A Shoe In

Lately the term, “he threw a shoe” is taking on a whole new meaning. Instead of a sleek Saddlebred leaving a horse shoe by the roadside, we’re seeing Nikes and Birkenstocks parting the ozone like the Gulf Stream. Talk about your Air Jordans.

Ever since that foreign sounding guy (if all their middles names are Al, why do they bother with middle names at all? Just go by initials and save yourself some confusion.) lobbed a loafer at George Bush a while back, shoe wars have become more popular than Star Wars. (Imagine Condoleeza Rice in white robes with a hot cross bun hairdo peering at a black-clad Vladimir Putin. “The tighter your grasp, the more stilletos will slip through your fingers.” Then he launches a Manolo Sputnik and gives her a bad hair day to set an example.)

Just today I read that in India these days there are so many shoe launches, they’re hiring air-traffic controllers by the bootload to keep up. Personally, there are a lot of things I’d be tempted to throw at today’s politicians, but my new black leather pumps that make me tall enough to see eye to eye with the wretch who jammed the office copier are staying right here with me. And I’d sooner launch my Hannah Montana wristwatch with the guitar-shaped second hand before I would toss a pair of Reeboks that I had to pay $75 for even on sale.

While we’re at it, we must also consider whether we have to change missiles with the season. In the future will it be considered unseemly to throw white shoes after Labor Day or patent leathers on Spring Break? If I toss a mid-winter strappy sandal will I be held accountable by the press? I think instead of shoes, I’d rather fling the buttons off my blazer. You get more bullets for the buck and that stupid jacket is two Ding Dongs and a Moon Pie past fastening anyway.

I understand that in Mr. Al’s culture, the sole of the shoe is considered the ultimate in cross-the-line insults. But doesn’t it seem as if it would make more of a stinging jab to insult someone in a way they would recognize as offensive? I’ve had to dodge worse projectiles than a low flying Grasshopper when I broke up random skirmishes between “Did Not” and “Did Too” back at the house, and it didn’t even take my mind off what to do with the chicken for supper. If that journalist really wanted to get George W’s attention he should have hopped right up and announced, “Laura has fat ankles and the twins look like Dan Quayle.” Now that would have caused a Texas-style Hoedown.

But why can’t we express our opinions in a more dignified manner? What happened to the days when you simply left an offender off the guest list for your next party? That’s what Samantha did to Lindsey Lohan, who immediately set-to with wailing and gnashing of teeth across the pages of important journalistic endeavors like In Touch magazine and the National Enquirer. There’s just something about getting left out of a party that leaves a lasting impression. Tread marks on your forehead may come and go but a social slight is forever.

Besides, isn’t it nice to be the better person instead of getting involved in a mass sneaker rebellion? Your picture on the front page of the paper sitting coyly in a garden party chair with a plate full of dinner mints and petite fours, your ankles crossed and both shoes on your feet in proper order is going to win more support than the one showing you with a grimace and one armed cocked back in preparation of hurling half a pair of Converse All Stars. Think of all the pictures you’ve ever seen of a baseball pitcher in mid throw. Kind of makes you think of someone in need of a good roto-rootering, doesn’t it? When you finally get your picture on Time Magazine or Martha Stewart Living, you don’t want to look like the middle reliever for the Braves or the guy in the Pepto Bismol ads.

So, let’s all agree to take a civilized stance and show these politicians how to behave. If they can’t act in a manner benefitting a world leader and get down to the business of world peace, we won’t chuck Chucks. We just won’t invite them to our next election.

Let them act like the part of the horse that doesn’t need shoes to begin with. We'll win in the home stretch.

Paper & Scissors Rock!

On the whole, I’d rather give my teenage son a Platinum MasterCard and send him to Wal-Mart on Saturday night than do the Back-to-School shopping myself. His gym locker is in better shape than the Three-Ring Binder section of Wal-Mart after the list-bearing hordes have swept through. Back-to-school shoppers invade discount stores in August like a swarm of fire ants in a field of sweetgrass, and they’re not leaving until they’ve crossed the last bottle of hand soap off their list and called in their relatives to find the pink lunchbox they hid behind the Pepto Bismol display back in June.

Anyone who thinks a mother in search of a pack of Crayolas and a bottle of Elmer’s isn’t dangerous has never had a kid in 4K. Here’s a woman who has visions of getting a toddler-sized tornado out of her kitchen and Dora the Explorer off of her television and there’s not a force of nature that can stop her from climbing over two Kleenex displays and a store manager to get that last glue stick. And as sure as a drink box shoots a stream of blue goo in your eye when you punch in the straw, she’s gonna have a kid that wants a Batman backpack after she bought Iron Man on clearance during the summer. Put 500 copies of this woman in the safety scissors section of a discount store and in less time than it takes for Junior to lose his lunchbox, they’re fighting over the last pack of construction paper like so many Edna Scissorhands. Desperate Housewives are Stepford Wives by comparison.

