A few bits and baubles regarding me

It’s that time of year again when I add sunless tanner to my post-showering routine. I do this mainly so I don’t look translucent. You’re welcome.

It’s also that time when my feet are so very happy not to be confined inside a sock. Oh my how they do detest those sockies. I’m just going to make a blanket statement here and say that if there is an event, party, etc. this summer that does not allow me to wear sandals or flip-flops I will probably not be in attendance. My apologies in advance. And no I will probably not go hike that mountain with you.

And of course it’s that time of year when I sit outside and watch my kiddies play for what seems like hours.

I spend this time thinking a few deep thoughts (too deep for this blog), but mostly inconsequential thoughts that are totally appropriate for this blog, like how Baked Lays are really just a classy version of Pringles. So yeah things like that. I come up with some of my best silliness whilst my offspring bath in dirt and bugs. It's win win for everyone.

P.S. It’s looking likely that we will finish an entire box of Otter Pops before it’s officially summer. This is thanks in large part to me.

I'm not kidding, about any of this.

It’s official. I have now had the same pimple for over a month. Same place, same degree of pestilence. Ever vigilant and ever glaring.

{Sketch artist's depiction}

I hold candy mostly responsible. But then again those winds coming in from the north are hardly blameless in this.

If you see me, be sure to point out the monstrosity and ask me, “Didn’t you have that during Halloween and maybe even Columbus Day?” I love to have conversations like this. I really do because it shows that people pay attention to me and pretty much love me with their whole heart and soul. I’ll take some of that any day. Then maybe you could follow up with a comment on how adorably pixie my feet are, and also point out that my age spots are looking mighty visible these days, and even mention all the hair repositioning happening on  my face and how it’s obvious the war is on like Donkey Kong. Then, if you really want to make me giddy, tell me that it looks like I've recovered nicely  from the whole falling off the toilet thing over four years ago. That would solidify your true bosom friend status in my eyes.

Just, whatever you do, don’t point out The Pimple, touch "IT", and declare "IT" as having reached mole status. The Husband already made that mistake.

Did I just admit I would have no problem manipulating a tourist?

Sometimes I feel like this bird I met in Hawaii.

Only one little bird claw on each foot to hold him up, when he is supposed to have at least three toesies I think like his friends do or maybe four? Who knows these random facts about bird appendages anyway? All I know is that it didn’t look or feel right for this bird to exist like this, and it was a little sad but funny of course.

What happened to birdie that allowed almost all of his toes/claws to be removed down to a stump? Born that way? Lawnmower? Cannibalistic birds? Bad landing? Really truly mean tourists? Plastic surgery gone bad? Did it hurt? Or did he rather enjoy that it made him a one of kind fowl? Is he a he or a she?

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. But I do know that he visited our balcony every morning at the same exact time in hopes of a handout or maybe even just some attention. I endearingly called him Creature and Gimpy Friend. I couldn’t decide which one fit him better. But I liked him. And I would have fed him if there hadn’t been a sign that said DON’T FEED THE BIRDS. I tend to be one of those people who read and obey signs. I just am (Unless I'm totally spacey and fail to even see a sign. That happens a lot too).

But if I had been able to feed the birds I would have given all of my food to Gimpy Friend. The other birds could just sit and watch for all I care. They’ve got all their toes. Go make your own casserole guys. But my Creature had way more things on his mind to worry about besides where he would get his next meal. I could just tell. He sure was in a fix, but trying to make the best of it by manipulating soft hearted tourists (that would be me).

Well of course he still has his wings to carry him through so he has something going for him. Not to mention he lives in Hawaii. Der.

But sometimes I wonder how these freakishly small feet of mine, even with all their toes intact, are strong enough to keep me upright ya know?

Kindred spirits. Me and this bird.

Forging ahead despite our feet.

Mission Impossible

On the last shopping weekend before Christmas I voluntarily put myself into the madness mix. Why? Well certainly not because I still had Christmas shopping to do. No I was done with that weeks ago, just like a good little girl.

No, I was on the search for some boots. I needed boots. Flat camel colored boots to be specific, mid-calf. Maybe ankle if I was feeling so inclined. They just couldn't go too high on the leg or else I would start to resemble a gnome. Such is the lot of a short person. I cope as well as I can.

Also, I didn't want any bells or whistles on my boots. No ornamentation or GPS tracking devices inserted in the heel. Nothing fancy. Just a simple dang pair of boots, that matched my precise requirements. This should not have been hard right?

Well apparently these boots do not exist anywhere on Earth except for in my imagination because these boots of mine were no where to be found. Not even in the finest of stores. My sister can attest to this fact seeing as how she was with me, and had to deal with my outbursts of chagrin.

