Okay, they're cobalt blue fleecy clogs, but she knows they're slippers. And so do the good folks at Lands End. That's what they call them in the catalogue.
She is 13, therefore she died a thousand deaths when I walked into school to pick her up (it's our one extravagance--a pretentiously expensive private school with uber security--we have to sign kids out) with them on me feet.
She will never forgive me.
I don't care.
2 comments:
Now, I really love you. Not that I didn't before, but this finalizes it, sort of like a marriage license.
I love you too, mel. Whaddya say when our husbands croak we start an all-girl writers coop with eb and company?
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