On President’s Day, I got out of shopping with my wife by hanging out with two adolescent boys (our son and a friend). Yeah, I got my priorities in order, for sure!
While she headed up to a local outlet mall to meet a girlfriend, me and the boys:
Ate pizza. Well, they ate a respectable two slices each, whilst I devoured four! (Still on my “see-food” diet).
Browsed at Best Buy–where no less than 3 associates asked “Do you need help with iMacs?” “Do we look like wee need help with iMacs? We’re just browsing, and playing lame Chipmunk videos on YouTube. Go away.” <--Ok, didn't really say that last part, but I'm a legend in my own mind. Sugared up at Cold Stone: Here’s the deal: by the time we got to Cold Stone, the lentils and four-bean salad I’d eaten the night before, were really kicking in. Other words, the “dogs” were barking. Ok, it was an alimentary emergency. After finishing my sundae, I excused myself–in search of my “happy place.” And those darn boys! They timed me! That, and apparently some girls, in search of relief, needed to use the facilities as well. Problem was–Jeff Daniels-like–I wasn’t going anywhere. (Besides, in this case, it was probably in their best olfactory interest to avoid smelling what the “Rock” cooked up. I heard later that they cussed me out. Like there weren’t any other restaurants, or shops, in that strip mall where they could find their own sweet relief? I guess hell hath no fury like a woman needing to pee). Browsed at Game Stop: Video games. Just. So. Not. My. Thing. Bought insoles at Sport Chalet: What can I say? I’m on my feet a lot, and sometimes those dogs bark, too. Call it “feet relief.” Hung out at Barnes & Noble: Sweet bliss! My ambrosia! A world of words. The boys? They looked at comic books. Oh, and they asked about Herman Melville, too. Have you ever tried to have a serious discussion regarding classic literature with two adolescent boys? If, as a believer in Jesus, it’s on your Rapture pre-flight checklist–take it off. I’ve gone there for you, and can report back the following: “Dad, why is this book called Moby-Dick? Titters.
“‘Cause it’s about a large whale son.” (In hindsight, I should’ve seen the following coming, but in my defense I was tired).
“What kinda whale?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe a humpback, or a sperm whale.” Right then I knew, but it was too late.
“Why did they name it that, dad?”
“Well, son, you see, words change over time, and take on new meanings…”
Yeah, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. I know. You in the peanut gallery? You’re laughing with me, and not at me, right? Oh, you’re laughing at me? Well, ok then–I would be, too, if our roles were reversed.
In summary: instead of shopping with my wife, I shopped With two human beings who can’t discuss Herman Melville without chuckling off their seats.
And my bathroom time? 15 minutes.