This will be a short post today as I am way busy getting ready to go to Blogher.
Blogher? I hardly know her!
Heh. Sorry. Anyway, I’m not actually going to Blogher, no real man would do that, but I am accompanying my wife up there. While she is at the conference during the day I will be busy watching San Francisco Giants baseball games, summer movies, and my parents put on cringe worthy displays of dysfunction in front of total strangers. (My family lives up there and I will be visiting them…hopefully my Mom will supply more fresh nuggets to create posting gold!)
Tonight Heather and I are going to see Coldplay live and in concert as they say. The tickets were my Father’s Day gift and it should be fun. So things are somewhat busy around here! Anyhoo, if you are in SF this week and want to meet me find Heather and say hi. She’ll be the short blonde chick cursing out people for cutting in line.
Before I sign off, however, I will tell you an old story about my Mom that popped into my head this morning…
My Mom and my teenage self were at the mall shopping back in the day when I got stuck having to wait for her to buy shoes. I slumped into a chair, miserable, as she found the shoes she wanted. She told the salesman, a smartly dressed African American man, who went to the back to search for them in her color of choice which was blue. He soon returned and said that they didn’t have them in her size in blue, but that they did in black. He then opened a box and displayed the shoes in black. My Mom crinkled up her nose and said, “Oh no…I don’t like black.” The salesman nodded and went on his way.
Later, as we were in the parking lot, my Mom gasped.
“What’s wrong,” I asked.
“I told that salesman I don’t like black.”
“So you don’t think he thought that I don’t like…you know…”
My Mom looked around before whispering, “Black people.”
I smiled, amused, and told her not to worry about it. We walked a few steps with her nervously chewing her cheek before she turned and headed back to the mall.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on!” she cried.
Once back in the shoe store I stood as far away from my Mom as possible as she walked up to the salesman.
“I just want you to know,” she began, “that when I said I don’t like black, I meant for shoes. Not people. I happen to think black is lovely on people. Your skin for example? Beautiful. I just don’t like it on shoes. Well, an evening shoe…yes…but not the casual shoe you were showing me. For a casual shoe I do not like black, and I have to be honest about that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like black people.”
I slapped me forehead, mortified, as the salesman patiently replied, “I didn’t think it did, ma’am.”
“Good. Because I have black friends. I do.”
My mom stood there a long beat before saying, “You know what? Give me the shoes. They are beautiful and I will wear them with pride.”
The salesman suddenly smiled. He probably couldn’t believe all of this weirdness was going to lead to a sale.
Later, once we got home, my Mom tried on her new shoes and frowned.
“Ugh. I can’t believe I bought these.”
I shook my head with mock disgust.
Talk to everyone again once I’m up in San Fran!