Genetic Mutations

Ask my sister how many times she and I accompanied our mother on shopping trips to Target when we were young and she would probably reply, "Let me get out my slide-rule..." or, "How many angels can dance on the handle of a wobbly-wheeled shopping cart?" We were regulars back when it was Ayr-Way. Once it transitioned to the big red and white bulls-eye well, suffice it to say, I could find my way to the toy section blindfolded, walking backwards. On these trips, I often wondered if perhaps we should simply live at Target. It would eliminate those pesky car trips. Frequently I would dream of being the recepient of some sort of shopping spree prize that allowed me to bring home one of every product sold at Target. "Yeah, I've got that," I'd be able say.

Apparently our local Target was built on a radioactive dump or sacred Indian burial ground because this retailer worship, cultivated in my youth, has been passed on to my progeny not through repeated exposure to the shopping experience, but through simple genetic code. The boy reached out, grabbed, and would not let go of that which he thought was surely the most important item in this universe: The Target Gift Card.