Who are these silent strangers waiting for me to know who they are?

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

intrepid shopper

Today I played the part of intrepid shopper. My husband determined that we must go to the hardware store and purchase a sump pump since the one below our house was beginning to sound like an angry bull moose. Off we went from the edge of civilization to the hardware store. (About a 45 minutes drive) Upon entering the store I received my sales flyer from a smiling octogenarian and a shopping cart (buggy if you're from WV). We began our search for the pump and other sundry items with high hopes. Finally, after reaching the far side of the store without luck, we came upon a gaggle of red and blue vested workers idling near the lumber. Approaching them with caution we asked where we might find said pumps. "Isle 4 for sure or maybe isle five" we were assured. Sure enough, there they were in isle 6. My husband than began his deep contemplation of each and every pump. I must admit my attention drifted and I decided to follow it. I proceeded down the next isle only to be blocked by a nauseating version of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, in matching red and green outfits. Between the two and their buggy, their was no room, for even the thinnest of persons to eek by. I retreated and tried the next isle over. Here amongst the wall of shining door knobs and hinges I met a wall of stench. I am not entirely sure but I think the mountain of flesh contemplating hinges before me had actually died last week and was off gassing right there. Perhaps that was the reason the vested workers were all on the other side of the store, the side furthest from the decomposing mound of smell. Once again I backed my cart away and tried the next isle. Here I found John-John. He looked to be about 3 and had created a 2 foot square forest of shiny flat head screws. It was quite artistic, the way he arranged all of them standing upright and in little clusters of various sizes. In the back ground I could hear the purple spandex encased blimp screeching in a high pitched voice at complete odds with her girth "John-John. John-John, where air you boy? You better git back here 'fore haf ta tell yer Daddy." How thoughtful this youngster is, to provide hours of useful work to a young vested associate. Yes, they would certainly have fun sorting those flat head screws of various sizes and diameters back into the little bins. Prudently, I reversed my cart once more and took a different route. Just ahead was another Michelin tire mascot leaning heavily on the buggy and ponderously inching forward. He was wearing a padded, down and nylon jacket that was several shades of yellow. I managed to whisk by him and gain the lead. Now I was really getting somewhere. I found myself in an isle of cleaning supplies. (not terribly effective for fighting zombies) was the thought that swam into my brain. Previously, I have been thoroughly indoctrinated on the art of defense against the living dead by my son and now see hardware stores in a new light. Oh well, my husband has chosen his sump pump and now we can exit this adventure and drive back to the edge of the world. Until next time . . .

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