I have a song stuck in my head. To the tune of the “spider hangout” song that I posted the other day.
“Flip flop adventure
that’s where I’m going to gooooo
with [friend C.]
in the morning
we will buy flip flops
li-mit six per cus-to-mer”
And people say I don’t have a life!
The local (well, it’s in a whole other city… so I guess I should call it the provincial) Old Navy has a sale on flip-flops. One dollar a pair. Limit six pair per customer. My friend C. called me last night and asked me to go with her, because her husband didn’t want to go (what? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HUSBANDS THESE DAYS? I asked Rob, and he was all “Bead shop”. Which is a secret code around our house, referring to this – something that one person is super interested in, but it makes the other person die a little inside. Like when I drag Rob to the yarn store, or he takes me to look at computer parts). The store opens at 9 am, so she’s going to be here at 8 to pick me up. We need to get there when the good flip-flops are still available! Dangit!
Meanwhile I’m fully aware that there are probably flip-flops at our local dollar store nestled between the cat supplies and the (I’m not joking, they have this) “Spanish Clean” brand cleaning products, and that by the time we get to Cold Gravy, after paying for gas and everything, the $1 flip-flops are going to be more like $10. But I think it’s also an opportunity for her to get out of the house and away from her three little boys who are all fantastic and wonderful but she wants some adult conversation.
Yeah, I giggle at “adult conversation”, too. Especially since she expects to have it with me! I’m the least adult adult I know.
I don’t think I’d need to be limited to only 6 pairs of flip flops. I must have been the only kid on the planet who hated those things.