Over the past few weeks, The Wife has been feverishly trying to find a tennis shoe that will fit Tax Deduction No. 1’s canoe of a foot. Honest to goodness, the girl could surf without a board.
Occasionally, a shoe would fit, but it would look like it was cut from the jacket Rodney Dangerfield wore in “Caddy Shack.” Flavor Flav would think these shoes were too busy.
I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but this shoe situation was affecting my life. That little tiff between the Israelis and the Palestinians is a parking ticket compared to the pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth generated by this shoe thing.
Thinking if it’s not in the local stores it has to be somewhere on the Internet, I sat TD No. 1 beside me and started surfing the web for girl’s tennis shoes.
I asked The Wife what size foot TD No. 1 was dragging around, expecting a concise answer such as “4” or — to be more accurate — “9”. What I got was an education on the perils of sizing in the women’s clothing industry.
Apparently, a Nike size 4 is different from a Converse size 4. After about 30-seconds of a description that was already being dumbed down for me, I started to see little blue dots. I began thinking about how much I loved my long deceased bulldog named Katie, and how she always knew how to show up in the field a few minutes for Nab and Pepsi time.
When I came to, The Wife was saying some nonsense about me not paying attention. I told her she looked cute — which she did — but I’m pretty sure the sentiment wasn’t taken in the spirit it was intended.
TD No. 1 and I checked every shoe website between here and Vietnam, and we got close a few times. One shoe was exactly right, except that it was white on the bottom instead of blue. When I asked what the big deal was, TD No. 1 said the white part of the shoe would show dirt too easily.
At this point, I didn’t care if the shoes had the Manson family crest on them, but I was happy to see that some of the practicality we’ve been trying to instill in our little Bigfoot had taken hold.
At this point, I called an emergency family meeting. I assembled The Wife and TD No. 1 in the kitchen; TD No. 2 was climbing a light pole at the time and, frankly, we were enjoying the peace and quiet.
I informed The Wife and TD No. 1 that if this wasn’t settled soon, Social Services would show up at the house wondering why our daughter was wearing empty tissue boxes for shoes.
Although we always try to buy local, we had to look outside the county for a solution. A phone call was made to a shoe store in Goldsboro, and some angel named LaToya told us she had the shoe we were looking for.
In an unprecedented display of courtesy, LaToya agreed to hold the shoes for us until the next day. I grabbed the phone from my wife and started telling this woman I’d never met how much I loved her and what a great day this was for my family.
She seemed a little creeped out, but it had to be said.
The next morning, I went around the house beating a frying pan with a wooden spoon. I wanted these people to be at that store the second LaToya put the key in the door. I didn’t mean 10 minutes after opening; I wanted my crew there to hold her hand as she walked from her car to the door — just to make sure she didn’t trip and injure herself before the store could be opened.
I taught TD No. 2 to walk in front of LaToya and throw rose petals on the ground to make her journey across the parking lot a pleasant one.
I gave everyone a minute to eat their toast, a minute to brush their teeth, and a minute to get dressed. I gave TD No. 1 an extra 30 seconds to deal with those diving boards at the end of her legs. The poor girl’s toes are in a different time zone than her ankles.
With everyone fed and brushed, The Wife headed over to Goldsboro with our tax deductions in tow.
I began pacing the hall incessantly. After what seemed like an eternity, I called The Wife to see what was taking so long.
“We just made it to the end of the driveway,” she said. “I’m turning off my phone now.”
For the next hour, I knew what the staff at NASA felt when they lost contact with Apollo 12 in the winter of 1969. Their crew was somewhere out in space, embarking on an impossible mission — and so was mine.
Finally, my phone rang but I tripped over a dollhouse on my way to answer it. After the swelling and the cursing subsided, I called The Wife back and she gave me the good news: The long national shoe nightmare was over. TD No. 1 and her Barnum and Bailey-esque feet had finally been matched with the right conglomeration of canvas, string, rubber and sweatshop labor.
With the shoes out of the way, the school year and its concurrent nightly hour-long process of putting together the following day’s ensemble can commence.
Don’t worry about me. If it gets to be too much, I’ll just slam a door on my head for 10 or 15 minutes — it works every time.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase music, books and wholesale “Father of the Year” certificates at jondawson.com.