I Apologize

part two

“This ice cream’s not very good,” I heard my Dad tell my wife.

Let me stop right here and formally apologize to my mother for my having been a kid. I can’t begin to tell you the times she served me a perfectly good meal, sometimes even perfectly delicious, and it didn’t meet the standards of a dork who would eat dirt.

Don’t judge me for eating dirt.

As a kid, I had a friend who used to eat his own boogers. The gaggle of kids I used to hang around with were repulsed, but also fascinated.

“What do they taste like?” we’d ask him.

“Salty,” he’d say.

We’d offer him our own boogers, freshly picked, but he thought that was gross. I always found that funny. Eating his own boogers was fine, but eating the boogers of others was not. I would have thought he would have enjoyed the variety.

Hmmm, now that I think about it...

I wonder if he was picky about his mother’s food.

That reminds me of a joke. I would tell it to you, but it’s in poor taste. In the punchline, however, a mother tells her son, “You better not ever complain about eating my food again.”

When I had children of my own, no matter what my wife cooked (and, trust me, she’s an excellent cook), they wanted to eat something else. I don’t know about your kids, but my kids only wanted to eat out. If it was home-cooked, no matter how good it was, they weren’t interested.

So when my father told my wife that he didn’t care for the ice cream she had just served him (which he enthusiastically ate, by the way, judging from the speed with which he ate it), I figured he had the right not to like it. So...

“This ice cream’s not very good. Where’d you buy it?”

“Costco,” my wife told him.

“Costco?”

“Yes, Costco,” she repeated herself.

Costco is one of those big Warehouse Stores, along the lines of Sam’s and Price Club, where you have to buy a membership to shop there, and where you don’t just buy something, you buy A LOT of something. They do sell quality products, however, and one of those quality products is their ice cream. It’s not just good, it’s very good. Even the vanilla.

My father wasn’t so sure.

“Oh, huh... hmmm...” he clarified. “You said you bought it at Costco?”

“Yes, Costco,” she said. “They sell some of the best ice cream.”

My father still wasn’t sure.

“Costco...” he considered, and then considered again. “Hmmm... Costco. Huh, yeah... well, I didn’t like it. It didn’t taste good. Now, the PX, they sell the best ice cream.”

Because of the time he spent in the military, he was able to go to the PX at the Army base and shop. In fact, after he retired from the military, he even worked at their PX for a few years after that. If anybody would know that the PX carried the best ice cream, it would be my father. And everybody else who shops there.

“We’ll have to buy some there next time, he continued.

By we, he meant me, because these days he shops with my wallet.

My wife listened patiently to him, like a good daughter-in-law should, and I (Remember me? I’m the guy sitting outside with an empty coffee cup, waiting for my wife to join me.), I couldn’t see her, but I could imagine her nodding her head and making eye contact.

Big mistake.

I’ve learned in life that if you make eye contact with someone it just encourages them to keep talking.

Which he did.

“I don’t like the ice cream from Costco,” he continued. “It just doesn’t taste any good.”

Now he was stepping on MY toes.

I happen to like Costco. AND Sam’s. AND Price Club. And they have enough of my money to prove it.

“Yes, dad,” my wife said, politely. She likes Costco, too. “Next time we go to the PX, I’ll get you some.”

I thought she handled that rather smoothly, since we never shopped at the PX. My father may be retired from the military, but I’m not. I never served. Um... bone spurs, you understand. So I have to pay for my exclusive shopping memberships.

“Costco...” I could hear my father repeat. I could visualize him shaking his head as he said it. “Costco... hmmm.”

I had to laugh.

I was shaking my head, too.