My phone rings: “Ann.”
It’s F., clearly with news to tell. First we discuss the new uniforms which our school has somehow decided to adopt. I won’t say how F. voted, but the last bits of my hippie soul died a quiet death when the vote came down. A Child Of Mine In A School Uniform?
No, no, it isn’t the uniforms she is calling about. It is this:
Yarn at Target. You can now get yarn at Target.
You know how I marvel at the way Target anticipates my every need? February rolls around, cruise the Valentine’s department, snipsnap that’s done.
I suspect F. has hallucinated the yarn thing in a fog of preparation for a Girl Scout Troop trip to Georgia. How could this be? No way.
Under the pretense of returning plastic bin lids that were the wrong size, I head off to Target. But you know why I’m there. I have to see this to believe it.
Following F.’s precise directions, I take a left at the Mother’s Day cards (May 8, everybody! Head to Target!), veer down the Superhighway of Domestic Needs, and there, on the end of the paper plate row, is yarn.
You can get your own kit for a yoga mat tote at Target. You can go to Target, hankering to make a cat bed, and by golly you’re not going to have to modify an Isaac Mizrahi for Target poncho to do it. Hats, scarves, baby booties. All under $19.95. Needles included. With a DVD of instructions.
I slide down the Pop-Tarts aisle, out of sight of the guy stacking fake daisy topiaries. I remove the Anncam from my purse, fire it up, and discover: “Change batteries.” Rats. This being Target, I swing by the checkout counter, snag a dozen AAs, and hope I can get the picture taken before somebody sees me.
I’m waiting to check out, looking at my camera. K. walks up.
K. and F. have girls in the same Scout troop. K. says, “Ann! How funny! F. was just telling me she was going to call you about this new knitting kits–”
I grieve a moment at the fact that yarn at Target instantly makes people think of me. And worse, I realize I can’t fake the fact that I know about the yarn at Target. “Oh, I know! She did call me!” I say, as I’m standing there buying batteries for the camera in my hand.
“So . . . where is it?” she asks.
“Uh,” I say. “The yarn?”
Caught: in a few seconds, K. is going to figure out that I am here for the sole purpose of taking pictures of the knitting display at Target. This is probably the lowest moment in my blogging career.
I gesture widely. “Ohhhhh, F. said it was overrrrr behind there or something,” as I wave toward the swimsuit section. “Yeah, I’ll really need to go check it out,” I say lamely, wishing K.’s child would do something obnoxious and distracting the way my child would. Maybe if I shoplifted something, it would get me out of this situation. I am dying.
K. is far too gracious to let on that she has seen the Anncam. “Maybe I’ll get a project for the Girl Scout trip to Savannah,” she says. “See ya!”
I feel like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible, where he’s been lowered into some superdeadly chamber and lands an inch off the radioactive floor. Don’t breathe. Move fast. I haul it back to the knitting, stand right there in the middle of the Superhighway of Domestic Needs while God and the topiary stacker watch, and I bring to you
proof of knitting at Target. Can you believe it?