TARGETing the SNACK-BAR
So I went shopping with Dorian and spent the better part of the evening in there while she grabbed a cart and zipped away.
I didn’t sit down immediately though.
As usual I headed for the electronics department to peruse music, DVDs, and crap like that while she headed for the clothes. I engaged in electronic crap perusal for a good fifteen minutes or more before finally heading to the snack bar. Only an hour and a half left!
She was still in the clothing section looking for basement bargain deals when I got there. I know this because we have cell phones and I called to let her know where I was, just in case she impulsively decided to grab the first thing she sees and then (HAHA!) check out.
But she won’t do that because we need things, and somebody in this family has to invest some time into finding them and then carefully scrutinizing one brand of product against another in a side by side comparative analysis to determine what’s going to be the best deal, before returning to the shampoo section just before checking out because we’d forgotten the conditioner.
Yes, I said we, because apparently I can forget all kinds of things as I sit there snacking on muffins, pizza, eggrolls, cookies, orange juice, and coffee while judging the morbidly obese Americans who walk by for their lack of self-control.
I must give her props, or kudos, or whatever one must give one’s wife though, when she works so hard to get the best deals AND makes sure we have what we need AND she reads this blog. Yes, I would certainly not be the best candidate if our two cats held an election to decide which of us was going to go to Target for kitty litter and cat treats.
If elected, I would grab the first bag of kitty litter I see and, upon zipping home so that I could go online and fire-up YouTube (that wombat is actually playing that piano!), it’d be discovered that it’s made of radioactive waste material with chunks of broken beer bottles mixed in.
The cats certainly wouldn’t go near it.
On the other hand, if she was elected to go get the kitty litter, she’d spend at least a half-hour determining which size to buy after first calculating the matrix of sand balance to clay integrity along with the rate of absorption factor. Eventually she’d settle on the imported cedar chips with alabaster sand that had just arrived from Morocco at only $22.00 for a half pound bag.
The cats won’t go near that either.
After I’d been in the snack bar for a while my cell phone rang and it was her, calling to tell me that she had everything we needed. So I tossed away my empty coffee cup, orange juice carton, two pizza plates, eggroll wrapper, cookie envelope and one blueberry muffin cup and waddled to the check-out stand to meet her.
The 17-year-old cashier, who really enjoyed following the rules, informed us that she couldn’t sell us the box of Merlot that Dorian had carefully picked out because she was only 17-years-old and you have to be 18 to sell alcohol to people.
I told her that we’d never really thought of wine in a box as alcohol but, being the good girl she is, she stuck to the rules. We had to wait for the old man to come and ring us up and he walks really slow, so by the time he got there the girl was 18 but he rang us up anyway to make it worth his trip.
We eventually arrived home and got the new Moroccan kitty litter poured into the pan so that the cats could sniff it before going off to pee on our bath towels.
Good thing she had shopped carefully and bought the right kind of cat pee stain remover.