Each day provides its own gifts. Marcus Aurelius
Trader Joe's is nice. There is one in Oak Park on Harlem just a bit north of Lake Street. This is an exoctic country for me.
On Saturday, the woman I love needed to return to Trader Joe's as she had been charged twice for a pound of coffee. As a member of the superior gender this chic, lovely and thrifty woman kept hold of the receipt; something this impulse shopping Pater Familias fails to do. I have a cabinet full of unused Billy Bucks in $1 and $5 dollar denominations, because I invariably forget to bring those cost-cutters along with me on my many trips to pick up items needed and the cart load of "Ooooooo,Eddy's Lime Bars, Pan Color Pepper Crushers, Exotically Flavored Triscuits, and cheeses of Iceland." One day, I shall break the bank of the Baffes Family - eight legs of lamb, a week of porterhouses, Oberweiss Milk, and a gallon of designer olive oil.
Miss S, who is a frequent subject of my musings, but demands in no uncertain threats to leave her name out of my present and future pages, actually consults the receipt upon return from shopping and conducts a complete and thorough audit of purchases.
Saturday, she assessed Trader Joe's for the twice-priced coffee and while she presented the receipt to managers all and sundry, I parked the car in Mega-level lot and went up to Lake Street. I bought a hideously wonderful stuffed toy for my two-year old pal Emmett and met Miss S back at Joe's.
We returned to my car and pulled out on Harlem and headed north one block turned right and I told Miss S. about my purchase, " Emmett is gonna love it. It is a butt-ugly rag doll of some kind of monster . . ."
Miss S. Was delighted, "Where is it?"
"Jesus Chri. . ."
" Did you place it on the trunk, like you did with that wine we supposed to bring to Steve and Susan's last week? That went crashing onto the pavement, requiring another purchase? DO NOT swear or utter another mot juste from your arsenal of obscenities, please. And do calm yourself; it is not the end of the world."
Cowed and craven, I obeyed this tiny woman and the Illinois traffic dictates of sense and sensibility and right turned my way back to the chock-filled parking venue available at Trader Joe's."
First level - nothing.
"Did you park on this . . .?"
Second Level - ditto slowly pacing each parking spot and scanning with a hunter's eye for the plastic vanity bag with the Monster Doll.
"Why did you not just place the bag in the front here with you?
Second Level Redux - I got out and belly-crawled under a few SUVs and Volvos. Nope.
Level One Yet Again!
Miss S. remained dignified and silent, fully cognisant of the boiling over of the once cheery good will and avuncular intent to make a child's day now a roiling pot of male peccadillo's souped up and ladled out. Remember, J.M. Barrie never created the Island of Lost Girls. I do. . . well, sometimes.
Details are made to be attended.
With the resignation and realization that fifty-nine years of such events as this, I determined to give the field to my folly this day and return better suited to the mortal combat involved in buying a two year old a surprise.
" I'll grab one of them monsters later in the week."
" That's nice."
Everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.