I am fairly certain one of the four of us was going to get kidnapped at Target today. And I’m pretty sure that someone was yours truly, because, well, my children had lots of energy to spare post-camp and don’t really understand the concept of an inside voice and honestly, rowdy children don’t make very good kidnapping victims. Also, I saw the way the dude with the budweiser boxer shorts and no teeth was eyeing me from across the aisle. It was an “I want to eat your face” look. And not in a good way.

It started pretty much like any other trip to Target starts. With a list. Chi flat iron. Leotard. Nail clipper. Water Bottles. I popped Target into the GPS and found, I think, three in Wisconsin. How is that even possible? There were three Targets within ten minutes of my house in Atlanta. Three in the entire state? “Wisconsin is Kohl’s country,” says my mother. But, really, Mother, they are not even in the same league. Have you ever tried to buy a toddler-sized container of cheese balls while buying artwork for your wall while buying tampons while buying a camera lens while buying Bella Swan’s bedding while buying gift wrap at Kohl’s? It can’t be done, is what I’m saying.

So, we headed to the nearest one, which, when I say nearest, I really mean pretty much in friggin’ Nunavut but, folks, I am a stubborn fool and I have a hard-on for Target and we were going there today.

Until my GPS took me to

wait for it…

WALMART.

Oh yes, she did. She told me she was taking me to Target, but took me to Walmart instead. I get it, Walmart. You are no longer hyphenated and you traded in your boring old star for some cartoon-y sunburst or something to make the housewives happier about shopping at your store, but I am not buying it. You are not Target. You will never be Target. No matter what my bloody GPS tells me. Little did she know that I have a weird sixth sense for finding stores that like to suck my wallet dry (sometimes I randomly find myself at Anthropologie and don’t even know how I got there)(true story).

I found it all on my own.

Only this was not the Target I was looking for. This was MY Target’s crazy metal-plated Cousin Eddie.

(I don’t know why they call this stuff hamburger helper. It does just fine by itself, huh?)

(sidebar: My official Halloween costume for next year)

Anyhoo. I did manage to get a giant container of cheese balls. And a leotard. And water bottles. And my Chi iron. And a nail clipper. And two Berenstein Bears books (because, seriously, if I have to read The Lorax one more time…) And pretzels. and gum. And a dress for Isabella.

But all of this was done in under, um, about 8 minutes because of, well, in addition to the scary toothless man who wanted to eat my face, there were far too many policemen in one place for my liking. A policeman at every turn means there’s a need for a policeman at every turn, which, really, can never really mean anything good. And you know what else is never a good sign? When things like nail files and razors are locked behind glass cases. No ma’am.

I was hightailing it out of there. Quick.

So I could get my ass to Kohl’s.