The walls of summer are closing in.  

On one side I see the end of summer school getting closer, which means the end of uninterrupted mornings and an August of All Amy All The Time.  I'll be instituting my August Policy again this year, mostly to shift into full daddy gear and be otherwise completely unproductive.

Approaching from another side is the beginning of the school year, a year which promises to be brimming with... ah, heck, I dunno, disappointment probably.  Just thinking about it makes me tired.  I'm all for optimism, but I'm also strongly pro-sanity, and lately when it comes to schooling and meeting Amy's needs, to be optimistic is to be in denial.  It's a tad on the sad side to say that, and all the more reason to take August off to rest and regroup for the fall campaign.

*****

I have new boots.  Work boots.  I bought them this weekend at the same place I bought my old ones, a store that sells only work clothes.  There are three categories of customers who shop at stores like this one: male and female working-class laborers, Mexican gang members, and gum-popping teenage girls who wear too much makeup.  Gotta have them Dickies™.

I opted for the Caterpillar boot this time.  Not only does that company make backhoes and bulldozers, they've now gone into the shoe biz as well.  Today I'm shod in a lovely leather steel-toed boot, the Sheffield model, in Moondance Brown, with patent pending tread.  My toes can stand a compression of 2500 lbs, so look out.

This store's selection wasn't bad as far as styles and makes were concerned, but when you have a size 13 foot the options can dwindle, particularly with a work boot.  If you can tell me the correct answer as to why this is true you will be the winner of the NAFTA award for keen labor market observation.

As I was writing my check, the proprietor asked me, as he did last time, what kind of work I do.  I'm sure it's his standard question for all the manly men who stand at his register with their checkbooks open.  It's his chance for bonding and discovery -- just what sort of daring-do does a man who needs such footwear do?  When I told him I've been a stay-at-home dad for nine years he was lost for a moment as if his guns had jammed, then he squeezed off a poorly-aimed "Well, so the little woman brings home the bacon, eh?  Well, that's a trick.  Must be nice.  What're the work boots for?"  I was tempted to tell him with a straight face that my mistress has a peculiar sexual peccadillo, but I figured he wasn't worth the creative effort and instead I just gave him a yard work response.  "Workin' on my property.  Got a hillside.  Heavy stuff."  

Then he handed me my receipt, sniffed my butt, barked, and I was gone.

_______________________________