Who's Your Indian

Having finally lost all patience with the "Townhouse" situation and my complete lack of accessible workshop space - I proposed a trip to the Tandy leather store for some supplies and a little arts and crafts project suitable for miserable confined Townhouse living. 

I wasn't really paying attention as the man helped us check out, but I noticed the salesman trail off a bit midway through his recital of my purchase, "belly leather, punch set, snaps, leather dye......children's moccasin kit..." and I looked up to find him staring quizzically at me. 

"Is this yours, sir?" he asked. I started to respond in the negative when I caught sight of a hand flapping from across the store "Halloooo!!!" Tyler trilled, grinning over a mountain of leather skins. "Ummm. Those little shoesies are for meeeeee!"

I looked at the package which said "no instructions needed" in bold type and shrugged at the salesman who, girded in his heavily-tooled leather belt, and disgusted, I'm sure, with our amateur purchases - continued ringing me up.

Then, entirely too fast for her to have walked all the way across the store, I heard hissed directly in my ear: "Ah. Can we find a bathroom?"  Startled, I turned to find Tyler standing directly behind me twisting around in her shoes with a look of intense concentration on her face.

"Whoa! How did you get over here that fast?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"What? There is a bathroom right there in the back of this store. I can see it."

"No I don't want to go in that one."

"Why?"

"Because. I don't. Also, it says 'employees only' on it. Let's find a Chick fil a."

"What? What are they going to do? Arrest you? Really? A fast food restaurant? What is wrong with you? Go in there."

"No. I can make it until we get home."

"Home is 30 minutes away.  Just a second ago you said you had to find a bathroom immediately. I am confused. What dark magic is this? "

"Well, now I can make it. Lets go home."

From that I can only assume that anytime she has to find a restroom - all I have to do is argue with her and everything is fine.

I am up to that challenge.

Last night we began our leatherworking attempt. I stood at the counter in the kitchen lost entirely in my own thoughts and plans for my little leather pouch, but I periodically heard various frustrated musings coming from the direction of the couch and the rawhide moccasin sewing attempt occuring thereon.  Finally, after about 45 minutes of silence, I heard Tyler D. Ewing, 1/16 Cherokee Indian, grumble to herself from the wreckage of a maimed children's moccasin set:

"Argh. I must not be an Indian after all."