Target is the new Playland

I consider myself a pretty busy person, but every now and then I accomplish so much on Monday and Tuesday that Wednesday comes and it's, like, "Will I just be counting the minutes until I eventually die?" (Technically, this is impossible, because you can't count while you're sleeping; and if you're not sleeping, you might be an alien and therefore immune to human boredom. Glad to clear that up.)

Miss Dub, despite her tender age, is actually quite content to keep herself busy playing with her three baby dolls - Mimi, Kiki and Carma. She could spend several hours just rearranging their sitting positions: "Mimi, Carma, Kiki - no, Carma, Mimi, Kiki!" She also likes to mimic me, which is very telling. She's either having a party with them or ordering them to the "mad chair." So apparently I'm a disciplinarian socialite. There are worse things.

But I can only handle so much baby doll time myself. So I decided we would take a trip to Target and let Miss Dub walk around sans cart. (Insert gasps.) Upon getting there, we immediately headed to the ... baby doll section! Yes, I let my child play in the baby doll aisle of Target for 90 minutes. (You did not read wrong. I am a bad person.)

When I realized the aisle had serious appeal, I went and got some magazines. (No worries, I just hid Miss Dub among the baby dolls while I browsed the tabloid section.) I then removed a few stuffed puppies and made myself comfortable on a bottom shelf. Miss Dub happily took down a nice selection of baby dolls - some that pee themselves, some that talk, some that perform delicate surgeries - and rearranged them.

It was sheer genius. Not to be confused with Shear Genius, which is really letting me down this season. No wonder I'm in desperate need of a haircut. I'm just so uninspired in this world of Holmes 'dos. (And, yet, it's still so cute. Curses!)

But the best moment came when I finally insisted we go to the "Mommy section." Miss Dub ran off for a second and then came back carrying a bra.

"Wook, Mommy!" she exclaimed, quite proud of herself, and in full view of Target's teenage male population. (Why were they in the intimates section, anyway?)

"Our house," she added, meaning I have some at our house.

Not one to embarrass my daughter, I gave the bra an enthusiastic examination.

32DD.

Very flattering. Maybe I am doing something right.

Coupons are for wimps

A lot of you have been emailing me, wondering how my coupon quest is going. Actually, no one has emailed me. What, am I not cool any more? You're all into podcasts, or something?

Anyway, my coupon quest is going great. Like, I totally canceled my Grocery Game membership on Monday. It's not that I wasn't saving money. On one occasion, I went to CVS and got $60 worth of free stuff. Free. Totally free. Most of it feminine hygiene products. And I was generally saving $40-50 on each grocery trip to Jewel-Osco, so that's all good and nice.

But there were hidden costs: my sanity! Clipping coupons and preparing a compatible menu took me a few hours each week. And since our fridge likes to declare its complete emptiness on Monday mornings, it was a few hours each Monday morning. In my pajamas.

Shopping with coupons was no cake walk, either. Actually, a cake walk wouldn't be that easy for me because I don't have much of a sweet tooth. But let's assume that the term is "nacho walk," in which case, shopping with coupons was no nacho walk, either. I was going through a couple suckers to keep Miss Dub entertained and still leaving with a migraine. Also, a cart with a sampling of products and brands I would never buy without coupons. (I almost bought LA Looks hair gel. On the bible.)

So on Monday I told myself, "Forget it. This is not worth the stress. Spending too much might have been bad on your budget, but it was good for your mental health." Also, we don't have a budget, but we are thinking about starting one with your donations from my upcoming podcasts.

I cannot describe the weight I felt lifted off my shoulders. I imagine it's like unto someone who has committed a heinous crime and spent years on the lam before finally confessing. Except they would end up in a small prison cell, whereas I had the freedom to head to my nearest Dominick's and put Miss Dub in one of those cute shopping carts that looks like a car. (FYI, after 10 minutes she announced, "I done driving," which brought down the cuteness factor quite a bit.)

When I got to the checkout, my bill was the same as when I was using coupons. It was a scam! I felt elated! I felt vindicated! I felt - cheated, when I looked in my cart and realized that I had half the amount of groceries I would have had using coupons.

So now I don't know. I think I'm going to try my own coupon strategies at Super Target, where the prices are consistently lower. Or I may just hold out for those donations. By the way, what is a podcast?

