Not really--I was just looking for an opportunity to lay the phrase Toggle Poncho on my beloved Flap nation. It won't be the last time. Stumbled across the item while flipping through through a Land's End sale catalog tucked alongside my L.end bargains I just opened up. A few days earlier Baby sis had thrown a $25 gift card in the Christmas card--I wasted no time in whisking off with it before Bob could get his mind around what $25 bux at Lands End could do for him. Within minutes of receiving it I was trolling for bargains on all the random things I seem to need to make sense of my world.
I scored a pair of badly needed gloves (the only other current options were this skinky, pilled up pair I got at the J.Crew outlet that gave me penguin crotch between my fingers because they were too small, or whatever awful pair of leather, gorilla-black snap-on tool gloves I could find on the mudroom floor. ) These new ones, of course, just barely fit my huge manhands, but at least the penguin crotch-look is gone.
AND I finally scored something from Land's End's On the Counter scheme. I used to think it was all a sham--a sick little game to make you think there were really bargains with your name on them out there in Lands End Land. It's usually just canvas hats in 2T, bed linens with sailboats and forks on them, Men's pants with sailboats and forks on them....but finally, it was endgame for On the Counter. I am proud to report that I procured a bathing suit--of famous Land's End quality, no less, for NINE DOLLARS and FIFTY CENTS. It's one of their tankini models and its color-the only available, of course was the undecipherable "Agave." Sort of had a Mexican print thing going on. It was hard to tell what the print really looked like, but I wouldn't care if it depicted ancient Inca chihuahua sacrifices, it was less than ten dollars and in my size. Sold.
Part Two: Subway also serves Moons over My Hammy
A few weeks ago our family came up against that classic Busy Family of Four time crunch--I had left school late because of Student Council. I had the A-man with me and he was scheduled to try out Karate for the first time that evening. By the time I got home, we needed to jam straight to the Dojo. When was my slender sweet dude gonna eat, I wondered? As we were taking the left by the library and our town's Financial District, I glanced over at the neon glow of Subway. Hey, I said we could eat there after Karate, because I need to head back over to the school to photograph the evening performance of the play. (Sometimes I wonder if it ever ends, I mean, what's next, a goddamn Taffy pull?).
Everyone thought it sounded like a great idea;we don't get out much and this would be a hoot. A kick in the pants. A left to the jaw.
When we stormed in, there wasn't what I would call a crowd there at all. Just a cluster of college-y type dudes and this other guy who sent my former big city dwelling Crazy person alarm on a low buzz. His hair was just a bit too unwashed, he had items in plastic shopping bags that had not been originally purchased in said bags --like softly tattered newspapers and other assorted papers. Possibly a deeply rantful manifesto. Oh sweet smoking jesus, I do not frequent restaurants with those members of our society who have greasy hair and write manifestos.
I did all of this in that Gladwell Blink style, and promptly moved on to other more confusing things, like the backlit menu offering me the titter-worthy choices of six-inch or foot long. I left The Man to order the food so I could corral my overly-excited children who had taken over a booth and were showing it no mercy. Shortly after we entered, time seemed to stand still. At a moment when most Subway patrons would be balling up their sandwich wrappers and putting it in the wispy plastic bag and licking the inside of the chip bag (wait, that's just me) We had still.not.ordered.
Kids kept jumping in the booth.
College-y type dudes were still clustered near the register, having a civil, yet possibly increasingly tense conversation regarding their order.
Crazed loner still looming on the edges, but even he walks out, giving up after Bob gets his order in before he does.
Finally we get our food, and even though it's the ultimate standard order, an Italian and a turkey sub, the counter dude claims he can't find it on the register and requests that we pay after we eat. Okay, fine, we'll just go eat our shitty sandwiches and wonder why we ever came in here.
Meanwhile, the crazed loner has not only come back, he has gotten service. He shuffles over to the seating area and begins fussing with something in his bags with his back to us. I glance over, suddenly my former big city crazy person radar is on def con 4, a-whooo-gaaa a-WHOOOOO GAAAA. Bob hasn't noticed, but I say quietly and firmly, We gotta leave. Now. Leave. Let's leave, now. Finally he sees what I've been seeing, the manifesto-writing nut job has been sending us a little message, a little moon-mail, if you will. His pants were hoisted way down, beyond innocent plumber butt territory. My mom has a phrase she uses when one of us gets mad and throws a fit. She calls it Showing your Ass. Well, I guess some take that as a literal way to express anger.
At the time I just thought it was garden variety nut-job stuff, that his pants were down, his awful hairy ass exposed due to general indifference about his appearance, but by the time we got to the car, laughing and screaming with our kids asking what was going on, we realized he must have been deliberate about his message. Why, we will never know, but as Bob suggested, maybe he's really just from Corporate, paid to make sure Subway patrons get an honest, accurate experience of what it's really like to be in a subway. I'll take that. And from now on, I will not be taking my family to dinner via the Subway or any other way beyond whatever I can throw together in my kitchen.
