My Big Box Booty Call

Dear Target,

I see what you did, there, and just because no one else seems concerned, don’t think I’m not. Yes, I saw the first time, but I convinced myself that, no, I was mistaken. After all, it was an early October Sunday evening, the waning cusp of the weekend that Monday morning infects. As any common laborer understands, a fair amount of liquid antibiotics had been applied to ward off said infection, so my judgment and perception couldn’t be trusted (for all you 1 percenters reading my blog, that means I had a few beers Sunday afternoon in an attempt to blur thoughts of the inevitable return to actual work the next morning).

But then, I saw it again. Mid-week, and I’d had only water with dinner. Tried to slip one past us, didn’t you, Tar-jay? But it was right there on the TV, big as life and as obvious as a fat man at the salad bar. A Christmas commercial, and the fifteenth of October hadn’t even rolled over yet. I’ll give it to you, you tried to disguise it. No Christmas music, no jingling bells, no hipster dancers flaunting their skinny jeans and knit caps as the fake snow swirled around them. No secular Happy Holidays banner, no Hanukkah wishes, no Merry Kwanzaa. Somewhere a marketing genius was grinning a smug grin. Probably wearing skinny jeans and sporting a stupid haircut, too.

I wouldn’t have noticed at all were it not for Cooper, my dog. See, Coop hates the Target dog. Hates the sight of him.

When that red-eyed pooch appears on the screen, Coop—all twenty-two pounds of him—barks like there’s a fresh-faced bevy of Mormons at the door, wanting to know if I’ve heard the good news. Coop went berserk and I looked at the screen in time to see the Target mutt bounding down a snow-filled street flanked by those… those… those Dickensian looking houses. Then, just in case I’d missed it, you Tar-jay, you slipped a few wrapped presents into the final shot and taunted me with the words “get ready.”

In all fairness, I like your store. Shop there somewhat regularly. You’re convenient. I can swing in on the way to the birthday party and find something nice for the guest of honor. Get a card, too. Pick up my blood pressure medicine, have a personal pizza and one of those big salty pretzels, wash it all down with a fancy-assed mocha-cinnamon-almond-bacon-crystal meth-swirl with a shot of red bull from Starbucks, buy a jumbo jug of fiber supplement, and nab an MP3 player. Toss in some tire black, golf balls, a loaf of bread, a lawn chair, and some wart remover. Why, it’s like… it’s like… Walmart, but people actually change out of their PJ’s to shop there and you rarely see a domestic dispute in the lady’s lingerie department. It might be even more than like. I’ll say it—I love your store.

But a Christmas commercial in the first weeks of October? I gotta draw the line, Tar-jay. And “get ready?” No. How many Christmas Eve’s have we shared? Clandestine rendezvous on the way home from work on an anniversary? Popping in for a quickie sympathy card while headed to the funeral home. The whole basis for our relationship is your last-minute convenience, don’t you understand? Tar-jay, you’re my big box booty-call, my capitalistic concubine. It’s a no-strings-attached thing we have—no, had.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll slink back, my last-minute guilt limping along like the shopping cart with the proverbial rogue wheel. Soon, all these fun political commercials will end and the holiday season commercials will begin in earnest. Once that commences the complaints about Merry Christmas—Happy Holidays can’t be far behind. I guess I can’t blame you for starting early, for trying to keep the sentiment of the season pure. So, kudos, Target. Kudos to you for running the first Christmas commercial of the season. Kudos for prompting us all to “get ready.” Kudos for reminding us about what’s important this time of year—presents.

Until next time, Peace (on Earth, Goodwill toward Men…you heard it first here).