F*ck You, Grand Forks

Yesterday, my parents and I headed down to Grand Forks for a day of shopping. My sole intent was to purchase maternity clothes and, if the price was right, pick up some Cherry Dr. Pepper for Babydaddy. We left as the sun was rising, after a night of last minute babysitting for my cousin. I was exhausted before I woke up.

Our first stop was Target. I meandered through the cosmetics section, picking up some perfect grey nail polish and some Yes to Cucumbers face wipes, pleased with my early success. My happiness was short lived as I reached the long-awaited maternity section. The plethora of beautiful, cotton maternity tank tops promised on Target.com was a myth, not unlike the majestic unicorn. In its stead, was a smattering of poly-blends and clearance items that were either transparent or ugly. I tried on a few items, although nothing struck my fancy and I left feeling disappointed.

My Dad decided he wanted to visit Menard's, so I was dropped off at Old Navy, whose maternity section was sure to be more fruitful than Target's. The minute I walked in the door, a friendly greeter asked me if I was looking for anything in particular today. I said "Yes, the maternity section!" She frowned. "We sent all our maternity to Fargo." Oh. My heart sank. I phoned my parents to let them know and then wandered around Old Navy, aimlessly, for half an hour. The baby clothes were adorable, but without knowing the gender of Little Monkey, my options are limited.

Finally, after a pointless stop at Kohl's and TJ Maxx, we arrived at Wal-mart. I hate Wal-mart. But I was hopeful that Wal-mart, of all places, would have a few maternity shirts to tied me over until early fall. The minute I walked in the door, I was hit with the unseemly stench of BO. It wasn't a deodorantless customer, but rather the smell of Wal-mart. How apropos. I grabbed a cart and made my way to the women's section. I circled around and around, looking for the maternity section. No signage anywhere. Unable to locate an associate, I went to the fitting rooms and asked if I could be directed to the maternity area. The employee looked at me and said "We don't have one." I swear my mouth must have dropped open and I exclaimed "What? You've got to be kidding me! This is the only reason I came to Grand Forks! What do your pregnant ladies wear?!" She shrugged "People ask us about the maternity section all the time." Nice. Thanks, Wal-mart.

I blinked back tears and went over to the grocery side of the store. Maternity shopping might have been a bust, but at least I could still make Babydaddy happy with some Cherry Dr. Pepper, right? Apparently not. A box of twelve cans was a whopping $4.38. I know he would never spend that kind of money on pop, so I walked away. Even K-Mart, which claimed to be "BIG" on their sign, had nary a pregnancy outfit in the store.

I slept most of the ride to the border. When we went inside to pay duty, the officer looked at me with my pathetic receipts, and asked "Is this all you spent?" I pouted. "Sadly, it is." He pushed the receipts and my passport back to me and said "Have a good day!" At least I didn't have to pay duty. Falling into bed around 9:30, I slept for eleven hours, catching up on the winks I lacked the night before.

Next time, I'll be making the extra jaunt to Fargo. And f*ck you, Grand Forks. You pregnant-women-hating mecca of doom.