It’s over. And I mean it. Maybe. Probably. It is. Most-likely. Just read this.

Has anybody ever tried out one of those budgeting websites where you link your bank account and like magic all of your purchases in the last three months are compartmentalized for you like a bento box and then your husband looks at you and says, “you wanna know how much money we spent at ____________ since March?” and you really want to say no, but that won’t make it so HE doesn’t know how much money has been spent at _______________ and you know that by “we” he means “you”, so you just say “Sure” and then he tells you and you gag a little thinking about that new car you’ve been trying to work into the budget because yours makes that clicking noise when you turn left and the tape deck (yes, tape deck) stopped playing that tape that connects to your MP3 player so you’ve been listening to CD’s from the nineties for the last month or so?

Yeah. Well. I have a Target habit. And I blame it mostly on account of that Starbucks nestled in the corner of the place.  That and the fact that without espresso, my day quickly starts resembling that you tube video of the guy begging people to “leave brittany alonnneee”.  My face drips off around three thirty when I pick up the kindergarteners and the questions pick up right where they left off at eight thirty.  {OMG, yes, just have some friggin gum already and NO we can’t go to the blankin’ pool-it’s flippin raining out!}

All joking aside, I cried when I heard the number.  And my dear husband kept saying “we” when talking about going on a hardcore budget as if it wasn’t me doing all the damage.  Sure you’re app-tastic, or app-addicted with that new Incrediphone or whatever the shit that thing’s called, but a dollar ninety-nine every few weeks is not keeping us from our dream vacation or a car that doesn’t make noises and leave puddles of goo on the garage floor.  It’s me. Me and inappropriate love-affair with Super fucking Target. And Starbucks.  The pair are an irresistible force that I am powerless against.  But I think I may have the solution.  Just like booze, these shopping addictions can be thwarted with a little list I tweaked to better suit my needs.  I give you:

The Twelve Steps to Quitting Target

1. I admit I am powerless over you, Target.  My weak-willed soul is no match for your red-tag riddled end-caps
2. I have come to associate your florescent lights and red plastic carts with a higher power.
3. I have made a decision to turn my will over to an actual grocery store for all items food related as to avoid being seduced by your reasonably priced tank tops, candles, and cat hair combs.
4. Have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of my purchases in the last month and {for SHAME}.
5. Have admitted to Jed, the almighty ruler of the household, the exact nature of our wrongs together.
6. I am entirely ready to have coffee at my house every morning instead of in your shiny Starbucks.
7. I have humbly agreed to forfeit my daily, no weekly, okay…..daily outing to see you in order to look my husband in the eye again while answering the question, “is that new?”. 
8. I have made a list of all the stuff I have recently purchased from your shelves and determined you are surprisingly NOT a necessary and justifiable trip. 
9. I have burned, torn, or probably just recycled the coupons I had on reserve as flimsy, papery excuses to see you.
10. I will continue to take it personally when one of your advertisements interrupts my regular programming to alert me of how ill-prepared I am for summer fun.  Your trendy music mocks me, but you can’t win.
11. Have sought a high elsewhere that can satisfy my seemingly insatiable need for Archer Farms, Converse One, and Sonia Kashuk.  There is none compatible, yet I stay strong.
12. Having had a shopper’s awakening as the result of these steps, I have survived my first day of many without you.

 

JG says I don’t have to quit Target.  But he doesn’t know.  Alcoholics can’t have one beer.  Sex-addicts can’t be satiated with a quickie hand-job in the bathroom at Wal-Mart. Ted Bundy couldn’t go on a date and just give her a black eye. (oy. i did.)  I don’t believe I can go to “that place” without bringing home something that is instantly rendered frivolous as soon as it crosses the threshold.

It’s just that way.  So.  I am done with you, Target.  I will never be your mayor on four-friggin-square.  Don’t call me.  I won’t answer.  This is more of a band-aid ripping thing.  You and me.  We don’t belong together.  And I’m sorry.  Sorry that the last thing I came for was a pack of dryer balls.  More regrettably, I just said dryer balls and couldn’t laugh about it.

This is more serious than I imagined.