So I learned a lesson, a lesson I had learned in years past, but forgot that I had already learned it. The lesson being: If I'm ever looking for something on purpose I will never find it. However if I'm looking with no particular object in mind I will most assuredly have magical finds. How silly of me to forget this. I should have been looking for ear muffs instead because I don't want ear muffs, and as a result I would have unexpectedly  found boots. I'm a firm believer in reverse psychological. The universe uses it on me all the time.

Well after spending HOURS looking for shoes and going into a two story Forever 21, and coming to terms with the state of my stretch marks, I tried to drown my sorrows in hot chocolate. But if you can even believe it the hot chocolate was disgusting. I never thought I'd live to see the day where I said such a thing but the hot chocolate HAD TO BE THROWN AWAY. A travesty indeed.

And to put a lovely little cap on things, I discovered that my black shoes, the shoes I was wearing at that precise shopping moment, the shoes wherein I wear when black shoes are necessary, as is a little height,  yes these shoes were in dire straits. Behold the magnitude of the situation:

Steve Madden?! What happened there?



Well I guess if I'm being honest with my near thirty self, I've had those shoes since my college years, and I've rolled my ankle many a time while wearing them. Fond memories for sure. But still . . . it appears that now I need to find the ever elusive pair of camel boots plus a black pair to boot. (Ha!) Because what shall I do when nothing besides black will do and the camel/taupe/tan/brown is nowhere to be found?

What shall I do?!

My weekend: An ailment and a laxative. One of my best titles yet.

I’m going to make this weekend review short and sweet because, let’s be honest, I’m feeling a little couch potato-ish at the moment, and also because my toenails are feeling severely neglected-ish and need a little one-on-one time.

So a couple things that have become solidified in my mind this weekend:

Let it be known that I most likely have an incurable ailment. I can’t really think of a pithy, intellectual word for: someone who buys shoes when they don’t necessarily need them, but this someone buys them anyway because they fit, and because they could be of use at some point, and because they were on sale, and because they actually spoke to this someone and said that if this someone didn’t buy them then this someone was going to regret it forEVER, as in eternity. Maybe you can send some suggestions my way of what you would call that particular sickness. But whatever you call it, I’ve got it.

Yes, I bought another pair of shoes and I dare not share a picture because they look quite similar to all the other sandals I’ve bought this summer but these are quite the hippie-nature walking sandal. And I could hike in these sandals if I so choose. I probably won’t choose, but I could. That is the whole point. I could be that person if I wanted to because I have the necessary shoes now to make that personal transition.

And now I may have to retract all the posts I’ve done about not being able to find shoes that fit me since it seems apparent that the shoe gods have bestowed upon me a brief respite in that chapter of my life. It will return though I’m sure . . . when I search for shoes that are less forgiving than sandals, like pretty much any other type of shoe.

Also let it be known (in case you weren’t already aware) that watermelon is nature’s laxative, along with all the other wonderful fresh summer fruit. For better or worse.

 

What did you become convinced of this weekend? Does it have anything to do with laxatives?

Scab picker, comin' at ya

I hate to reopen old wounds, but apparently I’m a scab picker, a picker of scabs. Pick. Pick. Pick. And then by the end of the day I’m left with a huge gaping sore of my own making. Hours and hours wasted in self-pickery. This is what always happens though when I convince myself that a new pair of shoes is in order.

That’s right. I went shoe shopping, again. Can I get a Band-aid please? And I felt frustrated and depressed for much of the excursion, again. Actually can you just give me the largest bandage you have?

For those of you just tuning in, I’ve already freely admitted that I have carnie feet. Whatever that means. All I know is that I’ve got them. And there are not a lot of shoes for women who have them. Someday fellow sufferers. Someday the shoe monkeys will hear our plight. Right?

Anyway, I went out this last weekend with renewed hope, in search of the most comfortable leather sandals to ever grace my dainty feet. My sister was in search of her own pair so we went together. That was probably a poor choice on her part. The majority of the time she had to deal with my wailing and gnashing of teeth. But I don’t feel sorry for her. She has “normal” feet.

As I meandered through the multitude of shoes on display, a friendly young woman with regular feet asked if she could help me. The following interaction ensued:

