I very logically explained to the girls what we would be doing and promised if they were good we'd get ice cream afterward.
"ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! ICE CRREEEAAAAAMMMMMMMM!"
I listed to this chant, in stereo, the entire 20-minute walk. Apparently the art of bribery is lost on two-year-olds. Or it isn't but they realized that no matter how they acted I was still going to buy them ice cream. So as they screamed for ice cream AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS, I sauntered into Nordstrom like I was deaf and began perusing the boots. One of those rich ladies who doesn't really have to work but works for fun and to meet new people approached me. You know the type. She was probably late 50s with severe short red hair she probably refers to as crimson, bifocals hanging from a rhinestone chain, skin tight expensive black pants and heels the height of the Sears Tower. She's hip dammit!
"You look like you're on a mission!" she announced brightly. Bite me. So I explain I'm looking for knee high black boots with a wedge heel about two inches high. She brings me suede boots with 5-inch spiked heels that would probably go all the way up to Gisele's thigh that are JIMMY CHOOS. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I think that bears repeating. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
I didn't even buy Jimmy Choos before I thought disposable income meant beach getaways, not Gymboree classes. The most expensive shoes I ever bought, aside from my wedding shoes, were glorified flip-flops made by Prada that were THE WORST PIECES OF CRAP I ever spent money on. Had I seen these shoes in Walmart for $15 I would have passed them by. But slap a $365 price tag and Prada label on them and I thought I was the business. Because I was a moron. They broke repeatedly but since they said "Prada" I kept getting them fixed. When they finally broke the last time it felt very liberating to unceremoniously toss them in the dumpster outside my house where I'm sure a dumpster diver found them and his wife is cursing him right now because her feet are being arched in directions not suitable for human beings and the strap keeps breaking.
Anyway, I clarified to the sales lady -- who is probably one of those women who got together with other divorced friends for vacation and traced the exact trip taken in Eat, Pray, Love -- that I was not in the market to spend upwards of $1500 on boots plus 5-inch heels are not overly practical for my lifestyle. She peered at me disapprovingly over her bifocals and I wanted to ask where the Steve Madden section was but by now I was kind of afraid of her.
"ICE CREAM! ICE CREAM! ICCCCEEEE CREEEEEAAAAAMMMMMM!"
So I left without boots but not before the girls doused themselves head to toe in vanilla ice cream. Gelato if we're being technical. Speaking of which, what is gelato? It tasted a hell of a lot like ice cream to me which makes me think it's a marketing ploy to charge more because it sounds kind of fancy and Italian.
But my point here is that I TOOK THE GIRLS SHOPPING. To a store. By myself. Oh sure, I wasn't able to buy anything because they were screaming bloody murder but still. This is progress.
PS -- These are the exact boots I want. Feel free to send them to me.