"Fantastic! It looks JUST like a beak!"

I overheard one of the kids proclaiming that at the Lego table situated in one corner of our new waiting area the other day. His gleeful look of victory reminded me of one of the little cuties I used to have at the elementary school a couple of years ago. That dude loved Buffy as much as I did, and he was so well-mannered and cute, I often thought I'd love to take him home with me. Of course, legal issues notwithstanding, I'd have a lot of 'splaining to do at the homestead. That kid is now in the sixth grade. Christmas morning, I'm getting old!

Riley must be really tired. I am openly snacking on some Cheesy Poofs, and she's not even trying to beg. Not even a little.

So, I was at Wal-Mart the other day. In fact, I was there the evening after the whole sandwich debacle. As I was in a semi-Office Space mood that day, I elected to wear jeans and a t-shirt along with my white and pink Reeboks.

Now, I'm not sure if I told you guys this or not, but I wore those same shoes to PMS, and one of the kids proclaimed that I must be in a gang because I was wearing those shoes. Yeah, right. I asked the kid if there was some gang in south St. Pete whose primary color was pink, and if so, did they go from neighborhood to neighborhood, instilling fear in everyone's hearsts by styling and accesorizing the shit out of everything? He didn't get it. Of course not. But he swears that's a "gang color" now, and so do some of my colleagues. Well, crap.

Having said that, fast forward to a couple of nights ago, in the checkout at Wal-Mart. As I'm handing over my cash, the cashier peers over the edge of his stand, looks at my shoes for a good fifteen seconds, then looks at me for another ten before slowly saying, "Nice shoes."

He says this just slowly enough, and looking at me long enough, that I'm slightly uneasy, and am mentally recalling the gang conversation in my head. "Thanks," I try to say nonchalantly, as I pick up my purchases and head for the door, trying not to look like I want to book out of there.

Great, I'm thinking as I head towards the car, some craphead is going to think I'm in a gang and I'm going to get capped in the ass, Boyz N The Hood style. Friggin' fantastic! (Note the sarcasm.)

Suffice it to say, I am happy to report that I have not been capped in the ass because of my shoes. Yet.