Posts Tagged ‘Shopping’


So we’re in the parking lot of the grocery store…

Mark:  “I can run FAST.  I am half-cheetah.”

Me:  “Wait.  I know both your parents.  Which of us is the cheetah?”

Mark (considering):  “You, I guess.”

Me (jokingly):  “Me?  I guess even cheetahs can get old and fat.”

Mark (the half-shrug again):  “I guess so.”

Kate:  “Mom?  A cheetah?  No way.”

Mark:  “Why not?  She could go fast if she had to.”

Kate:  “Maybe in a CAR.”

But it turns out Mark was right.

The next moment, he decided to demonstrate his cheetah power and took off running.  Which meant Mom had to execute a desperate running lunge to grab him before he pelted into the path of a car.  Mark sees parking lots as wide open running spaces.  Cars, unfortunately, tend to believe they are for driving, usually too fast.  I guess Mom is a cheetah.  Given the right incentive.

Relative Drugstore

So we’re in the car on the way home from karate last night…

Kate (sounding it out):  “Rrr-eye–tt  Ayeeduh.  Rite-Aid.”

A pause while she considers.

“So, if it was on the other side of the road, would it be Left-Aid?”

Still not sure if that was an honest question or first grade humor…

Accosting Strangers in Target

It’s easy to tell when Mark is ready to go visit Grandpa and Grandma:  He starts ‘recognizing’ them in stores.  Nearly always Grandpa, and usually Target.

Like last week, when we were there picking up a few things, and some poor unsuspecting old man walks into the same aisle.  Mark glanced up, looked again, whispered, “Grandpa?” as if not quite believing it himself, and sprinted down the aisle, cast flapping.

He’d picked a ringer, I’ll give him that:  a skinny old man in jeans, tennis shoes, plaid shirt, and a military ball cap.  He could have been Grandpa’s stunt double.  Or more likely, Grandpa could have been his; he was obviously frailer than Mark’s robust farmer Grandpa.

Mark figured out pretty quickly that it was not, in fact, Grandpa, but having rushed up to the dude and started a conversation, he behaved politely.

“Oh, you’re not Grandpa,” he said.  “My name is Mark Patrick Noland Butler.  What’s your name?”

The man liked this although it was clear he hadn’t understood a word.  “Hi, there.”  He must have had throat surgery because his voice was low and raspy; he was, actually, harder to understand than Mark.

Mark was obviously interested in his voice, and I could see him considering asking about it and then deciding it would be rude.  “My name is Mark Patrick Noland Butler,” he repeated.  “What’s your name?”

He ruffled Mark’s hair.  “Like your hair.”

Mark:  “It’s red.”

I decided it was time to peel Mark away.  After all, this “Grandpa” might well have a Grandma expecting him to help with the shopping and Mark could be getting him in trouble.  But I expect it’s a good thing we’re visiting the farm soon.

Fine Dining

So today is Kate’s birthday, and we’re going shopping and out to lunch with her Grandma.

Usually Kate is fond of Panera, particularly the towering pyramid of whipped cream on the hot chocolate during the winter.

So I ask, “Would you like to go to Panera for lunch?”

“No,” she says.  “Someplace fancier.”

Uh-oh.  I wasn’t really planning on a sit-down lunch today.

But she continues:   “That sells pizza.”

Whew!  The food court it is!

New Proverb

So Mark and I are at Costco.  Like always after we finish our shopping, we stop for lunch at their awesomely-underpriced snack bar.  Mark gets a ‘piece’ of pizza that’s actually a fourth of a large pie and a ‘purple milkshake’, which is really a berry smoothie.  I get a diet coke.  All for less than five bucks.  (This takes some of the sting out of the four hundred that just got sucked out of my checking account for the cartload sitting beside us.  But not much.)

Me (after a few minutes):  “Aren’t you going to eat your pizza?”

Mark (one fingertip prodding the cheesy top):  “It’s too hot.”  He slurps happily at the smoothie.

Me (after a few more minutes):  “How about now?”

Mark (giving the pizza a two-finger jab this time):  “Still too hot.”  He takes a deep breath and nods sagely.  “You know what they say.  Hot pizza, hot hands.”

Boo, Borders!

BE WARNED:  Borders will not exchange a book without the receipt.  One unread, covered with Borders stickers.  That I bought yesterday.

Okay, so ‘return for money’ I understand.  You don’t want shoplifters light-fingering a book, coming back, and converting it to cash.  But exchange?  That makes no sense.  First of all, if I already have one of their books illicitly, letting me exchange it for another book doesn’t really hurt their position.  They’re still out one book.

But–and here’s the crucial part–I bought the thing.  Yesterday.  With my credit card and Borders account.  Is Borders really, really saying that their computer system is so bad that they can’t swipe my card (either one!!!), pull up the transaction, and see that I did in fact buy the book I’m holding–yesterday?  Among $55 worth of other books?  Wal-mart can.  And has.

Off to get lost in the Amazon, and never cross the Borders again!

The Circle Dante Forgot


If my children INTENDED for me to leave the Target reconsidering the wisdom of procreation as a concept, they succeeded.  Apparently, in their heads, we shop for my entertainment, cause it’s so darn much fun to take children to the store, and if they behave very badly, Mom will get bored with it and we’ll go home.

I may recover.  Some day.

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