough), but we were brought together today for a higher purpose, to restore sanity to my world, so that I can go home and take a bath to wash the pee from my legs, and eat the stew that has been tempting me from my kitchen all morning.

Please, I already looked in the shoe aisle, they do not have the size I need, please stop staring at the racks of shoes willing the size 8 to appear. Why are you so unwilling to go in the back and check? Is there a ghost back there? Please man the fuck up and fucking check or I will go to the flatware section, grap a knife, and gut you like a fish.

You have them? Sweet, thanks so much. You are awesome.

Where’s the Halloween candy aisle?