The Hooligans needed sneakers. What else is new? They outgrow/thrash their sneakers with frightening and expensive regularity. Skateboarding is very hard on shoes. I thought living right in town would be more economical, transportation-wise. Their schools are so close it's quicker to walk than to drive, ditto music lessons, sports practice, and the local junk-food emporium. However they ride their skateboards everywhere they go, which literally burns a lot of rubber.
So, new sneakers: they wanted converse. I like that. They're classic and not prohibitively expensive. Unfortunately, the only store with a good selection was at the mall.
How I loathe the mall. I like shopping (very much), but not at malls. I like thrift stores. I like little boutiques. I like flea markets and garage sales and estate sales. I can even handle the occasional big box expedition, but malls. Ugh.
Especially our mall, which is one of those grim seventies models where everything is enclosed and painted sort of a sickly yellowish grey. Old ladies bustle around for exercise. Young mothers scream at screaming toddlers. The sales people at the kiosks in the center come at you aggressively with various unguents and products. I have been chased by a guy selling dead sea face cream. Do I look that wrinkly? It's an exceptionally bad mall.
But there is a cool shoe emporium staffed by young women in tight t shirts that hint at their fascinating tattoos. I made eye contact with one while my sons were perusing the converse selection. "They need shoes," I told her, sotto voce, "And I'm hoping they won't select the neon colored ones--ideally grey or navy? Anything you can do to guide them in that direction…"
"I hear you, mom," she said," leave it to me." I sat down and checked my email, affecting disinterest and she sidled up casually behind the hooligans, slinging her arms around their shoulders, "Looking for converse, huh?" she asked. "Awesome. Converse are so legit. They grey ones are super popular. Want me to see if I've got some in your sizes?"
Slack-jawed, both hooligans nodded dumbly. We left with two pairs of grey converse high tops, plus some extra shoelaces in neon orange--in case the neon mood strikes. I have newfound appreciation for the mall, and for double agent sales girls.
Now I need these girls to appear, casually you understand, in my house. "Oh hey," they might say, "Were you going to practice cello? That is SO awesome. Can I just listen if I'm really quiet? I wish all guys played cello. It's so cool."
Or they might wander upstairs, "S'up? Your mom wants you to clean your room? I do not get what the big deal about cleaning is, but hey, I'll help you out and it will keep her off your back, you know?"
The larger Hooligan is making a large batch of chocolate chip cookies. I provided him with a recipe, ingredients, and an apron (which he eschewed). Then I fled the scene. He is playing Led Zepplin at a very high volume. I barely heard one crashing breaking sound and one "Oh Shit!" over the throbbing bass and yowling lyrics. I am sure this is exactly how he feels when I am cooking and playing La Traviotta. I am lurking in the farthest corner of my house and wishing I had a much larger house. Perhaps one with a completely separate guest apartment. One of us could live there.
I had a dream that I acquired a sweet, fat daschund--not a dog I would choose in my waking life, but in the dream I was delighted! So cuddly! So wriggly! So grateful for my attention!
Then I woke up to this:
He is not very emotive. Most dogs ingratiate themselves: wagging and rolling onto their back and waving their feet in the air. Anything to demonstrate that you are, in their doggy opinion, the supreme being. This may be why I like dogs. Who doesn't like to be worshipped?
Magnus does not subscribe to this approach. His method is one of silent insistence. He generally just stares at me until I divine what he wants: in this case, to get out of my nice warm bed and let him out. He is like a 100 pound cat. Only instead of purring, he drools. Perhaps his job is to keep me humble.
My friend and her very tall charming spouse spent their anniversary treasure hunting in the junk shops and thrift stores across town. I almost fell over when she told me that.
He thrifts with you? I asked. Like, willingly? On a fall weekend? You don't have to bribe him with sexual favors? Does he actually look for stuff? Or does he just lurk and grimace and check the time and the football score whenever he thinks you're not looking.
No, he likes it, she said. He thinks it's fun. And look what we scored. (Hodgepodge of mid century cool objects.)
I was telling the (tall, but not that tall) Man who lives in my house about this. I was excited! I had a proposal:
I think we should swap dates, I explained. Like I will go to a football game with you, and I will get my rah rah on. I will pay attention and jump up and down. I will try to follow the action. I will ask questions and strive for understanding. I will give a shit about a bunch of grown men fighting in a ritualized manner for many hours over a ball. Then when it's my turn, you could go to an estate sale and a couple of thrift shops with me one weekend afternoon. You could pretend to be really into it, and take pictures of the ugly lamps. You could dig around in the basement and the garage for tools. Maybe we'd find a rad polyester tuxedo in a 44 long--that would be the ultimate! It could happen! We would have a blast!
The Man gave me what our friend Linda calls the "curious dog" look: head tilted, brows furrowed. Did you say you'd get your rah rah on? You can't even keep track of the score when it's your kids' game. You have no inner cheerleader. What you have is an inner librarian/bag lady. We need to just stick with going to the movies.
He may have a point. I think it's my turn to pick the movie. I'm feeling like a Merchant-Ivory costume drama is in order...
(It should be noted: My friend also actually likes football, so maybe she earned a thrift enthusiast-spouse, karmically speaking.)
I lie abed for approximately 30 minutes longer than The Man Who Lives In My House. This chafes his hide. Particularly since I moan, "Coffee!?!" in a pitiable but demanding manner if he doesn't bring me a cup posthaste. Then I ask if the newspaper has arrived. He rolls his eyes, stomps to the front step, brings it into our room, and tosses it on the bed.
He has taken to muttering as he goes about this business. I catch fragments:
"is is worth it? hard to say."
He hands me my cup and a gaze at him blearily. I can't really express my gratitude properly until the caffeine enters my system.
He heads to the bathroom to shave. I overhear the following:
"Maybe when we get old I"ll get infirm first, then yeah. She has to wipe my butt. But if she loses it first, I'm hosed."
