Inappropriate Target Conversation # 331
July 13, 2008 – 4:03 pm |“Jennifer WEE ner,” read six, hanging by his armpits on the side of the red cart, and peering down at my first item, a hardcover edition of Jennifer Weiner’s new novel, Certain Girls, on which the author’s name appears in large letters overshadowing the smaller title.
He snorted out a giggle. “Mom, who’s Jennifer WEEEEE ner? What’s that book about?”
On our big Fourth Weekend trip to Target last week, I decided to swing through and grab a book to read on vacation. Committed to checking out library books this summer, I had been patiently waiting in my library’s line for Weiner’s latest. But it is a vacation … I figured I could break my library rule for vacation. I tossed it in the cart.
“Actually,” I replied, “I have it on pretty good authority it’s pronounced Jennifer WY-ner.”
“It looks like Weeeener,” he said again, undaunted, and clearly amused.
“Jennifer Wee-ner,” said 5, mimicking her brother’s pronunciation and smiling up at me as she leaned back, precariously swinging off the end of the cart by one arm.
“Be careful!” I snapped sharply, “You’re going to fall off of there. And, enough. It’s WYner. Let’s go find the watermelon.”
“WEE-NER, WEE-NER WEE-NER” chanted Kong. I zoomed away from the books, toward the grocery aisles, trying to divert their attention without appearing to be trying to divert their attention.
“What should we get to eat at the cabin?” I asked.
“I know … how about Weee nerrrs?” 6 offered and laughed proudly at his own joke.
“Jennifer WEEE ners?” 5 added, conspiratorially.
“Guys,” I said, exasperated, “enough, it’s Wy-ner.” “Plus,” I tried reasoning with 6, “if it were wiener it would be spelled ie instead of ei. See. W-E-I — it’s WY ner.”
“Hey, mom” asked 5, still performing acrobatic feats on the end of the cart, “do you know what a wiener is?”
“A hot dog?” I said, hopefully, as I reached the bread aisle. Please let it be a hot dog I prayed silently.
“It’s another word for a Penis” she declared instructively.
“I have a Penis,” piped Kong, as a slender, gray-haired, grandmotherly woman squeaked out a suppressed laugh and pretended to concentrate on the fat-free mayonnaise, “But 5 has a PA-china.”
“Yep,” I nodded to Kong, “you’ve got it.” My face darkened to the same shade as the ketchup bottles on my left. “Who wants donuts??”
Nope, things haven’t gotten much easier in the last two years. But, at least it wasn’t this conversation … yet.