Adventures in suburbia
When it rains, it pours.
It's raining here and while sturdy outdoor types still get out and recreate, sometimes you just hafta go to the mall.
Or Costco. On a Sunday. With everyone else in Northern California.
I dislike crowds. A lot.
Add a bunch of people with wet carts trying to pass through those too-narrow aisles without saying excuse me. I had one guy who was so eager to increase the consumer price index that he kept smacking the back of my shoes with his cart.
“Why don’t you slide on ahead of me,” I said with my best death-ray glare.
Costco smelled liked burned fish flesh. Two little old ladies were giving out samples of broiled salmon and some tuna dish.
“I can’t go over there,” my wife said (I think she actually threw up in her mouth a little). “But check and see if they have any of those quiches that we like.
No quiches, but I ran into two other outdoor-types to commiserate with.
“Wife decided it would be good to get out the house, right?” one asked.
“You know it.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“You know it.”
From the “Warehouse of Terror,” my wife and I went to Target. I like Target. Lots less people with asses the size of compact vehicles blocking the aisles.
My wife was feeling a bit ill by now – something is percolating in my house – so she was ready to go home. She loves shopping. I knew she was seriously ill.
“I’m in a groove,” I said. “Let’s not ruin the mood.
“Let’s go to the mall.”
Old Navy. Macy’s. We stopped to get her an Orange Julius, to ease her stomach.
I went to the bathroom.
In a stall was a dad and his 3-year-old son.
“Hey, hold your own pee-pee,” dad coaxed.
“Hold your pee-pee.” (sounds of wee on the tile).
“Hold your pee-pee!” (more wee hitting the tile).
“Oh, damn, son, you really need to hold your own pee-pee.”
“Flush it daddy, flush it,” the boy urged.
“Son, it’s automatic, let’s go, I have to wash my hands.”
At least he washed.
When we had had all we could take, we took the slow walk to the exit. A commotion near Macy’s made us stop.
A shopper had tackled a punk who tried to boost a beanie from Old Navy. Three security guards had him subdued on the floor.
He screamed.
We all rubber-necked.
And in those fleeting minutes, crass consumerism took a hit.
It's raining here and while sturdy outdoor types still get out and recreate, sometimes you just hafta go to the mall.
Or Costco. On a Sunday. With everyone else in Northern California.
I dislike crowds. A lot.
Add a bunch of people with wet carts trying to pass through those too-narrow aisles without saying excuse me. I had one guy who was so eager to increase the consumer price index that he kept smacking the back of my shoes with his cart.
“Why don’t you slide on ahead of me,” I said with my best death-ray glare.
Costco smelled liked burned fish flesh. Two little old ladies were giving out samples of broiled salmon and some tuna dish.
“I can’t go over there,” my wife said (I think she actually threw up in her mouth a little). “But check and see if they have any of those quiches that we like.
No quiches, but I ran into two other outdoor-types to commiserate with.
“Wife decided it would be good to get out the house, right?” one asked.
“You know it.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“You know it.”
From the “Warehouse of Terror,” my wife and I went to Target. I like Target. Lots less people with asses the size of compact vehicles blocking the aisles.
My wife was feeling a bit ill by now – something is percolating in my house – so she was ready to go home. She loves shopping. I knew she was seriously ill.
“I’m in a groove,” I said. “Let’s not ruin the mood.
“Let’s go to the mall.”
Old Navy. Macy’s. We stopped to get her an Orange Julius, to ease her stomach.
I went to the bathroom.
In a stall was a dad and his 3-year-old son.
“Hey, hold your own pee-pee,” dad coaxed.
“Hold your pee-pee.” (sounds of wee on the tile).
“Hold your pee-pee!” (more wee hitting the tile).
“Oh, damn, son, you really need to hold your own pee-pee.”
“Flush it daddy, flush it,” the boy urged.
“Son, it’s automatic, let’s go, I have to wash my hands.”
At least he washed.
When we had had all we could take, we took the slow walk to the exit. A commotion near Macy’s made us stop.
A shopper had tackled a punk who tried to boost a beanie from Old Navy. Three security guards had him subdued on the floor.
He screamed.
We all rubber-necked.
And in those fleeting minutes, crass consumerism took a hit.
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