Well, I did make the obligatory three circuits of world's second biggest shopping mall in Bloomington the other day and found a couple of items but still had two more to go. So going into emergency mode, I headed out to St Paul this afternoon (no sense starting too early) with a few destinations in mind, most of which didn't pay off. But by late afternoon, my tasks were done, I was satisfied with my choices, hoping my giftees will also be but gift receipts were thoughtfully provided by the obliging vendors and I decided to celebrate by having a meal and a beverage.
Being that I was in the depths of the Saintly City, my thoughts understandably turned to a post of a week or two ago about the world of gossip in the Twin Cities deanery of St Blog's parish, and in the local Church. And seeing the spire of the St Paul Cathedral off in the distance, I decided to hit one of the three gossip centers that I had decided must be where the staffers of The Catholic Spirit archdiocesan newspaper and their churchly buddies hang out: Fabulous Ferns.
The parking lot was full as I pulled up but fortuitously, St Jude, the patron saint of parking spaces, found me one right near the front door and I ambled on in. It seemed like a gregarious crowd but not large in number, understandably for a Saturday afternoon.
I had grabbed a couple of tabloids from the ample supply in the vestibule to disguise my bloggers notepad (I never ago anywhere without it) and sat down at a table with a good view of all of those present, feeling peckish, and inquired of the comely waitress for a menu and one of their special drinks with lots of nutritious vegetables garishly advertised over the bar.
There seemed to be a fair number of possible spiritual conversations being held as evidenced by the number of black shirts I spied around the commodious room. I began looking for a better listening position where I might be able to eavesdrop when all of a sudden one of my suspects walked over towards me, greeted me quite amiably and then continued on into another room. I was aghast! How had I blown my cover so quickly?
Then I glanced down and saw that I was wearing my Deluxe Check polo shirt, fully as black as any worn by those at the adjoining tables. Curses! How could I have been so stupid as to have come dressed like a spy attempting to cozy up to his prey?
My cover blown, I made no further attempt to listen in on my targets but read an article or two from my tabloids, enjoyed my meal and idly planned my next foray into the camp of the adversary.
In due time I settled up with the waitress, commented quite favorably upon the lobster and crab bisque and returned to more mundane activities realated to Christmas and its presents.
I'll have to work on a better disguise for my next trip, possibly to either Costellos or Moscow on the Mississippi.