Flail with the Mazeltons

It was a race to get to the ceremony in time. Or so we thought. Almost as soon as we arrive, we’re turning around. Re-tracing our steps. Sylvie is deliberately silent. She’s seen me not at my best. She thinks this too, is one of those occasions.

“I’m not upset,” I say.

“Not even a little bit?” she asks me.


“You’re not angry that I’m right?”

“Okay, maybe a little bit about that,” I say and we both chuckle.

Heading into Richibucto we take our time getting back to town. Urgency has passed. The Warriors will not break free until Sunday morning.

But even being in the shadow of such a ceremony, Sylvie and I are both excited to experience as much of it as we can. We head straight to Rossy’s, a local department store in Richibucto.

At first I consider waiting in the car. If getting to the ceremony was an adventure unto itself, imagine waiting for Sylvie as she shops. I honestly don’t know what becomes of her when she enters a store for “Five minutes”. Is there a vortex? A dimensional door I (and most men) am unaware of?

I wait for ten minutes before losing patience and checking on progress.

When I get in the store the entire staff is in a frenzy.

“What’s going on?” I ask one of them.

“Is that your wife?” a woman replies, breathless. I bow my head and give it a nod.

Evidently, it can’t be just ANY skirt. It has to look right. The ladies (fighting through the imminent arrival of winter product in the middle of summer) are scouring the place looking for anything long flowing that can be made into a skirt.

I approach the ringleader with trepidation.

“Am I in a Seinfeld episode?” I say trying to sound witty.

“What do you mean?” Sylvie responds.

“I got bed sores waiting in the car for you.”

“Jase, it has to look right,” she counters.

“Okay. But somehow you manage to turn shopping into an Olympic event.”

She considers the statement before responding. She has nothing. She shrugs her shoulders and continues. She rifles through racks before finding the right item.

“This is just how we are. We flail. Come flail with the Mazeltons,” she says.

“That has a nice ring to it,” I confess.

“Got it,” she says and plucks a dress out at random.

Finally, a resolution. I bolt for the door. There’s no shadow behind me. I stop. A negotiation at the check-out?

“I’m going to get changed,” Sylvie calls before taking the dress and a pair of scissors to the back of the store.

Come flail with the Mazelton’s. Why not, we seem to be quite talented.


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