Spend it, Spend it all!
It's been a nice day, a very nice day. Lots of hugs and kisses. Starting early morning, since that's how everyone's day should begin. Hugs and kisses are nature's vital restoratives. I have been comforted and cosseted. Doesn't everyone need to be, sometimes? With me it's alltimes.
Two days earlier one of the garage doors had platzed. Which is to say it became unoperative due to metal fatigue. Our daughter has not the gentlest of touches; she tends to become rather physical with objects which are mechanical and this more or less has a tendency to limit their usefulness. I've asked her repeatedly to let the garage door down lightly, not to smash it down, but habits are hard to break, especially when they become ingrained, and more especially when there is so much else of infinitely more importance on one's mind. Wasn't her fault, in any event, since our house must be one of the last on the street to have the door mechanism go. And no big deal, anyway, since a very nice technician came by bright and early (not all that early; half-past nine, and it was an overcast day, but you get my meaning) and rectified the problem for a mere $130, taxes included.
Once I had the laundry well under way, and cleaned up from breakfast we headed out to the ravine. The creek is high, running like a fiend, all muddy water from the previous days' heavy rainfalls. An uneventful, but peaceful walk, giving us the occasion as usual to talk about so many things, not the least of which the performance to date on the campaign trail of the main political leaders, leading up - eventually since we're talking January 23rd here - to an election.
I had enough time between our return home from our walk and our granddaughter's early dismissal from school for parent-child-teacher interviews, to do the ironing, catch up on the newspapers, while my husband began taking paintings down off the walls in our large foyer, and moving furniture and sculptures into other rooms, preparatory to painting those huge, blank (now that the paintings are removed) walls.
First thing Angelyne did when she walked in the door and divested herself of school pack, boots and coat, was to delve into her savings to determine the extent of her thrift, for she rarely spends any of it, but for the rare occasion when she really, I mean really wants something special. A week earlier she had asked if her Zayde could take her over to Winners on this day, so she could look around and find a gift for her mother. No contest there, we were willing and also curious, truth to tell, so off we went, little dogs in tow.
The latter is literal, as we fit each of them into over-the-shoulder bags In the car, driving the ten minutes over to the store, Angie was furious with Button who had curled up into her little bed on the back seat, as each time Angie tried to fit the seat belt into the buckle, Button reached over to snap at her fingers. Angie was evidently encroaching on Button's perceived private territory. Irv had to get out of the car, lift Button into the front seat between us, and Angie was able to secure herself, huffing with righteous indignation, stupid dawg! I don't suppose her mood had been enhanced by the fact that I sat in the front, rather than her as lately I've been sitting in the back permitting her the front seat (Angie that is) as she tends to become nauseous sitting in the back.
Once in the store, Angie became very businesslike in her demeanor. She is nine years old, after all, and familiar with the store, having been in it occasionally with her mother. She knew where the changing rooms where, I didn't, but then children tend to know these important things. I was instructed to stick around, and every time I strayed, lured by a passing interest in a garment that looked enticing, she ordered me back into place; beside or behind my granddaughter. It was, "Bubbie, here", or "Bubbie, this way", or "Bubbie, come on!". I was trying her patience. We looked at shoulder bags, we looked at blouses, we looked at sweaters, we looked at little tops that appeared to me to look very like chemises, underwear, but evidently not at all, as I was advised by this little connoisseur of sartorial splendour. Anything I pointed out to her merited an "oh, Bubbie!" as in you can't be serious! Anything she selected drew a comment of "shmata" from me.
None of this interchange bothered her, not one whit. She was seriously engaged in an important enterprise, and I could just stuff it, if I didn't like what she did. She knew what her mother liked better than I did, and darn, I couldn't argue with that, for it's the solid truth. Finally, she selected three blouses, which she planned to try on herself, reasoning that she and her mother take the same size and if they fit her and look good on her, they would do the same with her mother. I had planned to accompany her into the fitting room, and indeed, the young woman on duty there invited me to wheel the shopping cart in which sat the bag holding Riley, but Angelyne informed me patiently that I was to wait right where I was, she could manage herself, trying on the garments. All of a sudden she was independent; whereas going through the aisles of the store she wanted me close for comfort.
While I waited for her, the attendant and I talked knowingly about how different young girls were nowadays. They knew everything, everything. They were, en masse, enfants terrible, conspicuously intelligent and up to date. A young man ambled along, a clerk at the store, and stood there, marvelling at Riley sitting quietly in his little bag at the front of the shopping cart, and he too joined the conversation, although he was obviously intently committed to discussing the incredible sight of a little dog who was so completely acquiescent and biddable. Ha! little does he know...
When she emerged after an agreeably short time, it was to hand two garments back to the
attendant, and retain one. Then she roamed the aisles hosting an abundance of colourful objets d'art, stuffed Christmas ornaments, and other such shopping detritus, lifting one thing after another off the shelf for closer inspection, obviously making quick decisions with respect to quality and desirability and, yes, price. A number of items joined the one garment in the shopping cart. There was a nice large bear cloaked in a red velvet cape and cap ("Bubbie, I love it!"), a colourfully striped 'blankie' with a tiny crittur sitting atop it, a soft-sculpted snowman on skates ("This one's for Mom, Bubbie, isn't it lovely, won't she really, really like it!"), and a colourful little dog bowl which she really loved and knew her mother would too, to be used by their many, too-many dogs. Her grandfather threw in a tin suitcase with a handle and lock which held a set of huge Simpson-family decorated checkers, to her great delight, having assured her that this would come out of his pocket, not her allowance.
She double-checked her swag, studied their price tags, asked for help in adding everything up. Um, her grandfather said, slightly more than you have. She looked thoughtful, reached into the buggy and removed the silk chemise-type thing she had tried on, hanging it up and out of reach beside all the others she had rejected. "You sure?" we asked. Yes, she was sure, she wanted to keep the other things, and her Mom would love the snowman and the dog dish. And she loved, adored, the other things she had selected, and it was her money, wasn't it? we said it was her money and she could spend it however she pleased, didn't we say that? Well, yes, we had indeed.
Having settled that, she declared herself finished. Not only finished but hot, she had to get out of there, it was outright uncomfortable, so for heavens sake, let's go already. So we did.
posted by Pieface @ Thursday, December 01, 2005
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