Death and Vacation.

My ears began popping as the plane drifted up and away from the paved runway and onward back home. I realized I could not hear the safety speech performed by the flight attendants but I assured myself I could figure it out. In the event of a crash, would I save the guy in the charcoal suit who keeps complaining about no cellphone use? Should I start forming alliances now? Confident I could untangle a bag of oxygen without the careless instruction of an air hostess, I searched for stimulation.

My thoughts drifted from methods of survival as I became enthralled with the Sky Mall magazine. A gallery of glow in the dark gadgets and dog brushes were at my fingertips. I contemplated how many Big Foot statues and laser pointers I needed. I wondered if anyone would notice if my microwave was also a radio as the guy behind me kicked the back of my chair.

I sipped silky wine in Napa and walked two miles uphill in San Francisco while I was away. There is something about the northern part of our Golden State that makes one feel so cultured and rebellious. Homeless hippies, fashion police, and embarrassing tourists all find a cause to live for in the bay area. There is just something in the air, the cleaner than LA air, that inspires political action and an appreciation for classy things like high-heels and used bookstores.

I locked myself in the underground garage of my dear friend's two story home the morning we were to leave for San Francisco. I was completely alone, minus the wiry little dog that kept following me around. My stomach imploded a little when the door locked behind me as I stood on the top of long wooden stairs. The tiny K-9 looked at me for instruction as I convinced myself that he would eventually bite/kill me. I began to forgive all those who had wronged me and prayed for forgiveness of those I had mistreated. I gently banged on the door without answer and then remembered garage doors usually open. I put pressure on a beige automatic tab and was immediately released from my killer dog dungeon. I congratulated myself for my survival skills on that weary morning while I popped airplane peanuts, which are always better than land peanuts.

As the backyard pools and helicopter pads became visible from my airplane window my travels had come to an end. My dreams of becoming a poet in Chinatown would have to be put to rest for now. Leisure and amusement are obligations while on vacation. In real life I had cars to drive and barbecue flavored pizza to serve. There is comfort in the known, predicable life, because crazy animals are less likely to trap me in a basement and methods of survival become interesting tidbits at dinner parties.

Goodbye, Target, Goodbye...

I often wander aimlessly around the wonderland of mass production. Many hours have been spent contemplating the practicality of stocking up on funny greeting cards while I meander down to the cosmetics aisle. There is peace in the white linoleum tile. The soft glow of fluorescent lights and the gentle breeze of a giant air conditioner bring tranquility to the tired soul. I count on Target for an escape and for a chance to dwell in the anonymity of low-price shopping.

The automatic red doors opened to a world of chaos at my neighborhood Target, Monday evening. The sparkling-plastic floor was replaced with taped off concrete. Red paint was splattered in all the wrong places, while every aisle seemed at least two feet too big. The DVDs were next to the baby clothes, and the pots and pans were adjacent to the make-up. I gasped as I tried to make sense of the horror. "Don't panic," I whispered without moving my lips.

I had four items to make it out alive with: contact solution, lotion, cat toys and one baby present.

The air conditioning was apparently on the fritz, as my sister and I started to realize the baking temperature of Target. I am ashamed to say the heat got to me. The boiling climate made everything a frustration. None of the baby bibs were adorable. No single cat toy was risky enough. All the lotion smelled like glue and the contact solutions looked too itchy.

I could not face my cats one more time without a gift in hand. I grabbed a few cat-nip injected mice as my sister fanned herself with cardboard nail clippers. I walked to the register and threw my disappointment of a purchase onto the flat escalator. I handed a twenty to the boy behind the register, while he applied multiple layers of lotion to his dry hands. Apparently he had trouble opening the shopping bags. This made me uncomfortable.

I could not understand how Target, my green meadow, had turned into a place of anguish. How could they destroy such a blessed place? My sister exclaimed with a intact whine, "A supermarket? Why would Target become a super market?"

It all then became undeniably clear. I wanted to hold Target in my arms and explain that Target needed to accept itself for what it was and did not need to be anything else. I do not need oranges or fresh baked bread from my bull's eyed friend. I needed Target to be the breath of uncomplicated consistency into my life. I needed Target to stay true to itself but alas it did not.

The next day, I hopped into my tiny car and headed for Trader Joe's. The doors opened to a refreshment of dim-lighting and stands of roses and daisies. The carrots, pasta shells and frozen pizzas were in all the places that I had remembered. Not a single item was removed or disordered. All was right in the world, once again.