In a fit of spontaneity on Saturday night, P and I ordered “The Bourne Ultimatum” on Pay-Per-View. Yes, it’s true that we had already paid money to see this movie in the theater and yes, it’s also true it’s the only movie we’ve seen in the past twelve months that doesn’t feature animated bees or vegetables with no arms. But we are creatures of habit and we know what we like.
What if we paid $4.99 for a movie that didn’t feature the awesomeness that is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne and were completely disappointed? It’s a risk that neither one of us was willing to take. And it paid off because it was totally even better the second time around.
Anyway, as we watched the movie last night I found myself wondering what it would be like to live life as a CIA secret operative and undergo torture at the hands of people who want information from you. What would it be like to live life in constant danger and feel like you’re not safe anywhere you turn?
I’ll tell you what it would be like, a trip to the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon.
With a four-year-old.
In a store filled with stuffed Easter bunnies, Disney Princess Easter baskets, and Marshmallow Peeps shaped like the devil.
And my list was long, my friends. LONG.
I mean what screams MUST GO TO THE HEB more than serving up hairy sour cream for your family?
Caroline and I hit the store, grabbed a race car cart, and begin to make our way up and down the crowded aisles. I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. People were grabbing for avocadoes as if homemade guacamole was the only vestige of hope for survival.
And as for the half and half? Let’s just say a lesser woman would have turned back, but not me. I forged ahead and grabbed that carton of half and half because, as God is my witness, my family will not go without homemade Baked French Toast for Easter.
Because what says praise God for the resurrection of my Savior like some delicious, french toast covered in syrupy goodness?
I mean other than the plastic eggs filled with gummy Lifesavers.
Oh, and of course hollow chocolate bunnies.
We made our way halfway through the store and were only sideswiped three or four times. Some poor lady ran over my heel, but since she was a fellow member of the race car cart brigade, I let it go because there but for the grace of God, and some serious navigational dexterity, go I.
Just when I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and the Magic Eraser product (for my lavender toilet) at the end of the aisle, Caroline informed me she needed to go to the bathroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised because in her citywide tour of various public restrooms, she has found none that please her like those of the HEB variety.
I hauled the race car cart across the store to get to the restroom. Caroline particularly enjoys the smell of the HEB restroom because, clearly, her olfactory senses are whacked. But as I stood in the stall with her I noticed something I have never noticed in my previous 107 trips to the HEB bathroom.
There was a framed picture of some flowers hanging over the toilet. And it was screwed into the wall so that no one could steal it.
Well sure.
Because I know when I contemplate a lucrative future as an art thief, I always picture myself at the Louvre, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the bathroom at HEB.