We’re heading up to Nashville to participate in a social activity where we’ll see a couple of friends and their infant triplets. Sounded like fun to me.
So yesterday evening, as I ‘m eating supper, my wife says to me, “Now, you remember, on the way back I said I need to stop at Hobby-Lobby, so don’t get mad, you can stay in the car with Seventy-Six.” Um, remember? I don’t recall that she said anything of the sort to me at any time during any of our discussions of the day’s projected activities. Then she said, “Maybe, if you want, depending on what time it is, we can stop for lunch at Macaroni Grill.” Yeah, like that’ll make it alright. After the torture of either going into, milling about in a kryptonite induced stupor having to smell artsy people who think patchouli oil somehow marks them as “creative” and “different,” or waiting interminably in the car trying to explain to our nine month-old boy why we can’t be at home playing with cars, blocks, or reading books; well, after that, imagine wanting to eat in a restaurant. It defies sense.
In case you didn’t know it, Hobby-Lobby is a store where you can buy some legitimate art supplies, but is stuffed full of decorations from Red China and the Indian Subcontinent that would all make admirable pistol targets. Then, there are the fluffy froo craft and scrapbooking items wall to wall that, in combination with the tasteless decor items, like kryptonite drain my superhuman strength, will, and intelligence, reducing me to childlike levels of eyes-glazed-over, inarticulate, I-need-a-nap-now boredom.