Dorothy was NOT a hooker!

One of the wonderful things about having a daughter is that she is always available to go shopping with you. Marathon shopping-- the kind that lasts all day with no particular destination or item in mind, just browsing and hunting, gathering bargains and finding deals and searching for steals. It's a bonding ritual that mothers and daughters exclusively enjoy.  Sons---not so much.  Boys are destination shoppers, heading to one store, to buy one particular item, and BOOM! they're done.
My son will say, "Mom, I'm heading to Orvis to pick up a pair of pants."
"Great, " I reply. "I'll ride out with you."
What I really mean is "Great! Orvis is at Short Pump Mall,  right next to Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel, which I can dash through on my way to pick up a latte at Starbucks before I pop into Nordstroms to check out the shoe sale on my way to Soma and then on to Macy's and maybe we can catch lunch at Tara Thai before we pick up the pants."
But by the time I've gotten the car parked and gone into the first store, he's bagged the pants and is ready to head home.
"O.K., I'm done," he announces, as I'm browsing through shirts (on the first floor, for heavens sake!).
"But I'm not done," I complain.
 "Mom, I told you I just needed pants. Let's get out of here," he'll say, and before I even have a chance to head up the stairs to the second floor-- the fully stocked and fabulously enticing second floor, home of women's wear and home goods-- he's grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.
So sad, so sad.
But daughters? Now daughters, they can go all day! Oh yes, girls can shop and shop and shop, rambling from store to store, aimlessly searching for some unknown article of clothing, that elusive garment that you will want only when you see it, that dress that you have to have the minute some other woman starts to reach for it, that coat you don't really need but would be so foolish to pass on at such a good price. This ability to marathon shop is usually a good thing, until you get to about 7:00 after a loooong day of strolling through store after store, hours of walking across hard cement floors, eyes tired and burning from the stress of searching for bargains beneath the fluorescent lighting. Things can start to get a little silly, judgement can get a little blurry, and tempers can start to fray.
We had just endured such a day last Friday, a full-blown, 10K marathon of shopping. I was tired; Sissey was tired; but we had just enough get-up-and-go left to wander down one more shoe aisle.  I headed over to the size 9's, my poor old feet, having fallen victim to old-age spread and fallen arches, now relegated to sturdy shoes with lots of cushioning and good support. Sissey rolled over to the cute and petite size 6's, that coveted section of sky-high stilettos and strappy sandals, shoes that just screamed "Young and beautiful!"
After a few minutes of browsing, I heard her yell, "Come look at these cool shoes!"
I rounded the corner, expecting to see her holding up a pair of cute sandals or summer wedges, but was somewhat surprised  (to say the least) to see her sitting there with a big grin on her face holding up a pair of 10 inch high, gaudy, gold, and glitzy hooker shoes. Yes, you heard me. Hooker shoes.
"Please tell me you're joking," I said, as I stared at the most hideous pair of shoes I had ever seen.

"These are great!", she replied, "I'm trying'em on."

"Mary Lapsley," I said, in my "I'm-serious-so-I-am-using-your-given-name" voice. "Those shoes are obnoxious.  They are hooker shoes and you are NOT going to put those on."

"Mom, these are not "hooker" shoes," she said with a grin. "These are Dorothy slippers!"

"Sissey, I don't know what strange wind just blew through here and rattled your brain, but those are definitely NOT Dorothy slippers."

"Oh yes they are. They're sparkly and they're glittery and they're modern day Dorothy slippers."

"Hooker shoes. Period." I wasn't going to budge.

"No, Mom. These are Dorothy shoes." She wasn't budging either. "And I'm trying them on"
"Well," I said, "I just never knew Dorothy was a hooker."

"Dorothy was NOT a hooker, Mother. I can't believe you can't tell the difference between a hooker and someone who just wanted to follow the Yellow Brick Road."

"Maybe so," I said, "But those are hooker shoes."

I laughed as she slipped the golden slippers on, fully expecting her to tap her heels three times and end up in Kansas.

"Sissey, time to go home. Take off those shoes!" I told her. "I don't care how badly Dorothy wanted to go home, but if you plan on going home with me, you had better not walk through the door in those shoes!"

I have to admit, though, that I really, really, really wanted to try them on before I placed them back on the shelf.