My Happy Place

If you know me, you know that the four-year-old, since he was not four, has called Target "Mommy's Happy Place." It is mostly true. I love me some Target.  Even more when I can wander the aisles aimlessly picking up things I don't need, strolling around more, and then putting those things I really don't need back where I found them.  If left at Target unattended and without responsibility, I could do this for hours.  I am aware of how pathetic that is.

The truth is, I have another happy place. The place I go in my mind when I need a little break. Let me give you a small tour. It is a white house, on a white sandy beach. It has a large white living room, with a white carpet, and white overstuffed chair. There is a white fan overhead, and the white window shears blow in the breeze. There I sit, in my white clothes (which miraculously show not a bit of my cellulite), drinking white wine, and reading from my cute white Kindle.  Do you sense a theme here? Yes, everything is white and clean. Nary a crumb will fall, nor drop be dripped on my white anything, because I am an adult, and have the ability to hold my cup upright, and chew with my mouth closed. In my little white beach house, nobody calls me anything, because nobody is there needing anything from me.

But damnit if they don't figure out how to find me anyway...