Mom moment

I had a total mom moment last month. As my husband headed off to be a good lil' church boy, I took Miss Dub to Target for some bonding time. OK, so our normal time and special time are one and the same. She didn't care, so why should you? Things got a little crazy when she demanded pizza in lieu of a pretzel. So we split a pan pizza, which is sort of like eating healthy food.

Miss Dub was feeling this pizza. "Peec-suh!" she would squeal between bites. Then, she'd take a swig of lemonade. Then, she threw it up all over the floor. (Hitting her clothes and my feet in the process.)

Now, when I witnessed such mom moments from an outside perspective, I thought the mom was thinking, "Great! This is so disgusting! Where are some Targeteers to clean up this filthy mess?"

Instead, I found myself thinking, "Poor, Missy. I hope she's not sick. I feel terrible about this mess. I hope I can clean it up before anyone sees it."

I wasn't grossed out. I wasn't mad. I wasn't even stressed. I was, however, a little weirded out when Miss Dub's only response was, "More pizza, please!"

I did tell a young worker about the mess since it needed some serious mopping after my initial chunk-removal. But he just went and got some fellow worker friends, all who seemed more concerned about what caused her vomit incident rather than cleaning it up.

Luckily, I ran into a church friend who helped me get some bags to put Miss Dub's dirty clothes into. I then put her into my cardigan and took her home.

I must say, she was pretty excited about wearing my cardigan. In fact, she didn't even notice that we never made it to our friend's house, where we were supposed to spend the evening. And I didn't even notice how gross it was to wipe off her clothes before tossing them in the laundry.

But that's being a mom, I guess - when your child's vomit and poop doesn't make you vomit or poop.

But what do you think? Fill in this sentence:
Being a mom means _________________________.


*For more on being an adult, read my review here.

Panty pride

Yesterday, Miss Dub and I went shopping for her first pair of panties. I don't like the word panties. I told myself I would never use the term, but somehow I just feel like Miss Dub will end up with a gender identity crisis if I don't get all creepy-feminine when talking about her underthings. She picked a set adorned with images of Elmo and requisite doses of pink. I'm not sure why she is obsessed with "Mo" since she's never really watched Sesame Street, but it appears she came with an inborn knowledge of Big Bird and his gang of furry friends.

You might be wondering why I'm trying to potty train my 17-month-old. Well, for starters she has an unnatural interest in potties and poop, including public declarations of the latter, so I thought she might be ready. Also, I just read a little blurb from the Baby Whisperer which declared that Americans are lazy and potty train their children much later than any other nation, even though it's easier for children to do it before 2. Did I mention she's British? I feel like British folk should be trusted for anything except dental referrals.

So I'm going to give it a half-hearted attempt since whole-hearted is not my cup o' tea. (See, I feel British already.)

But as the panties get rolled across the scanner by our young, male Targeteer, I got a little embarrassed for her. (This from someone who proudly purchases tampons and enemas without any cover-up items.) And wouldn't you know it - Miss Dub didn't even care. She was like, "Check out my sweet chonies! They're awesome!" Though it came out like this:"Look! Mo!" To his credit, the cashier acted mildly interested and didn't even blush.

I'm not sure where this panty pride is headed, but I worry it may be my fault. Would underwear have been a better word choice?

You tell me.



p.s. See Miss Dub in all her fairy glory here. Thanks Glamma!

Finally, a good excuse to get gangrene

You might not know this about me, but I'm obsessed with Target.

(I'll pause while you all absorb that shocking revelation.)

Another fun fact is that I have to take medication every day to stay alive, in addition to the other medications I take every day just 'cause. As a result, I frequent the pharmacy A LOT.

Yet, despite the terrible service and anti-social staff at my local grocery story pharmacy, I only recently made the connection that I could combine my love of Target with my prescription needs. And so it was with great glee that I switched my pharmacy to my local Super Target.

You might think I've been pleasantly surprised by the service, and you'd be wrong. The service is so freakafantastabulous that my quality of life has been improved tenfold.

First, the staff is nice. Like, I think they might actually like their jobs, rather than my other pharmacists who probably stole narcotics to make it through the day. They are fast, friendly and informed. And they're happy to fill the prescription while you're waiting. With a smile. I think it has something to do with the lighting.

Second, the bottles are cool. They have this cool inverted design and color rings you can request to help differentiate between your myriad of medicines. Miss Dub recently had an ear infection and got a liquid prescription, which has a small opening that you insert the syringe into so there's no mess or awkward measuring.

