“There’s something fishy about that music,” grumbles my hubby. We are dashing through a department store heck-bent on a mission. Mother’s Day is coming up and we’ve opted to purchase gifts for our respective parental units rather than send the usual gift cards.
Besides a love of cars, my husband and I share a mutual distaste for shopping. Well, perhaps that is putting it too mildly. When the kids’ birthdays roll around I always dread asking them what they want. Occasionally they request a shopping trip to the mall. Ugh. I love my kids, but really…
“You’re right, Sweetie,” I say to my spouse, tilting my head slightly to listen. It sounds like the store’s Musak is playing AC/DC. That’s just wrong. My stomach turns.
“Can’t we just get them these?” replies Steve, grabbing at a couple sets of knorks. “I don’t think Mom has anything like this.”
Say what? Knorks? Seriously! Combination knife and fork. One side of the fork is a knife. Yuck! I like my lips and tongue just the way they are, thank you. Set of four metal utensils $18.95. No way. Chalk that up to the ‘now I’ve seen everything’ file.
We careen down another aisle and come face to face with ‘IT’. Huge pink and white woven wicker baskets piled high with coffee mugs, assortments of ‘gourmet’ flavored coffees such as ‘melon dew drop express’ and ‘heavenly candy fluff’, bundles of cookies that were probably made last summer, and tins of candies and mints all tied up with yards and yards of frothy white and pink ribbon.
“Those are IT!” proclaims my hubby.
“How do you know?” quiz I. “My mom isn't drinking caffeinated coffee, and I think your mom is sticking more to tea lately. I know neither of our moms will eat the cookies or candy.”
“But the sign says so!” insists Steve, pointing to the sign that does indeed say ‘This is IT! Your shopping is complete with this FANTASTIC gift basket for MOM’.
“Um, I really don’t think that’s IT,” say I, as sweat trickles down my back. I’m starting to itch. I think that I get hives from shopping. I’m feeling woozy. My palms are becoming sticky. I do not wish to be arrested. My dad always told me when I was a child to be careful in stores because they arrest people with sticky fingers.
“Steve! Let’s get out of here before the sticky slides down onto my fingers!” I grab my husband’s arm and tug. We flee out the closest exit. Woo, that was a close call.
I sprint to the car while my sweetie lumbers along in distant second. Once we are in my Jeep, buckled up and on our way, I realize I can breathe easier. My head clears and I begin to think.
“You know, we still have two weeks until Mother’s Day. I bet I can find something online and have it shipped straight to them.” I smile as I contemplate the avoidance of another shopping trip.
No answer from hubby. Then I realize that he is still humming ‘Highway to H***’. What an appropriate song for a department store, in more ways than one.
Steve and I are totally singing the same song on the subject of shopping. Nothing fishy about that!