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A Trip to the Mall

 The Short Hills Mall is like an extra-extra-large milkshake; I want it, and then I really, really don't.


My family always starts out strong; my husband, moved by a change in the winds, makes a quirky, unplanned purchase. (This could be a Keith Haring tee shirt, or a small, stuffed polar bear holding a menorah.) I do nothing "off-book"; I have a script in my heart, and the script requires that I buy a new novel. This is compulsive behavior; for at least five minutes, the new novel seems to be an answer to all of my existential woes. The glow of conquest floods my face; for a half-second, I'm on top of the world.

At this point, the trip should end, but my spouse and I always persuade ourselves that it's a good idea to take the kids to the Cheesecake Factory. Our kids are stressed by the bright lights, the thudding Katy Perry tunes, the pained faces of rabid consumers. Milk spills from great, great heights; my daughter dumps macaroni noodles onto her own head. The adults at the table try to smile while stating, and repeating, "We'll take the check right now." One of the two dads frantically scrapes bread into a plastic container; this is so Josh can later hold the bread, in our living room, then throw the full, untasted loaf to his dog.

All of this happens once per month; each time, I think, "Today will be different." Marc and I are talking about adding a visit to "Santa's village" .....as soon as possible....
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