Third, I have no third, but I just really, really like Target. Although, I must confess that I said to my friend the other day, "I think I'm getting bored of Target." And it's not that I want a new lover or anything, it's just that I need a second refuge from the cold and snow when the Miss and I get bored. I mean, I think I've bought every piece of costume jewelry on their clearance rack by now.

But I digress.

The moral of this story is that you should change your pharmacy to Target. Don't have any prescriptions right now? Go lick some dirt or infect a small wound. It's worth it.



p.s. I just got a call from the pharmacy asking how Miss Dub is feeling. Bonus points!

HTT - Ticket Edition

Not my car. Not Chicago.

I got a ticket yesterday, and I'm not happy about it.

Mind you, it was only my second ticket and my first since I was 16. Which means I've had 12 years to convince myself that I'm invincible. In fact, every time I do something vaguely illegal (usually every 2.5 seconds), I come up with an elaborate explanation I will give a cop, should one dare to question my driving decisions. They are pretty impressive, from, "But I'm actually helping the flow of traffic, Officer," to, "But don't you think a traffic light should act as a 4-way stop before 7 a.m.?"

So imagine my surprise when I got pulled over yesterday and said nothing. Nothing. Even though I had just told Mr. Dub my great explanation for why I illegally turn left into the Target parking lot several times a week: "Officer, I feel this is a safer entry into this lot. And shouldn't my family's safety be my top priority?"

Part of it was my state of mind: I'd suddenly encountered a blizzard as I attempted to visit my SIL, who is in town, and decided to seek refuge. As a result, I didn't have my cop radar on. I was also talking on a cell phone to me mum. (Yes, I was being that driver.)

To my credit, the officer acted like he was going to let me off, so I didn't think I needed an explanation, and lying is never an option for me. But then he asked for my license - which I lost while traveling over the holidays - and then he asked why I have Arizona plates - because I just got the title from my parents and haven't yet registered my car in Illinois - and his sympathy went down a notch.

Anyway, he claimed to be letting me off, but I still have a $75 fee to pay and the sad reality that I will now have to sit through two additional lights rather than turn left into my local Target lot. But mostly I have to suffer from lowered driving self-esteem because I'm wondering if I really have the ability to allude law enforcement.

What do you think?

How many ticket notches do you have on your dashboard?

And have you ever talked your way out of one?

(If so, details, please!)

Your pretzels will only get you so far

As we were driving to Target on Saturday, it suddenly dawned on me -
What was keeping Target and me from moving beyond retail dating to a more meaningful commitment, like exclusive shopping rights?

SOFT SERVE.

It's like it wants me to shop at Walmart on occasion.

The Devil wears Walmart

Every now and then I like to go to Walmart. It's a form of masochism, but it hurts a little less than whipping myself. Just a little.

The other day I gave in to temptation and checked out the nearest Wally Mart. Right away, I remembered why I'm a Target girl. From the dingy floors to the dank stench to that freaky smiley face, everything about the store made me want to take a long, hot bath. There were a few surprises - a cute bowl, a decent pair of shoes - but most of it was lackluster.

When I went to check out, I took an item out of my cart and set it aside because I'd changed my mind about buying it. Before I could say anything to the cashier, she hollered, "Could you give that to me now so that I don't have to walk around and get it myself and put it back where you found it?" I went to explain that I was going to do just that, but before I could say anything she said, "Now, please!" Um, OK.

Then, the woman behind me in line began to gush over Miss Dub, commenting on her elastic-banded Robeez shoes. "What cute Indian shoes," she said, which is probably culturally insensitive and totally weird but not my point. Hearing this the cashier said, "Lift up one of those Indian shoes so I can see it" ... since it was blocked by the debit card machine and her neck was apparently incapable of turning. I lifted up Miss Dub's shoe so she could see one, to which she responded, "What's the point of those? I don't get it." I just stared blankly.

Finally my total rang up on the debit machine, but before I could pay the cashier directed me to the screen. "It's a survey. You have to say if I was friendly or not to you, ma'am. Hurry up. Pick an answer." Of course, I wanted to say, "NO!" but she insisted on watching me complete the survey so I settled for, "Ignore."

Clearly Walmart knows their customer service is lacking. So does the rest of the world. Just read this.