Don’t even get me started about book bags and blue jeans. You’d think that one pair of pants made out of faded blue denim would be pretty much be like the ones you found for ten bucks on the clearance rack at Target. Just because the hem hit mid-ankle and the waistband tucked neatly under his armpits, Teen Boy at my house went all white around the shoetops and refused to have his yearbook picture made.

Kids today need to understand that yesterday’s highwaters are today’s Capri pants. But that argument doesn’t even work with girls. It certainly didn’t mean much to a seventeen year old boy whose regular uniform consists of 50 pockets spread across a bolt of camouflage material and a faded T-Shirt that reads, “I’m Up and Dressed. What More Do You Want?” So why do those clothes cost more than it takes to gas up a Suburban? Abercrombie & Fitch must charge by the letter.

And when did a backpack become a designer accessory? Today’s bags have room for everything except books, which—according to my son who is a High School graduate, and therefore an expert in these, and all other, matters--are optional in the classroom these days. I can understand filmstrips going the way of ancient technology, but books? They take up valuable space needed for everything from MP3 players (I don’t even have MP 1 & 2) to cell phones, which are very important so you can call your friends between classes to see who did the science homework.

Which brings us to the main source of our school woes. Friends. It is a principle of life that a true friend will not buy the very last pair of torn blue jeans at the mall. Nor will a friend refuse to eat school lunch and choose to hang out at the drink machine after I’ve shelled out $300 in advance for the pizza line in the cafeteria. Last year I discovered that I was feeding three random boys and the school rabbit, while the only things my child ate off his plate was apple peel and barbecue chips.

This year I have resolve. I will not buy clothes just because people my child doesn’t even like wear them. I will not buy trading cards just because the people my child does like would rather duel than eat lunch. I will not volunteer to chaperone the school dance just so my child can go and eat free pizza.

But if I get free pizza, that’s another story. I’ll have to buy something cool to wear. Maybe some designer jeans.

Taxing Times

Bill usually handles the Income Tax filing around our house. I’m not exactly sure why, except for the fact that when I was a single mom filing my own taxes it took three years, a letter to my State Representative, and a notarized document from the daycare to receive my refund. I can’t prove it, but I think the IRS secretly penalized me for correcting the grammar on their form. I personally think the word “short” is misused on that form, but they proved to be a little touchy about their paperwork.

Some years, depending how test comments are received, I offer to help Bill with the taxes. I probably won’t this year because I’m a recovering flu victim and I’m not up to the task of reprimanding the Sheriff for driving up on the rose bushes the way he does when he’s in a hurry. I only have the one live rose bush left, anyway. I’m almost as talented with plants as I am with taxes, except plants don’t give me any money back, even tomatoes which would save on my grocery bill if they didn’t attract unappealing insects, turn black, and die.

So, in the spirit of helpfulness and teamwork, I have devised a plan to help Bill out with the tax task without actually having to speak to him at all. I don’t like to converse with him directly during tax time because I feel responsible for the resulting medical bills. And hair loss. Besides, he has the Sheriff on speed dial.

I often compose lists for Bill to help him organize his household tasks. I know he is thankful because he immediately bows his head to pray when I hand him my latest composition. He is either thanking God for having such a helpful wife or trying to call Emergency Services on the sly.

This year, I have prepared a list of how not to get audited by the Internal Revenue Service. That should keep Bill on the straight and narrow and head off any trouble the IRS might be having in processing my refund. We’ve already seen how they can drag their feet over an extra dependent or two.

Anyway, the following is my helpful advice for avoiding an audit from the Internal Revenue Service:

1. Don’t tell the government if you make any money. That way they won’t keep trying to steal away with your meager paycheck. Honestly, it’s like two guys fighting over a muscle car with a bad head gasket. It looks good, but won’t get you very far.

2. Throw away all your receipts. The government can’t tax what they can’t find. Get rid of that pesky paper trail. Fire ants can’t bite your ankle if they can’t scale your foot.

3. Pretend to give money to charity. You have the best of intentions, right? Pledge a big ole number with a comma in it. You’ll get around to sending it someday. And when you do, be sure to remind the big guys about your gift of giving.

4. Send “Thinking of You” cards to the IRS every day during tax season. They're working hard. These folks need some recognition, too, right? It’s like a random act of kindness, only you get a check.

5. Send them an itemized bill for your refund. Keep all figures clear and concise. If there are important items that you don’t want them to miss, mark them in red ink to avoid confusion. These folks handle a lot of returns. Make yours easy!

And if you happen to see my husband wandering around the drug store with a fistful of BC Powders and a tub of Pepto Bismol, just send him back home. I have a list of things for him to do.