It was tax-free weekend here. Which means the masses were out, ignoring the weak economy and indulging in some good old fashioned retail therapy. Even Lee got into the groove and so we packed up our adorable brood Saturday morning and headed out to buy a few things we needed and a bunch of stuff we didn’t.

After filling little stomachs at Bob Evans (where Sloan specifically requested chocolate chip pancakes, which they didn’t have on the menu so they grabbed a bag of M & M’s from the store and tossed those in and even gave him a smiley face in whipped cream – that, folks, is how you keep your customers coming back!), we headed to the Promised Land.

That’s right – we went to Target. Because Target makes me happy. It’s like a drug; a beautiful, glorious good-deal drug. Forget that other mega store (the one that rhymes with Smallcart) – Target is the place that brings sweet joy to my soul…

After stocking up on Sloan’s school supplies (12 glue sticks??? Really? Why again? Do they eat it? (thanks Melissa for the great line:) ), we decided to brave the mall for some new school clothes. Us and the whole of West County.

But you see, we were smart because we hit the stores as soon as they opened. And we spent all of our money as fast as we possibly could. Which is pretty fast when the first two stores you go to are Old Navy and White House Black Market.   Oh yeah, and when you don’t have any money to begin with – that helps too…(And yes, I took advantage of the no tax weekend for myself as well and I got the rockin’ red shoes at the top of this page – aren’t they awesome?)

After all the retail loveliness, Lee and the kids went to unwind in the vortex of automated rides meant to suck the life out of anyone over the age of twelve and I headed to the store with the hidden Secret.  Because I was in need of some unmentionables…because I tend to buy those about as often as I buy a new car…which is about as much information as I’m sure any of you are going to want…

I’ll confess, shopping for underwear is not my favorite thing.  I find it horribly intrusive to have sales people hanging around me as I purchase my intimates, asking me whether I prefer a thong or full coverage, lace or cotton and would I like this specially made bra? It’s on sale for only 30 dollars!

And can we talk about the prices?  I can buy a kickin’ pair of shoes for as much as two undergarments (or one in some cases). Really?  Reeeaaallly?

So it was with a bit of reluctance that I entered the store Saturday.  And I made my plan to find what I wanted and get out of there in record time.  It’s not that I’m not seduced by all the pretty, girliness of the store – I just feel a little weird about everyone knowing what I’m buying.  Especially since it is apparently a stipulation for hire that you must be just out of puberty and as bubbly, if not more so, than the Starbucks baristas.  Maybe they all train at the same school.

So imagine my surprise/horror when I was approached by a DUDE the other day, asking me if I needed help finding anything.  If I hadn’t been trying so hard not to make eye contact with him, I would have studied him more closely to try and figure out what this guy was doing selling underwear in the store with a Secret and OMG no I don’t need your help AND CAN WE PLEASE SAY UNDERWEAR INSTEAD OF PANTIES! GAH!

Then there was the woman who dragged her poor son in the store.  Bless his heart – he was around 12 and his face was all shades of red as his mom dug through the stacks of silky underwear.  He looked like he would gladly crawl through the floor and die a thousand horrible deaths simply by being amidst all the negligee. 

 Then I remembered the one time I brought Sloan in the store about a year and a half ago and caught him oohing and aahing as he stroked the leg of one of the manniquins and I giggled.  But then the DUDE approached me again to tell me about the sales, and I got all uncomfortable and jumpy again and JUST WANTED OUT OF THE STORE WITH THE SECRET!

So I quickly went about my business, found what I needed, checked out with the DUDE (DUDE!) and left the store with the Secret.  And as I walked through the mall, I felt conspicuous with my little pink bag swinging by my side.  It’s as if everyone knew my secret.  Only I don’t know my secret. 

All I know is that I really, really hate underwear shopping.