Of toilet seats and Target
"Oh my gawd," I must have sounded like some vain, blond, celebrity. I would have laughed at myself too had I not been where I was, seeing what I was seeing, in the restroom of Souplantation, in the first dank stall the second you made a left upon pushing through the heavy lockless door marked "WOMEN."
It was gross.
"You should have seen it," I later recalled to Dad.
I used to believe that what separated women from men was their genitals. Women, unlike men, had much longer wait times for the restroom because they, unlike men, were required to actually pull down a disposable, flushable seat cover, pull down their pants, sit down, and let it pour out like the tiny spout of a gentle faucet. Men, on the other hand, I supposed, just let it go!?
BUT NO. Here I was in the right restroom in a perfectly normal women's stall and it was like spray all around the toilet seat! It was like spray! The spray that only came from compressed aerosal cans or an extremely expensive squirt bottle! All along the toilet seat! They weren't like drippy drops like those from something leaking, but it was just gross. And it wasn't cleaning fluid either, I already took that into consideration. It was the shade of yellow that let no doubt cross my mind between it's identity as piss and the reality of its existence. (Basically, I was absolutely certain that it was piss and not cleaning fluid.)
So I held my pee until we reached home, but only after Dad and Tristan decided that it was the perfect time for us to visit that new two-story Target that just opened on the corner of Nordoff and Balboa.
Its parking structure was heaven, according to my Dad who couldn't stop praising its spacious parking spaces and the wide expanse of the adorably red-themed lot that was so inviting for SUV's the size of small trailer-homes, which made driving and parking the Jeep so much easier. The cute shopping cart signs had matching symbols that resembled red (gasp) shopping carts with the simplicity of men/women symbols labeling public restroom doors and the adorable escalator came complete with a middle moving isle set specifically for shopping carts!
I couldn't believe my blurry, tired, impacient eyes. I should have been dreaming - a real moving escalator only for shopping carts! (It was the cutest thing. If I was fat enough I wish I could hug the place.) Well, the rest of the interior was just like any other target except it was on an upper-floor and a Pizza Hut next to (brilliantly placed next to) a real Starbucks (not a refridgerator with the bottled stuff.)
And the stuff they had totally blew Walmart (ew, gross) out of it's filthy, sewage, corporate water.
I <3 Target, you should too.
(And I know how this is such terrible propganda, gross publicity, and a terrible means of promotion but I wasn't paid for this. It's earnest. So go and visit your neighborhood Target on the corner of Balboa/Nordhoff today!)
P.S. Make sure you use the restroom beforehand, I couldn't find a worker to ask where it was because they were so lazy and and insisted to this disabled guy (who walked with these tics and spasms all over from his neck to his ankles and who kept on asking for help; he was probably inflicted with a severe form of Tourettes) that they were off hours despite the fact that they were walking around armed with red scanning guns.
P.P.S. Target has better commercials.
P.P.P.S. This was such an aimless entry.
P.P.P.P.S. Ugh.