Everybody's been linking to the "scared of Santa" gallery on Boing Boing, which reminded me of our own adventures in trying to get She Who Shall Not Be Named, suffering from a runny nose and a bad hat, to sit still for her first picture with the tired old bastard in the red suit. We were unsuccesful, though I did get a much better result from the little portrait kiosk we visited later.
All of this is more or less just a lead-in for two encounters I had last night, both in a zapateria called Phil's Shoes, which is sort of a Payless for the criminally cheap. They offer brand name shoes at rock bottom prices, which is probably one of the reasons Encounter #1 occurred in the first place.
SWSNBN, exulting in her tactical victory over Kris Kringle, was set free to toddle into the store. We hadn't put shoes on her for the occasion, so she was cruising in her stocking feet. This immediately aroused the ire of a large, older black woman on her way out of the establishment (The Wife, typically, had disappeared into the bowels of the place immediately upon entering, seeking whatever elusive big game shoe shoppers pursue).
WOMAN [to SWSNBN]: Why don't you have any shoes on?
PETE: She's not a big fan of shoes. Hats either. Or Santa. You know, now that you mention it...
WOMAN: Boy, go buy that child some five dollar shoes.
PETE: [Boy?] What? No, we have shoes. She just doesn't like to wear them.
WOMAN: They're only five dollars.
PETE: ...well then I guess we better buy some.
WOMAN: All right. Good.
Thusly placated, she departed for the food court in order to harangue some kid for not getting sprinkles on his ice cream sundae ("They're free, you little idiot!"), or something.
This exchange left me slightly confused, but there was no time for that, as my little princess was recreating Attack of the 30" Woman in the ladies' aisle. I kept an eye on her for the rest of the time we were in the store, trying to gauge which patrons would be amused by a grimy little ape grabbing their leg unannounced (not many, as it turns out) until it was finally checkout time. We approached the cash register to pay, and I beheld a nightmare vision of one of my daughter's possible futures.
The girl was maybe eleven, and dressed like Christina Aguilera's slightly less easy sister: miniskirt, platiforms, and a halter top that covered all but most of her abdomen. I felt a little sorry for her, not just for her eventual career as "Booty Girl #4" in a Ludacris video, but because she was trying to buy a purse and obviously conflicted about shelling out the (once again) five dollars she was told it cost. She thanked the cashier and got out of line, and while we were getting rung up, apparently reconsidered and queued back up. The Wife leaned over to the cashier and said, "We'll pay for that girl's purse, too."
I wasn't too surprised, as she's prone to this kind of thing. The rationale in this case being that people always bitch about ill-behaved children, but nobody ever rewards kids for being polite. So the cashier rang up the purse, the little girl thanked me, and walked back to - I assume - where her parents were. Then my wife did a Bad Thing. She picked up the baby and left me to complete the purchase.
"So?" you ask, "What's the big deal?" Let me put it this way, if you had a ten or eleven-year old daughter modeling the latest in pre-teen slutwear and she came back to tell you some strange, scruffy guy just bought you a purse for no reason, what would your reaction be? Be honest, because if your answer is anything other than a form of "call security/kick his ass", you're a stinking liar.
I drummed my fingers nervously as the sale was finished, sweating like Donald Rumsfeld at a VFW banquet, waiting for the inevitable tap on the shoulder before being sucker punched by the local chapter president of the Latin Kings or the H-Town Hammerskins. If I was lucky.
None of this happened, of course. We left the store without incident, and I admonished The Wife never to do something like that and then leave me alone to get my guts stomped out ever again. She said she'd think about it.
Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. Maybe the fact that I had a diaper bag over my shoulder saved my ass.
Fill the purse full of candy next time, you anarchist agitator.
Pete, next time that lady comes and gives you a hard time about why your baby isn't wearing any shoes, you look her square in the eye and you say, very pointedly, "Probably the same reason you're not wearing any Mind-Your-Fucking-Business."
Either that or give her a hard stare and, in your best southern drawl, announce that 'a negro stole them'. That should liven up a dreary day at the mall!
HWRNMNBSOL, the politically correct term is "niggra."
TTTWLaM, nigra is correct if the thief is a woman, ideally from Alto or Crockett.
You're a good papa, Pete. Your patience at this time of year is also impressive. That African American/Black/Colored/Nigra woman would have been pulling the diaper bag out of her $%#*&^(!!
Merry F**kin' Christmas, Sistah! :)
Sorry for double-dipping but, I just checked out the Santa link and Holy Hell! I think another great idea for this link would be "Spot the sober Santa". Poor kids. They'll never be able to wear cheap red velour or goofy hats! Hey wait, I'm saying that like it's a bad thing? Happy Holidays, Pete and all of you sassy bloggers.
Great story Pete! Just like the wife to let you hang: sweating and picturing some 6'7" behemoth charging you at the counter and laying down some righteous-protective-father beating on your innocent body. I am sure the sweaty palms, fidgeting, and glancing around furtively would have helped you immensely. Maybe this was some sort of statement/retribution on how you were dressed. Were you slovenly? Do tell, as it helps with the imagery of the story.