But maybe it's just me. Maybe it has to do with a car accident I got into in a Walmart parking lot seven years ago. Yes, it was technically my fault, but the guy who hit me was cruising through the lot at 40 mph and ultimately paid my bills. And the stop signs in the lot didn't coordinate with the curbs or lane intersections, prompting the cops to say, "Stupid Walmart! We're out here every day for an accident."

But the best part is that after my car stopped spinning following the impact, I was jolted by another thud - the wreck had propelled me into a parked car. And who do it belong to? A sweet, old Walmart greeter, who I could tell prides himself on customer service in a sea of angry employees.

Maybe the whole ordeal prompted him to get a job at Target. Let's hope. It's much less dangerous. Oh, and it doesn't smell like mildew.

What's your worst Walmart story?

And I dare you to find someone who prefers Walmart over Target.

* Special thanks to Janaya for this post idea.

Or is it five?

Question: How many trips to Target in one week is too many?

'Cause I think my enthusiasm might start to wane the fourth time ... slightly.

(Fun fact: I once went to Target THREE times in one day.)

What is it about T-Town that we loOoVe so much?

(Fun fact: Mr. Dub doesn't understand the purpose of the capital "O" in loOoVe.)

Village people

I firmly believe that it takes a village to raise a child.

If not, Miss Dub is in serious trouble.

However, I sometimes wish that her particular village didn’t include cashiers and/or random strangers.

Most of the time it’s great: Everywhere I go I am suddenly friends with everyone by virtue of my adorable daughter. Scary men turn into cooing teddy bears at the sight of her goofy grin. Elderly women stop and chat with me about their mothering experiences during various world wars. Cashiers stop clamoring for my store discount card long enough to play a game of peek-a-boo with Miss Dub.

OK, so that last one sort of crosses over into the not-so-great realm. Because my once-efficient cashiers are suddenly slow as molasses. “Harry, what’s the price on these … Hello there, honey! You’re awfully cute. Can you wave at me?” And thus the lemons go unchecked for another five minutes until Ms. Cashier remembers that Harry and the rest of the line don’t care if Miss Dub waves at her or not. (And she usually doesn’t.)

But I can handle the delay. I mean, baby Dub adoration is one of my favorite pastimes, as well.
It’s the random chit-chat and unsolicited advice that I’m not so fond of, especially when I can’t understand what they’re trying to say.

Just yesterday at Target the teenage cashier went on and on about how she doesn’t know why she likes “the really young ones.” And then went on to insist that Miss Dub, who can confidently wear 12-month clothing at seven months, couldn’t be more then three months old. And how she doesn’t know why but she really likes that age. And a bunch of other stuff that was really hard to understand either because she had a foreign accent and/or I was just pretending to listen but really thinking about other more pressing matters. (Like whether or not my haggard feet are responding to my latest lotion.)

Another Target cashier saw me buying some girly dresses for my lil’ one and proudly proclaimed, “Wow! You sure had them close together.” Befuddled, I asked, “Um, what?” She then went on to explain that she could tell by the gender and age range of the clothes I was buying that I had a baby girl in addition to my male toddler. (Who, of course, was none other than an infant Miss Dub.) But rather than clarify that there was no other baby girl hiding under the cart (or wherever else she thought I was keeping her), I just played along. I nodded and um’ed in all the right spots until the awkward exchange was over.

And they are awkward. And they are frequent. And they inevitably end with me or Mr. Dub saying something in baby talk like, “Can you say bye, honey?” to appease their baby-drooling and bring our cashier chatter to a close. But, of course, she never says bye. In fact, we’re still lucky if she makes legitimate eye contact. But it’s like an unspoken rule that we have to engage her in the whole conversation.

Still, I’ll take strange conversation to random advice.

Just the other day at the airport, a very chic woman came up to me and asked, “Do you have anything warmer to put on that baby?”

Knowing that an unseasonal cold front had set in, I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m sure glad that I brought a blanket with us.”

To which she said, “Well, I think you should put it on her right now. She must be freezing. Seriously, you should put it on her.”

For the record, she wasn’t. She’s inherited my sweaty tendencies and was clammy to the touch. But I put on the blanket to please the woman with indie jeans and great highlights.

Because I don’t have it in me to tell her to bug off. Because I don’t have it in me to tell the cashier that red is a girl color, too! Because I don’t have it in me to tell the well-intentioned teenager that everybody likes the little ones because they’re, well, little. And because I don’t have it in me to ask Harry to check the price on the freaking lemons already!

