In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
The Girl's birthday is coming up, and we're at a loss for ideas for presents, so the whole group piled into the car and headed to a nearby toy store, seeking inspiration.
If you've ever taken young children to a toy store, you know that it's a participatory, hands-on experience.
At one point we were in the back of the store, in the bicycle/tricycle area, checking out the wares. The Boy found the big motorized jeeps and trucks – the kind the kid actually sits in and drives – and immediately started climbing into the driver's seat of each in sequence.
After a few minutes, he settled into the driver's seat of a jeep in camouflage colors.
Next to the jeep was a pink Barbie Cadillac Escalade. (The SUV thing starts early in the burbs.) A little blonde moppet climbed into the driver's seat of that. She noticed TB, and immediately tried to strike up a conversation with him. (He was more interested in trying to make the steering wheel turn.) She asked him his name, told him hers, then pretended to hand him her phone number. She even told him to call her!
The Boy was unimpressed. I was floored. As we walked away, The Wife mentioned “that girl gave you her phone number.” TB responded, deadpan, “yeah.”
When you've got it, you've got it. Where he got it, I don't know. But good for him.
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