New York Natalie, Day Four

Shhh, do you hear that? That whooshing noise? That is the sound of two people who are almost done packing, and who have argued and negotiated and finally agreed to sell or donate more than half of their belongings, finally exhaling as the end is in sight. More than half of their belongings, I said! Heavenly gravy, but it has been an athletic event!

My kitchen is empty, save for one cupboard. Six little dishes and spoons, six little cups and three mixing bowls, a few knives and--do not forget the most important part!--one can opener, to be shipped to the big scary city. My kitchen is empty, but the rest of my house is a disaster area of junkic proportions!

It has taken some re-training, but I am ready to think like a city minimalist again. I am ready for the 500-square-feet that will greet me on the other side of the country. I am picturing teeny closets and ruthlessly tossing out old tops. I am imagining miniscule bathrooms and purging spare potions and creams. It feels good, but actually I must not lie, really it feels horrible, like maybe I am destined to be an exotic Gyspy vagabond the rest of my life. With no place to call a home, and no objects to claim but my own gritty determination to survive! With a baby strapped to my back and my pack of wild canines, I will panhandle up and down the island of Manhattan, living hand to mouth! And I will charm handsome sailors who come to port and where am I going with this?

Also, The Holbs is learning what a terrible, horrible hoarder I am.
Five unopened journals?
And how many scarves does one girl really and truly need?
Honestly, that one is a conundrum.

Also, not for nothing, but I spent two hours on the phone with insurance companies today clearing up a certain billing snafu, and then my voice up and left me. Up and left me I said! Allergies, did I say it was? Clearly not! What we have here is a classic case of the dreaded Stress Cold, a devastating disease that I have not experienced since I quit that one job that one time at that one place that must not be named. Stress Cold. Meaning, I croak like a toad and can't sleep at night and carry a roll of toilet paper in my purse and my nose is raw.

(Holbsy, you're worth it!)

So, get excited, because today's post comes straight to you from the very virginity of my blog! My very first post ever! My Genesis! Does that not send shivers up your spine? Just me? Oh, what I wouldn't give for some Nyquil!

(Fetus, you're worth it!)

It is, curiously, about the Target.  And . . . go!

the shiny brooklyn target

Okay, kids. I love the Target. Can I just tell you? I love the Target. I have a testimony of the Target. In fact, let's be honest here, I'd live at the Target. I would, and you would too. Don't lie to me, I can see right through you.

My day at the Target today was the same as always, and yet so, so very different, and discombobulating and disorienting, and so now that you are intrigued here is the story of my Target Day, which I am subtitling "How I Learned How to Shop in New York City The Hard Way."

Do you feel ready?

Let's set the stage. The Brooklyn Target. Atlantic Avenue. Like, Brooklyn, you guys. Scary, middle of Brooklyn, Brooklyn.

The Brooklyn Target has all of the same things and the dollar spot is the same lovely dollar spot of my past (oh but I love you, my lover the dollar spot!). It also has the same layout as other Targets, except the Brooklyn Target is two stories tall and boasts two escalators: One for you, one for your cart. Is that weird?

The Brooklyn Target is the only Target in all of New York City and it is super fantastically crazy there. I got in cart fender-benders (I risked my life!), I got boxed-in at the electronics section, and then I may have accidentally stepped on at least three smallish-sized persons, but I had a list, and I am a pro, and I was going to SURVIVE.

We just moved to New York City last week and my freakishly small apartment came with no trash can, no towels, no pillows, no sheets, no shampoos or soaps or toothpastes or dishes. This apartment has no hangers, no laundry detergent, no nothing! It is like unto the middle ages in my apartment (aside from the glorious, glorious air conditioner!).

This is something like the third or fourth apartment that I've set up in my silly little life, and I will tell you right now that I am not bragging when I say that I'm a bit of an expert at buying all of the condiments one would need in order to survive in one big, huge shopping expedition. I know how to buy a spice rack, folks. It's like, super easy, you load up your cart, you load up your car, then you spend all week unloading the car and finding homes for things, and then it's like you've been there forever, you know?

So I was going through the motions, right? Pillows: into the cart. Candles: into the cart. Ajax and Soft Scrub: into the cart. Cute tee-shirts because I felt like I deserved it: into the cart. Right? Are you with me?

The lines at Brooklyn Target are insanely insane. They're so long. They're soo long. I had finally gotten up to the front and I had all my Target goodies rung up and double-bagged and put back in the cart, and as I wheeled myself toward the front entrance, with all my Target bags teetering perilously taller than my head, I suddenly and sickeningly remembered that I no longer owned a car.

(You guys, I no longer own a car!)

And the security guard was giving me this look, like I obviously had no idea what I was doing, because seriously seriously, what was I thinking?

And I I realized it. I realized I'd have to carry everything home, and that in order to get home I had to walk four blocks in the heart of stinking Brooklyn, in the height of stinking summer, somehow make it through the stinking subway turnstiles in one go, and then holy moley was I struck with one wicked case of Buyers Remorse, my friends!

This is the part where I impress you. I did not panic. I did not cry, or dissolve into a heap of anything, no. I calmly assessed the situation. I knew that I was about to discover what I was made of. I was about to carry a $300 Target bonanza all the way to the subway, and then all the way home.

I loaded up my arms. The plastic handles cut into my skin. I grimaced. Now is not a time for pain, I told myself. Now is a time for heroes!

And I did it! Me and my trash can and my broom and my eight million cleaning products and my sheets and my towels and my moisturizer and some food and dishes and candles and bed raisers and hangers and dryer sheets and a Sigur Ros CD for good measure, we made it home. Sweaty and exhausted and completely humbled, but in one piece.

I fought the Brooklyn Target today, my friends. I fought it, and I won.

~originally posted september 3, 2005