I love them. Really I do. I won’t be wearing them to the Piggly Wiggly, but they are the perfect touch for my tacky Parrotthead costume that I’ll be wearing to the Jimmy Buffett concert next month. Hubby also brought me back some pink flamingo Mardi Gras beads and foam flamingo sunglasses. It’s a lovely ensemble when combined with my grass skirt and leis. I have a coconut bra, too, but I won’t wear it. There are just some things you shouldn’t do when you get past 40. There isn’t enough string on those coconuts to hitch everything up to the right place and hold it in. There also isn’t enough coconut to cover everything up. If they ever make one with underwires and padding, I’ll think about it. No wonder the Aborigines go topless.
The best part of this present is that he doesn’t understand my Parrotthead ways and bought this stuff anyway. That’s what 17 years of marriage will do to you. After a while, you learn to roll with it. How many men would accompany their wives 350 miles to a concert by someone he doesn’t care about and be surrounded by 2000 rowdy, wildly dressed people in 100 degree weather? Not many. He’s a good egg. This is actually the second time we will have trekked to Cincinnati for a Buffett concert. We went last year, too. I got to sit on the sixth row. See how close I am to Jimmy?
It was hubby’s initiation into the world of All Things Buffett. After three hours of witnessing some pretty crazy behavior and being offered numerous free drinks and cheeseburgers, he decided that Parrottheads are pretty nice people. Odd, but nice, he said. I guess he figures that if the worst thing I do on a regular basis is dance in public wearing a grass skirt and satin flip flops, I’m a keeper. I think he’s a keeper too, because he does things like bring me thoughtful gifts. Nothing says love like parrot flip-flops.