Wonder what Google searches I'll get with that title? In a break from knitting, I give you the following true story:
I am not shoe addicted as some, as I am extremely tenderfooted, hence the need for comfy shoes as pictured on the left. I don't know how I was blessed with such namby pamby sensitive footsies. I live in Canada, but for years, my only footwear purchases were done in the good ole US of A. Chuck didn't understand, saying, " There are 30 million people in Canada, certainly they must have shoes for sale up here." Well, you know what, dear husband of 25 years as of next week? They might have them here in the True North, but why then, do so many people cross the border to buy them?
It's all about selection and price, Not just women, mind you, I just came back from Black Friday weekend at a U.S. outlet mall, and there were an awful lot of shoe boxes and old shoes discarded in the parking lot. Vans, Adidas, Nine West, you name it. Shoe boxes in the parking lot - a telltale sign of Canadians in the midst. Supposedly the favourite smuggle-able item of cross border shoppers, next to gas. We have a reputation of keeping our shoes in spotless, as good as new, ah hem, condition. Of course that's a north bound reputation. Those US border guards think we have the stinkiest, well worn footwear on earth.
So, I'm at the Bass outlet with my favourite cross border shopper, Lynn. We do a yearly Christmas shopping trip together. Forgetting it was US Thanksgiving weekend until the last minute (bad American citizen points for me - is it my imagination or did they time Turkey Day early this year?), we proceeded anyway, strategically timing our crossings. Did you know that some Canadian shoppers
wanted needed shoes so badly that they waited 3.5 hours on a border lineup to return to our shoeless country?
Lynn had met her patriotic south of the border shopping obligations by buying two pairs plus slippers by the time she had reached the Bass store. I was making my mortgage payment at Jones New York before meeting her. Arriving at Bass, I could see Lynn, through the window, fondling the leather. She was in good company, judging by the number of British Columbia license plates in the parking lot. I snuck in, sinking into the sock racks so as not to be noticed by the shoppers. I took a deep breath, and in my best authoritative voice, projecting as I was trained to, in the old fashioned days when theatre was done without those microphones attached to one's face, I proclaimed "STEP AWAY FROM THE SHOES."
There was a store-wide collective gasp, followed by a meek voice, a complete stranger, "I wasn't going to buy any, I've already bought four pairs...eh?"
A guilty conscience needs no accuser.
A little something for you dog lovers: What breed are you? Go on, you always wanted to know. Come back and share your results.