Yesterday I went to Target to pick up a Christmas gift for Basil. This gift is something that has been sold out in stores all over the country, and so, like a good wife, I called the store to find out when the next truck would be coming in to drop off new store inventory. I was told by a very polite Target employee to come by the store the next morning as soon as they opened, and that if I was there precisely at 8 am, I would be able to buy the gift.
So, I got out of bed, made coffee, sent some e-mails, and was in the Target parking lot at 7:45 am. I was the only person in the Target parking lot at 7:45 am, but that didn’t matter. I had an insider tip on my item, and was ready to pounce when the doors opened. I roamed around the parking lot, checking out the pre-built garages at Lowe’s, and watching the contractors fill up their big trucks with lumber and morning supplies. And when the doors opened at 8 am, I walked through Target, found an employee, asked about my item, and was told that it didn’t come in.
Strike One.
Now, any other rational human being would have just politely said “Thank You”, and promptly left the store, and driven home to catch up on the hour of sleep they lost by getting up to be at Target at 8 am. But I am not a rational human being. So, I wandered into the snack aisle to pick up something for Beckett’s class snack. After all, it was Beckett’s day to bring snack for his friends. Little did I know that they STOP serving snack at 9 am, and so the low sugar oatmeal cookies and applesauce I was buying at 8:10 am to be delivered with Beckett at school at 9:00 am would never touch a grubby little hippy school hand.
Strike Two.
After filling my arms up with applesauce and oatmeal cookies, I head for the register. A very cheerful employee stops me as I’m walking by the music and books section. “Did you get your Tickle Me Elmo? I found this one in the back. It’s the only one left in the store. I heard people were selling them on eBay for like $300.”
You can see where this is going.
My capitalist pig gene immediately became dominant, and I said, “Oh, no, I haven’t gotten mine yet! Thanks!”, and took the damn Elmo doll out of his hands. “Cha Ching! See ya Elmo!”, I thought as I imagined the hundreds of dollars sitting in my PayPal account. I brought the damn Elmo home, and he’s sitting in a bag in my dining room.
I didn’t want the damn Tickle Me Elmo 10th Anniversary edition. And I definitely don’t want to mess around with posting it on eBay, and then putting it in a box and shipping it to some poor mom that I have just committed extortion upon during the holidays. I don’t need that kind of bad Elmo juju.
Strike Three.
Looks like Basil might get a hard-to-find-sold-out-everywhere gift for Christmas after all. I have a good mind to go in and open the box, and turn the little red monster on right now. I deserve everything he’s got to dish out. Go ahead, Elmo, laugh. Just keep laughing. Laugh yourself all the way to the bottom of the toy box. Just do it loudly, so nobody can hear me sobbing over my glass of whiskey, please. Ho. Ho. Ho.