Life Lesson #2: vest is best.

I wear snoopy jammies to bed, but when I wake up in the morning I see it hanging there on the back of my door right where I left it. It’s my vest. Monday to Thursday from 8-3:45pm I sport a teal green standard, size Medium. My plastic name tag is pinned on the front: PAmela. That’s right, an extra capital from a company that cares not. But life is what you make it right? Indeed. I choose the vest. You may notice the wares I sell, but not remember my face. I may hand you your change, but you do not see the many colours in my scrunchy at the end of my braid (but no matter, they are kind of out of style now anyways). But I braided it for you. I am here for you. When you have a need, I am here to fill it with more than a smile. I am more than just a Quick Shoppe in the mini mall near Zellers in your GPS, I am PAmela. PAmela the Courageous! Here to respond with precision and acute attention! I’m not ‘that girl who sells gum’, I am your last oral check point before greeting your future employer, or the woman of your dreams. I’m not just ‘where you get stamps’, I am your sure correspondence to Canada’s Official Postal Service. I am the keeper of the Keno screen. Enough said. I know you need me. You need me like meat needs salt. I will bravely wear what some might despise or intellectually scoff. Indeed, the vest, my vest, is best.

Life Lesson #1: there is no one like you.

Dear Mr. Bell,

      I am sorry. I take upon myself the international infraction of trying to be something that was not made to be. In 1876 you invented and I quote, an “apparatus for communication of sound to a hearer at a distance”, and called it the telephone... and what have we done? Well some would say we’ve improved it and made it “smart”. So now my beloved shoe telephone I got 10 years ago for my 16^th birthday is now unimportant, inconsequential, and quote, “out of date” because it has a strange string attached to it called a cord.

It may not have a chip that will store my 10,000 intimate friend’s contact information, or connect me to the interweb, or beep at me with up-to-the-second updates of my global position in relation to the nearest Starbucks and how long it will take to get there based on current traffic and weather conditions for the next 400 yards, but my beloved tele will cause me to sit in the Poang I placed it next to and communicate. Just talk, you know, that old fashioned thing, on my old fashioned phone. It rings and the buttons make a click when I push them. There is no one like you, shoe.