I’ve said it before and I am sure I’ll say it again: I really do not like to shop, but sometimes a man’s just gotta. I have minimized the pain by pretty much knowing exactly what I want and what I am going to pay, going in, grabbing it, checking out, and then I am gone. If I am in the store more than five minutes I usually consider the trip a dismal failure.
Today was one of those days that I just had to shop. It was the wife’s birthday, and we were going out for a dinner when I got off work.
Guys, I have been married a while, and one thing I know; Presents to the wife on special occasions are a must if you ever want to get lai . . . ur . . . have a piece . . . ur . . . have peace again. Naturally I figured on picking up her birthday present on the way home from work. This is not quite so insensitive as it sounds, it is really more of a self-defense mechanism. One side effect of being married for so many years is that some lessons about females manage to make it through even this thick skull. See, if I buy the present early, and she even catches a glimpse of the box, she knows exactly what I have bought for her. Exactly. Down to the color.
I always thought presents should be a surprise, yes?
I have bought tiny presents and packaged them in huge boxes. I have taken presents apart and packaged them in separate boxes. I have bought several different presents and packaged them in the same box. All to no avail. If the box is seen before the actual gifting, she knows exactly what it is. X-ray vision or something.
I had thought about it for a while, and knew exactly what I was going to give her, so on the afternoon of the gifting--off to the store I go.
So, I was wandering around Best Buy looking for this birthday present for my wife. And of course I rode "The Dragon" to work today.
That means there was this 6-foot 300-pound biker looking dude in full leathers wandering around in the store. This tends to make guys nervous, and I always have plenty of room in the aisle. My leather jacket weighs something over 30 pounds . . . took at least half a cow to create this jacket. Makes me look even bigger than I am . . .
Note: must look up what a cow is called after it has been made into leather . . . oh yeah . . . hamburger!
Anyway, I have finally figured out that women love leather. By the time I had found what I was looking for, I had 5 little blonde girls following me around the store.
When their mothers (3 blondes and 2 redheads, yum!) caught up with this unlikely gaggle, the girls (who did not know each other before today) were carrying all my stuff and calling me "Uncle Danny". I had to browse a bit and pick out an extra couple CD's to buy so all the girls had their own thing to carry for me.
Now you might think that the mothers, finally having located all their wandering daughters, would be just a bit defensive . . . maybe even a bit hostile toward this large, leather-clad behemoth, but no, not at all.
"But Moooommmm, he's not a stranger, he's Uncle Danny!" chimes in one little cutie.
"And he smells so good too!" chimes in another one, to the frantic nods and exaggerated sniffs from the rest of them.
A third actually curtsies to me and introduces her mom, “And this is Mom,” grabbing the finger of one of the redheads, “we don’t have a Daddy at home.”
Redheads are pretty when they blush.
Shortly we are all discussing the merits of my giving the super-sized, extended, 5 disc, book-end containing box set of Lord of the Rings to my wife for her birthday present (Holy Crap! 10 hours of documentaries alone!).
Turned out to be acceptable, by a vote of 8 to 2. The two dissenting votes were two of the little girls, who thought that perhaps I should give my wife the ring, instead of “the lord of the ring” . . . they were worried that my wife and the "lord of the ring" might both want to wear it at the same time.
So here I am, checking out at the Best Buy, surrounded by 10 gorgeous specimens of the long-legged Texan female persuasion (we do grow 'em nice here). I got great service, as every checker in the store wanted to help. One of the checkers brought balloons for the girls. I sent him back to get five more for the mothers too.
Heh heh . . . I can't help it . . . I just like women.
Next thing I know, we are all out in the parking lot, and TEN, count 'em TEN giggling females have to sit on "The Dragon" with me, fortunately not all at the same time.
When I started The Dragon the girls all squealed, and the women all looked wistful and sighed. Missed adventures, methinks.
So, my "five minute" foray into Best Buy to get a present for my wife, turned into a 45-minute social occasion. Maybe this shopping stuff is not so bad after all . . .
As the group departed back into the store, I overheard one of the mothers comment to another, "You can't always tell the bad ones, but you sure can spot the good ones right off." Muted agreement noises ensued.
I am highly flattered . . . though their instincts were correct, their daughters were in no danger with me regardless of the situation. The women weren't either (drat drat drat drat drat)!
People are just really, really . . . cool, and instincts should usually be given some credence.
Had I just known the power of the smell of leather when I was single . . . sigh.