If only we'd named our last child Manolo ...

When I was young(er), my brother sometimes used to abuse me. If I complained about it, the blame would be deposited back onto me. That is, if I hadn't been behaving in such an irritating manner, he wouldn't have been forced to beat the crap out of me. It wasn't until many years later that I actually began to question the rationale of his logic; it meant that I was responsible not only for my own bad behaviour, but for his as well. How could one possibly cite another person's behaviour as a reasonable excuse for one's own poor conduct? It never made sense to me ... well ... until today that is.

After taking our kids to see the new Harry Potter movie this afternoon, we paid a visit to a nearby outlet mall. We had a little bit of time to kill before our son's hockey game, and my husband suggested that we take a look at some of the stores. Reluctant to spend a beautiful afternoon shopping, but realising that he was in desperate need of some shirts, I agreed. Unfortunately, we both had different motives for our mall visit; I was under the impression that we were going to select some clothes for him (he's lost weight over the past year or so and his clothes look dreadful on him) while he wanted to buy me a new winter coat (the one that I wear is fifteen years old and has never done a good job keeping me warm). It was a fairly irritating and unproductive visit as both of us refused to cooperate with the other.

As we were walking around pleading with each other to see reason, I came to a screeching halt in front of the Brown Shoes Outlet Store. Having a mild shoe addiction, I just had to go in and have a tiny peek. Hubby and kids had a quick look of their own and then deposited themselves onto the comfy leather sofa while I felt compelled to walk around and touch all the merchandise. Then suddenly, I spied a fabulously sexy and fun number and picked it up to take a closer look.

Oh my God, I thought, suddenly unable to breathe, I'm hallucinating. It just can't be.

I rushed back to the sofa and wordlessly dangled my precious find under my husband's nose.

"That's neat," he said "Are you going to try it on?"

"Hhhh-ow much does the label say it is?" I stuttered as I flipped the shoe over so that the price sticker affixed to the sole was visible.

"$99.50," hubby read and then repeated "Are you going to try them on?"

Stunned, I sat down and then turned suddenly towards my husband.
"They're Manolo's," I whispered reverentially "And they're only a hundred bucks?"

"What is Manolo?", enquired my poor sweet ignoramus.

"You're kidding me, right?" I said looking up in surprise. The blank stare that met my gaze was clearly not kidding.

"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I bleated, raising my eyebrows significantly. Another blank stare followed.

"Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low," I repeated as though speaking to a child. "Maaaaaaahhhhhhh-NO-low as in Blahnik," thinking that last hint should jog his memory. We did after all, watch Sex and the City religiously. Just what the hell had he been focussing on during that show, if not for Sarah Jessica Parker's great shoe collection and the women's repeated references to the reknown Mr. Blahnik?

"Oh, for the love of God!," I screeched as the realisation sunk in that he'd quite obviously been distracted by Kim Cattrall's breasts. "Who the hell doesn't know Manolo Blahnik?!!"

"Um, what is that? Is that the style of shoe?"

Too exasperated and irritated to continue speaking, I grabbed a passing salesperson's arm and asked for the shoe's mate. The salesman arrived and deposited the box into my lap before rushing off to help another customer. It was at that point that my husband cottoned onto the idea that Manolo might actually be a term worth knowing, because, printed on the side of the box was the pre-sale price.

"A thousand? Dollars??!!" he exclaimed.

"No, pesos," I thought dryly.

"Of course dollars, you nimbus. They're Manolos ... I told you! And actually it's eleven hundred and fifty dollars ... not including tax".

As I slipped my feet into the shoes, a beatific smile slowly spread over my face. My God, they fit wonderfully and felt absolutely heavenly. No wonder all those women raved about the genius of Manolo.

I stood up and pranced around the store feeling like an absolute goddess. A passing customer looked down at my feet, smiled and said "Those look amazingly sexy on you", to which I replied "They're Manolos and they're only a hundred dollars". She was clearly well versed in designer footwear because she gasped appropriately and let out an appreciative wolf whistle.

I proceeded to the cash with purchase in hand and hubby trailing behind, still asking "But what are Ma-whosies? Are they famous? Why are they normally so expensive?"

The interrogation continued as we exited the store.

"So, is it like a famous brand or something? Does everyone know about Ma ... whatever? Are they comfortable? What are they called again? Manny Black?"

I wheeled around suddenly, hissing "Manolo, Manolo, Manolo Blahnik!!! And yes, they're famous. Everyone freaking knows about Manolo Blahnik. Geez!" before I stomped off.

I did feel vaguely guilty for having been so condescending, rude and dismissive towards him, but such blind ignorance on his part is clearly deserving of that, isn't it??