Shoe Shopping with Teens. I need a sponsor. Nike I'm available.

I can't afford them, but I am not opposed to accepting samples. Size 8

Scooter needed new shoes this weekend.  He needed tennis shoes, that are actual uh, Tennis shoes.  Like Rafael Nadal would wear. (Not the ones in the picture, I just thought those were awesome and I would love a pair even though I would probably do noting more strenuous in them than shop for more shoes). See, Scoot plays tennis (for fun) with one of his friends two or three times a week.  So he needs shoes to play tennis in.  I get that.

So we all pile into the car and go to lunch (Yummy Mexican, with margaritas because I need sustenance to go shoe shopping with 4 kids, three of which are girls) and then off to the sporting goods store for Tennis tennis shoes.

Flip Flop season is almost over, and the girls need tennis shoes for gym, and they can’t be caught dead wearing last year’s shoes, because they are so last year. Clearly.  Newt got a new pair for her birthday (thanks to a 80% off sale at JC Penny earlier this month) and Tate is getting new shoes for cheerleading but she can only wear them to cheer.  She needed new gym shoes.

While Scooter and Brian are off looking at the Rafael Nadal look-alike shoes that I am oh so glad I wasn’t paying for because we wouldn’t get to eat for a week or more if I had paid for them, Tate and Newt start looking at their shoes.

I finally drag them away from the wall of the latest and greatest must have shoes and drag them kicking and screaming point them in the direction of the “SALE” table because clearly that’s the only language I understand in this store.

Lucky for me Tate was able to fall head over heals (no pun intended) in love with settle for a pair of Nikes that were on sale for $30, which would allow us to eat this week and most of next.

Newt on the other hand had found her heart’s desire in a pair of Nikes with a glorious price tag of $168.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my girls, but they have never in their life been $168-for-a-pair-of-shoes active in any kind of sport.  Granted they were pretty awesome and amazing looking and I’m willing to bet they felt like a dream on your feet and not at all like my stilettos.  But $168 for a pair of shoes?  Really Nike?

So, to all you Nike PR people out there who might happen to read my blog, when you come out with a pair of $20 shoes made specifically for laying around the house doing nothing more physically exerting than looking awesome and training to be a diva, I’ve got your spokes person right here.  (She wears a size 5. Just saying)

I blame myself, because I can’t find anyone else to blame, damnit

Whew!  What a day.  Days like this were made for Xanax.

This week was a larger than normal pay check for me, and after listening to the girls whine every. single. morning about having ‘nothing to wear’, I decided it was time to take them out to get some jeans.  After all, it seems that the 90+ degree days are a thing of the past (knock on wood) and it’s time to get them some jeans.

And teach them a lesson in responsibility.

Brian’s mom has been paying them all summer for doing chores around her house.  They need to pull their weight, and they can earn money to pay for some of their school clothes.

We gave them each $20 and told them, “When it’s gone, it’s gone.”  And off we went.

Being the smart adults we are, Mimi and I took them to consignment shops in the area.  The clothes there are as good as new (or almost) and are already broke in, and have been washed and have shrunk as much as they are going to shrink.  All good.

We hadn’t even gotten out of the driveway when…

It was going to be one of *those* days.  You know, a Captain Morgan kind of day.

The first store?  Nothing there that would interest a 42 year old single mom, let alone two teenage divas in training.

The 2nd store?  They found shoes and purses and more shoes and it looked like a Hookers ‘R’ Us outlet.  I was not about to let them buy anything at that store.

They say the third time is a charm.  Store number three.  6000 square feet of nothing but rejected clothes, dishes, shoes, coats, toys, games, jewelry, purses, you name it, I’m sure we could have found it.

Except jeans the girls would actually consider putting on their damn butts.

I know I pulled two dozen pairs of jeans off the racks to show them.  Every. Single. Pair had something wrong with them.  “They’re too dark”.  “I don’t like the pockets”, “They’re skinny jeans”,  “They look too big”  “They look too small”,  “I just don’t like the way they look”.

Finally, I told them, if you can’t find a pair of jeans, you can just go to school naked.  I don’t want to hear any more whining and crying and arguing about how you have ‘nothing to wear’.

Apparently, those are the magic words to make every pair of jeans in the store magically delicious and dressing room worthy.

I know, I know, I know, I should be damn proud of them for being “just like me”, or at least, just like I wanted to be at that age, but couldn’t, because my mom and dad couldn’t afford the wardrobe I wanted to wear and nobody had even heard of consignment shops, and really?  I doubt I would have worn second hand clothes at that age, but maybe I would have because I remember I used to love to find the trashiest, sluttiest shoes at yard sales and buy them.  I thought they were cool.  My parents? Not so much.

I also know I have nobody to blame for their behavior but myself.  I have created these little divas in training.  Now I just have to find a way to live with them.

Somebody pass me the Captain Morgan.