Because the reality is it’s touching. Even when it’s annoying. Even when it’s unsolicited.

Because I like the idea that in our crazy, disturbed, conflict-ridden world, people still like babies.
And they really, really like mine.

It’s good to have a village.





(Who are some of your village people?)

Vitametavegimen

Sometimes I feel like my life is an episode of “I Love Lucy.”

That feeling has been echoed by other moms, like my dear friend, Mrs. Jay, who recently told me a story involving some orange juice and a new pack of socks. (What were the odds that one would end up spilled all over the other?)

My Lucy moment came yesterday when I was at Target. For some reason, lil’ Miss Dub has decided that:

Target + Miss Dub = Blowout.

I don’t now why. I mean, have my Target-lovin’ genes not been passed down to her? Does she not understand that the store is my salvation when it’s -10 degrees outside? Is it so wrong to ask her to hold her movement until we get home or lay out a plastic sheet on the store floor?

But, alas, she isn’t cooperating. And the last three times I’ve been there, her diaper hath given me no mercy. (Or seepage protection.)

Somewhere in the onesie aisle, I heard a sound that either indicated an incoming tsunami or a fantastic mess. After a little chiding – “Did you not promise me this wouldn’t happen, my love?” – I purchased my wares and headed to the bathroom.

But when I got to the restrooms, I found that both were being painted. At the same time. I asked if I could still use one and was informed that it was fine as long as I didn’t mind the door being open and strange men wandering about while I did my bizness. I quickly informed them that it was my little one’s bizness so it was no problem. (Had it been my bizness, I think I would have politely declined the kind offer.)

Once on the changing table, I took Miss Dub out of her carseat to discover a true disaster. I struggled to take off her soaked onesie, dirtying her and her hair in the process. I then opened the diaper - which garnered gasps from the workers peering over my shoulder – at which point I realized that I had forgotten to bring wipes.

With one hand on her tummy, I had to crank out some really hard paper towels and wet them down to vaguely replicate a wipe. Meanwhile, Miss Dub was chatting up the painters and wiggling all over the changing pad, dirtying it and her remaining clean clothes.

At this point, I started to feel my inner Lucy growing frustrated so I just starting throwing away soiled clothing. I then grabbed Miss Dub and put her under the bathroom faucet (workers still watching) and gave her a quick bath.

Finally, I put her into some new clothes, washed her pacifier (which had fallen in the melee) and put her back in the now clean (but wet) carseat.

Twenty minutes to change one diaper. That’s got to be a record. Lucy would be proud.

Had a Lucy moment lately?

For my fellow Targeteers

As you all know, Target is my Disneyland.

Well, Disneyland is my Disneyland. But Target is like unto Disneyland in that it’s a magical kingdom filled with ever-changing affordable and fashionable products. Plus, where else can you buy a cool skirt, a loaf of bread and a power drill?

So I decided to take a little chance and email some people at Target and pass along an idea. And by some people, I mean the CEO and President. (My reporter research skills do come in handy sometimes.)

Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Target,

You know you're cool.

Just take a look at your merchandise. It's hip and modern with a funky flair. Plus, your advertising is so bold and fresh. Clearly, you aren't suffering from low self esteem.

And people love you. I mean, they really love you. They love you in a way that can only be manifested by daily trips to your store, whether to hunt for new discounts or just admire your latest wares.

Even though you have so many fans, I can't help but let you know that I'm one, too. And I have been one for years. As a teenager, I would often forgo parties in favor of spending a night meandering down your aisles. As a young adult, I would drive out of my way to buy my groceries at your Super store. And as a new mom, I frequent your stores even more often, whether to stock up on baby supplies or just get out of the house.

But you need a fan club; a place for Targeteers to connect and share their love for you. A spot to swap decorating and fashion secrets that incorporate your products. My friends and I already do that when we get together or blog, but I'm envisioning something on a grander scale: a whole Web site dedicated to chatting about you.

I know, I know, you don't need another ego booster. You're already popular enough. But there may be some people out there who don't really know you, Target. Who don't know the joy of daily trips to your stores. Who don't know the thrill of ordering something from you online. Who are casual customers, not part of your culture. These people need some lessons on you.

Please consider my request. And if you need a daily blogger – someone who can chat up your key demographic with totally true tales from Target – I'm your gal. I am your biggest fan, after all.

But you're probably too cool to care.

