The wife forced me to… I mean suggested… we hang out and ‘make a day of it’ this past Saturday. She’s been traveling a bit lately, so in spite of wall-to-wall college football and watching Geraldo get thrown around a Galveston seawall, the woman who determines just how pleasant my day will be decided we should abandon lazing around The Palace and spend some time together ‘shopping.’
I’m really not sure why our together time couldn’t have included watching the Maryland-California game or news reporters doing the backstroke in the Gulf of Mexico, so I won’t belabor the point here.
She sweetened the pot a bit by suggesting we stop at a mega-liquor store – it’s that time of year where we swap out our summer libations (margaritas, vodka lemonades and Scotch) for more fall-friendly beverages such as Bailey’s Irish Cream, Godiva Chocolate Liqueurs and Scotch – so I relented.
The wife tired of the liquor shopping after just two short hours (they were having a wine tasting and I was only on the Cabernet’s that began with “C”) so we stopped for a little lunch and then ended up in one of those retail establishments that outrageously inflates the price of their goods and then gives you 50% off so you think you’re saving a little coin.
Please, we Americans regularly purchase the stuff hawked by Billy Mays (if Mighty Putty was as powerful as claimed would we not be using it to fill potholes?), so we’re nothing if not educated consumers.
After wandering through the women’s, house wares, bed & bath, furniture & décor, kitchen & dining and clearance departments I snagged a new pair of tennis shoes (can’t say I don’t support Chinese slave labor) and followed the wife on an encore tour of the aforementioned specialty sections.
But while she looked through the clearance rack for another bargain to hang in her closet, I headed for the toy department.
The toys here at Poo-Paw’s haven’t been sufficiently upgraded, so on the last few visits the grand gnome has been forced to relive his infant days by playing with colorful newborn-type gadgets and a stuffed duck that honks “aflac” when squeezed.
When I last visited my grandson at home, I found him to be quite enamored with a product called “Shake N Go” cars.
If you haven’t seen the Shake N Gos, they live up to their name: you shake them, sit them down and depending on how violently shaken, the cars will then motor quite a few feet across the floor.
However, when they are shaken, you get obnoxiously loud sounds of an engine starting, tires squealing, and a mystery driver repeating (ad nauseum) a couple of car-related phrases. The version we purchased is the taxi model, and when it smacks into a table leg, door jam or big toe, you get the bonus cacophony of breaking glass and crunching metal.
And, upon impact, the taxi’s hood flies up, the doors fly open and the trunk spoiler is ejected rearward with missile-like trajectory. I know this because I nearly lost an eye while crawling along the floor behind the vehicle.
Now, to give you a glimpse into our Sunday gatherings, you normally have between 7 and 10 adults, one hyperactive (and overly protective) border collie who barks every time he feels the gnome is in danger, and a two-and-a-half-year-old sprite that has all the energy of a ferret on Dexatrim.
Add in a kitchen radio perpetually tuned to sports talk and the stereo-sound majesty of our family room television, and the house possesses all the solitude of I-95 during the Friday afternoon rush.
This week, we added to the symphony of noise with not only the Shake N Go taxi, but also a way-cool Matchbox motorcycle that revs its engine and does an Evel Knieval-type flip.
Uncle Trav also supplemented the chaos when he showed the young ‘un that crashing the taxi into one’s forehead would cause the same amount of automotive destruction as the previously mentioned furniture barriers.
More clamor arose when my daughter – or Mien Commandant as she’s known to my grandson – threatened to punch brother Trav in the very same forehead where the taxi crashed just moments ago.
This violence would be carried out only if the grand gnome proceeded to mirror Uncle Trav’s actions and bash his own head with the plastic automobile.
We all waited breathlessly for the boy to sign his uncle’s death warrant, but the crisis passed without incident.
Well, that’s what they tell me – I was seeking the sort of solitude that can only be found in my newly-purchased fall beverage collection.
If expanding the boy’s toy inventory continues to result in this kind of bi-weekly pandemonium, I’ll be stocking up on the winter wines and spirits before Halloween.
By J. Doug Gill