Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Man, how I hate going shopping
Got home and Reba was still not back from dropping the kinder off at her mom and dad’s house, so I puttered around for a bit until I heard the garage door open. We grabbed the multitude of lists made out for Santa and headed out.
First stop, food. Went to Monterrey, the new Mexican place between Wallyworld and the newly occupied cell phone store. Reba has been very good about staying away from the spicy stuff in order to keep her internal workings from paining her, but at some point in there I believe it just became too much to bear. SO, we dropped in to see what they had. Pretty much your standard stuff, and the décor was themey without having to rely on fluorescent portraits of sad-eyed waifs. And the waiter was very…attentive. To a fault. Every time he passed by, he gently laid a hand upon my shoulder to enquire about the quality of the meal and service. As you all know, I am not really the touchy type, unless you are my wife, my mother, one of my kids, or, in keeping with the Mexican theme, I would not be averse to my shoulder being touched by Mara Croato, star of Telemundo’s novella Amor Descarado, (but only if she just happened to be waiting tables that particular evening). Anyone else kinda creeps me out. The food was good, though, and reasonably priced—Reba got a taco salad and I had a plate full of enchilada, stuffed poblano (which was really, REALLY hot), and rice and beans.
Off then to pollute the crowded aisles of Wal-Mart with my excess methane production. I don’t know if I have ever mentioned this, but I would rather not go Christmas shopping during Christmas time. At Wal-Mart. On a Friday night.
It was crowded, although not with a particularly surly bunch. Lots of unsupervised kids, lots of people wandering around gawking like tourists in New York City, stockers moving gigantic pallets of consumer goods around, everyone on cell phones checking with Meemaw and Aunt Whiz down at the Wal-Mart in Irondale to see if they got that there little thingamabob like that, and if so, then to be sure and get it because it’s a dime cheaper there, and us.
We made pretty quick work of the list. I kept thinking how much cheaper (as well as more humorous) it would be if I could write that I just tore up all their lists and got them stuff like boxes of toothpicks, drawer pulls, paper clips, engine degreaser, self-stick felt pads, a two-pack of plastic buttons, aluminum foil, antibiotic ointment, two-strand doorbell wire, and a potato apiece. Alas, ‘twas not to be, as we made short work of our bank account with a few of the things they wanted. “Look, just because it’s on your list, DOESN’T mean Santa’s gonna bring it to you!” I’m telling you, that Santa Claus guy is going to send me to the poorhouse.
Finally wound ourselves down, and it was off to get the little anim…dears. Picked them up, threw them into the van, headed home, sent them to bed, and then start with My Long Evening, Part II.
Reba had bought 9 pounds of band booster fundraising cookie dough, and we were supposed to make some cookies for the gift boxes for church. So, in a fit of domesticity, I did what Hillary Clinton refused to do and got out a couple of cookie sheets and the wire racks and started in to bake cookies. At 9 o’clock at night.
It was very therapeutic.
There was none of the mess of actually having to mix the dough, and it contained pasteurized eggs, so I managed to indulge in several bits of dough without fear of burying myself with salmonella, and then there was the soothing, mind-numbing effect of rolling spoonsful of goo between my palms. Managed to get 6 pounds of dough cooked up into about 160 or so cookies by the time Conan went off, which I figure was pretty good.
Then I went upstairs and collapsed.
Next—Tales of Saturday!!
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