With love,
Mrs. Dub

P.S. I've attached my resume in case you're a stickler for experience. (Oh, and you can find my blog at www.musingsandmisadventures.blogspot.com.)


And here’s what I got back:

Dear Mrs. Dub,

Thank you for your great letter regarding the creation of a regular Target blog. We love the passion and the support for the brand but I’m afraid that we’ll have to pass on your proposal. As much as we like the idea, we avoid any attempt to control our ‘buzz’. Once we begin to take ourselves too seriously or appear to be fronting enthusiasm we believe that we’ll loose some of the goodwill that has been created.

We wish you all the very best and thank you again for taking the time to contact us.

Sincerely,
Michael
EVP, Marketing
Target

P.S. Love your blog.


I wasn’t expecting a response, much less such a personal one. Thanks Michael. And thank you Target for not taking me up on my idea. It’s so true. Target doesn’t need any hype. Target speaks for itself. (In a soothing come-hither voice I might add.)

So get yourselves over to T town today! There are some amazing clearance sales going on right now … but you probably know that already. You are my friends.

(And for the record, I did mention my dislike of Target’s current return policy. Michael said they’re aware of the problem and are working on it. A double helping of gracias! for that.)

In the still of the night

Some people might think that waking up in the middle of the night is annoying. And they would be right.

But there are some perks to late night feedings/reswaddlings/pacifier replacements (besides staring at Miss Dub’s sweet face).

The stillness of the night is the perfect time for deep thinking. Maybe it’s because of the quiet. Maybe it’s because of the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it’s just because.

Whatever the reason, here are some of the random things that I have been thinking about during my last few sleep disruptions:

Why is my blog not working? The other day I decided that my life needed a little more color. Enough chocolate brown. Enough chartreuse. Where were the reds and blues in my life? Where were the eclectic combinations of my decorating past? So I decided to tweak my blog design. When that was done, I found myself reveling in my HTML-savvy-ness and got a little carried away. Having been informed by Blogger that I can now post to a private domain, I went out and bought http://www.musingsandmisadventures.com/. Just think of the finger cramps that will be alleviated by not typing an additional “blogspot” every time you come my way. However, despite reading their detailed description of how to automatically forward my blog … all it has accomplished is forwarding my comments to a lame ad site. So I’ve gone back to blogspot. Although technical difficulties may be in my future once again if I make a second attempt. So be patient. And don’t stop commenting. Meanwhile, go ice those digits.

What’s so wrong with the suburbs?

Old View

New View

I’m sick of suburbia backlash. When given the option recently of staying in a near-urban town or relocating to the ‘burbs, I jumped at the chance to do the latter. Suburbs are great. Meters aren’t found in the suburbs. (And who has spare quarters when you have to use them to do your laundry in your city apartment’s basement?) Parking is plentiful and FREE in the suburbs. We used to pay $100 a month just to park our car in a poorly lit alley frequented by some (albeit harmless) crazies. Here’s a recent exchange with one:

Him: (Pointing to the number 10 on the parking spot) Are you concentrating?
Us: What?


These sorts of exchanges aren’t part of suburban life. Instead you trade nods with your neighbor and say things like, “Great weather we’re having.” And don’t get me started about Target. My last Target had the customer service of a hangnail. My new Target is closer, cleaner and has a helpful staff that can seriously read your mind. (Though awkward when shopping for womanly supplies.) Now, I should clarify that I do like cities. I love the hustle and bustle with extra bustle on the side. I love the lights. I love the culture and diversity. I love the nightlife. I just love a 30-minute buffer between us. So all you new urbanists out there can take your restored brownstones and, well, live happily in them. The less of you out here in the ‘burbs, the cheaper our real estate. And the emptier our Targets. Amen.

Does everyone think like me? Several times a day my dearest Dub tells me I’m a weirdo, mostly because I have theories that border on unusual. For example, I feel that some numbers are angrier than others. (Most odd numbers, for example, though five is like an even number since it’s an even time increment.) However, I can’t set my alarm for any time that is an even increment, like 7:00. Instead, I opt for 7:03. Also, I describe my feelings about food with inanimate comparisons. Oreos taste like asphalt. Chocolate tastes like melted gold or pennies. Flavored ranch tastes like fancy. Also, I think that chicken is the water of meats. I mean, so overrated. Anyway, I do think that my brain is a little askew. But is that bad? Or is that good?