Target is a place that sucks money out of my bank account and concentration right out of my lil ol’ head. I go there to get hair mousse and toilet paper and cat food and I come out having spent $70 on stuff that I somehow actually do need and will use. And then I do something really dumb because of whatever brain drain gas that store pumps through its ventilation system.
I’m totally blaming the following story on that.
I was walking through the parking lot at Target on Thursday, musing to myself about how the damned place had suckered me again and trying to figure out exactly how it happens that I wind up spending so much more than planned just because I tend to break/lose sunglasses, need a new $8 t-shirt (how can I not buy it?) and really should just get the self-tanning lotion so I don’t blind people with my complexion anymore. I was thinking about this strange mystery of retail when I walked up to the car, bags in hand, and pushed the button on the key fob.
Car didn’t unlock.
I pushed the button again. Twice, just for extra certainty.
Great. Just great, I thought, growling huffily somewhere low in my throat. I dropped my head back and sort of rolled my eyes behind the new $16 sunglasses I’d just bought. The hand with the key in it dropped lifelessly to my side as though my arm had endured too much hassle to maintain muscle function. From there, I pushed the button on the key fob again.
What (pushing button) is wrong (pushing button) with this (pushing button) stupid (pushing button) key thing?!
This key fob is not… fobbing!
Nevermind I could have tried putting the key in the door. I was worried that the battery in the key fob was dead, or that the battery in the car was dead. I was worried this would cost me more money. I was thinking if I put the key in the lock, the alarm would go off. Just terribly annoyed by the entire situation and still holding my two bags of Target purchases, I exhaled loudly, my eyes traveling down toward my feet in frustration. Somewhere along the way, they caught notice of something… something… just beyond the grasp of recognition…
I looked up. Blinked. Realized two things.
One: This is not my car.
Two: I am an idiot.
Yes, I see it now. There’s my car. It’s right there. It looks exactly like this one. Same year, same color, same interior, same door dings, I swear.
Not the same stuff inside. Not the same license plate.
Head down, eyes up, monitoring the area over the new sunglasses, I schlepped haplessly over to my Honda.Pushed the button.
The door unlocked easily, as if it were amused.
My car is a smart-ass.
What’s even more awesome about this is that I had parked three spots closer to the store than the other driver. Which means… I walked past my car to get to the other one.
I really shouldn’t be allowed out of my home.
PS – I am considered a very favored dark horse over on The Byronic Man’s Weekly Question of the Week page. Please go vote for me and demonstrate your opinion of my brilliance not just on this blog, but on his as well. Byronic is pretty awesome actually, so I endorse your reading of his stuff while you’re there. After you’ve voted for me. Seven times. At least.
Now on my bookshelf: In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin – Erik Larson