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May 30, 2002

Annoying the Wife, Chapter One

Yesterday, my parents flew up to Boston to visit my middle brother and his family. As I am a dutiful son, I let them spend the night before they flew out with us, saving them an hour's drive to the airport, as well as the week-long parking fee. The next morning Dad comes down and announces that we have a problem. His cheap-ass Wal-Mart belt has broken, and he wants to know if we have any rope to hold his pants up with. Rope. The man is a Methodist minister, has attended three colleges, and taught for at least two more, and he's turning into Eustace. We're living in Dogpatch, and we're not even Yokums, we're Scraggs.

Dad had hip surgery last March, and all the shuffling around before and after has carved a goodly chunk out of what once "came out of the night, more belly than man." His wardrobe appears to consist entirely of oversize clown clothes. He's pulling his pants up more often than a monsignor at altar boy camp. This is the second cheap-ass Walmart belt that has broken on him in the last three months, so he thinks perhaps he shan't buy one there again.

I gave him mine under the mistaken impression that I have other belts. This is a patently false notion, as they have been either mislaid in the move to the new house, or left under the pillow by the wife for the leather fairy. Since I can't be a proper geek without a belt for my pager, cell phone and other assorted Bat-tools, it now becomes imperative that I have a new one. My problem is this. Most people have an inner child. I have an inner drunken british aristocrat. His noblesse oblige means I buy the drinks, that I overtip, prefer that the house be full of preferably drunken guests, and that given the choice between patronizing Julians or the Gap, choose Julian's without a second thought. I mean, it's owned by Alexander Julian's dad, for god's sake. Most of the time he's the only person in there. Well, maybe not his dad. There's a guy in there who looks like a dad, and that's enough for me. Anyway, it feels like Saville Row inside.

It's a very nice belt. It's got a little tag that says "Trafalgar", which clinched the deal as far as the peer inside was concerned. It was brown, fit me, and was located in under two minutes, which is pretty much all I ever ask for out of a shopping experience. The idea of price never even entered my head, which is why 90% of the clothes I wear are presented to me, rather than chosen by me. Didn't even bat an eye when I saw the credit card slip, just signed that sucker and put my new belt on. And, as an added bonus, the receipt for my new belt is presented to me in a lovely purpley-pink envelope with "Julians" printed on it in Theodoric, the classiest of the fonts.

None of which really impressed the wife, except for the reciept envelope. I tried explaining that I had actually saved us money, on the theory that $80 belts last at least twice as long as $40 belts, but she was having none of it.

Which is bad, cause Alex's dad showed me some really nice suits.

Posted by Bigwig at May 30, 2002 11:05 PM | TrackBack
Postscript:
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Comments

I bought a very nice new leather belt at the P.T.A. Thrift Shop last week for $2.00 - and the money went to a good cause, too.

Posted by: Melinama at April 23, 2005 08:04 AM
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