Yesterday was a toy shopping day for me. I worked an hour, shopped an hour, worked an hour, and then, as it was about 65 degrees and sunny here, decided to take a little walk to the toy store on the corner. It is called Just a Trace, and they carry wooden toys of very high quality, games you just never see at Wal-Mart or amazon.com, and vintage toys that make me want to sit in the middle of the floor and just play like I did as a kid.
I do not spend a lot of time down there throughout the year, except I do buy each grandchild a birthday gift at that store. As there are several little kids, you would think I would get at least a trip a month, but alas, most of them were born in May. Makes you sort of wonder what happens in August every year to assure a new grandchild every May, doesn’t it?
Ant farms. I always wanted an ant farm, but when I was a child, they seemed very unstable and kind of looked like the ants could escape that prison quite easily and end up in bed with us. My mother was not a lover of bugs or any kind and probably would have lost sleep just thinking about the little road graders, even if they were safely contained. The ant farm I found for my grandson appears to be more like an Ant Hilton.
As I was standing at the counter, believe it or not the two women who own the shop will actually wrap your purchases for free, waiting for my wrapped presents, there was another lady who had basically pushed me out of the way in the store a couple of times, as if I was not even there, so she could grab a toy before I did, wearing an obviously expensive coat and dress, dragging a Tiger Woods-looking, half whipped-acting (that is supposed to make you laugh, and if it does not, you need to go read the news) young man around by the nose, who was giving instructions about how she wanted her presents wrapped. I always make conversation with the women there and I quipped, “I wonder how the parents are going to react when they find I bought the grandson an ant farm?”
Now, you know, we all read in books the descriptive term, “She snarled at me.” But I am here to tell you that Ms. Perfect Wealthy Woman actually snarled at me. There was a frosty mist that fell between us and almost as if in slow motion, she turned her head toward me and snarled like an angry vampire. I never took my eyes off her again, the entire time we were stuck standing at the same counter waiting for our gift-wrapped Christmas goodies. I was waiting for her to sprout a set of fangs and head for my neck.
As I walked out of the store, backwards, the sign of the cross made with my fingers held in front of my face, my bag slung across my shoulder, I whispered prayers to protect me, walked backward down the steps, and then ran all the way home.
Just goes to show you, those vampire books? Not fiction. I have living proof that there is at least one living right here in my town!