The other day I was putting my 22 month old to bed when I noticed something odd. Her hair smelled like cologne, and not good cologne, if there is such a thing. The kind of cologne that makes you gag when someone is standing in the elevator wearing it. Either my daughter was hitting Karma at night with Snooki and The Situation or she had picked up some player boyfriend in Gymboree. I’m guessing that Mohawk kid who always has his finger up his nose to the second knuckle.
Amazed that the scent of the cologne could overshadow the poopie diaper I was changing, I replayed our day in my head to figure out where the stench came from. And then it hit me. Abercrombie! Damn that store. For some reason every time we go to the mall, she wants to dance in the Abercrombie foyer. Maybe it’s the booming techno music, or the empty concrete floor, or the skirts that would be more likely to fit her than the prepubescents they’re meant for.
Remember that Seinfeld episode when they couldn’t get the odor out of Jerry’s car? Yeah, that bad. So here are my choices. Use my stealthy spy skills to sneak into Abercrombie and dismantle their stupid cologne blowing machines. Or ban her from going into that store ever again. I think I’ll go with the latter. After all, aren’t I just going to do this ten years from now anyway? Waiting would just be postponing the inevitable. So no more dancing in Abercrombie, Zoey! Wow, do I sound like that crotchety dad from Footloose or what? Stay tuned for an entry about the massive tantrum she throws outside the store when I stop her from going in. On the bright side, at least that might discourage a few passerby teenagers from getting preggers.