Woman: What exactly are you looking for?
Me: Well, I’d like a comfortable simple brown leather sandal, to walk-in of course. I don’t want it to flip flop. I want it secure and fitted (haha). Do you have anything that is akin to walking on air?
Woman: Well, these Borns are comfortable, she points to a pair that I had being eyeing.
Me: Yes, I like those. They are a bit pricey but if you have a pair that fits like a dream I will cash in my retirement fund right now.
Woman: Great (starting to drool). Let me go check. What size are you? She then looks down at my feet in amazement/disappointment/there goes my commission. Oh my they are tiny! What size are you?
Me: Trying not to roll my eyes Well usually a 5, but let's try to keep the judgements to a minimum.
Woman: Oh we don’t carry the Borns in that size.
Me: Oh well that is unfortunate. Can’t say I’m surprised though. Most shoe companies don’t cater to us nymphs because they don't believe in magic.
Woman: Let me go find some other ones that are similar, and come in smaller sizes.
Me: Fantastic. I will wait with bated breath. Woman comes back with five or six boxes and now I’m almost drooling. A fellow sales associate has now joined the conversation.
Man: Wow. Looks like she’s brought you a few to try on.
Me: Yes! Yes! Am I shouting! I can’t seem to control the volume of my voice around so many shoes!
Woman: Okay these are all size 5. She opens the boxes and to my complete and utter horror they are nothing like what I had suggested. I try to mask my disgust with ridiculous smiling. My sister is giggling. Okay this one looks really strange, but it actually looks pretty cute when you put it on.
Me: Alright. Let’s try it. Actually no. It looks even more heinous. And the rhinestones clash with my skin color. Oh and they’re too big. I was hoping for something with more cushion and less bling.
Woman: Yeah. Here’s these Hush Puppies.
Me: What? Aren’t those shoes for the more “mature in years,” in addition to being a tasty side dish with fish?
Woman: Oh my, you are delightfully funny, and so right. But they are comfortable.
Me: Well, they don’t fit anyway so . . .
Woman: Wow. You’re actually like a size 4.5 or smaller. You know, the kids section actually might have some cute stuff. My friend came in the other day and I told her that her boots were adorable. She just laughed because she confessed they were from the kids section (I highly doubt they were cute judging from the “cute” shoes she brought out).
Man: Yeah. You know what I do? I go to this one store and get their XL sized shirts in the juniors section. And it’s like half the price. I’m all over that.
Me: Yeah well, if the shoe fits . . .
Woman: I’m so sorry none of these fit. We can see if they can special order the Borns in your size.
Me: It’s worth a try. But I’m warning you, the welfare of my sanity is on the line here.
Man: Typing and scanning things into the computer. Nope sorry. He offers me a fake frown of pity.
Me: Well, that’s the final nail in my coffin. Please excuse me while I go over and die in the children’s section (You really were not helpful at all. And now my scab is bleeding profusely).

Oh dear reader. I hate to say that I've had many a conversation just like this one. And I also hate to admit that I did peruse the children's selection at multiple stores. Let's just say that after each store we went to, I got closer and closer to literally throwing up in my mouth and spitting it in their over-sized shoes. But luckily rainbows are real, and so are the pots of gold at the end. Eastland Shoes (since 1955), I'm giving you a shout out because I found a leather sandal that looks and feels like handsome trolls made it specially to adorn my soles. I heart you. The Husband says they look like something Cleopatra would have worn. That's good I guess.

Friday Confessions: Me and my carnie feet

I’m starting a weekly feature titled Friday Confessions (to be done on Fridays), wherein I reveal something about myself that may cause you to gasp, swoon, chuckle, or fear. Doesn’t that sound scintillating? Let us begin.

Some of you may not know this but I am petite in stature and have the feet to match. Carnie feet as some have referred to them, only to be said in a thick Irish brogue (I don’t know why. It just sounds better). I mean no offense to actual carnies, which I am not. Can’t remember the last time I worked at a carnival, and as far as I know, I don’t smell like cabbage. But now that I’m really taking the time to think about it, I’m not even sure that carnies stereotypically have small feet. I don’t know one in person so I can’t attest to the validity of calling my small feet carnie feet. The cabbage smell, however, has been scientifically proven so don’t send me emails about that one. Nevertheless, my feet have been monikered carnie feet. Behold!

These are my feet with the added bonus of super-whiteness! (Do you know how hard it is to take a good picture of your own feet, let alone feet in general. Would have been completely impossible had I been pregnant). Just keep reading and try as best you can to not be jealous. Too late you say! You’re probably just green with envy or some such emotion, thinking how I am so lucky to have such wondrously nymph-like feet. But truth be told, it’s actually a very sore spot for me, not because I hate my feet but because finding shoes that fit me is a rarity. Shoe shopping is a deeply depressing activity, and I avoid it like I do all things Pee Wee Herman. If I didn’t like shoes there would really be no dilemma. I’d just prance around with my tiny barefoot fairie feet and be at peace with the world. But I happen to actually like shoes (that don’t require the wearing of socks). I’m like a kid who has been denied candy his/her whole life. If ever they finally made beautiful shoes in my size, I would buy one pair of each, even if they were completely heinous. That’s how deprived I’ve been. I guess it’s probably best though that I haven’t been able to find a pair of leopard print stilettos that fit perfectly. That’s not really me. Maybe in another life brother.

But let’s get down to specifics. Depending on the type of shoe, I wear a 4 ½ to 5 ½, or so says the shoe salesman. If shoes with Dora the Explorer or Barbie printed all over made me salivate, there would be a goldmine of options. But as luck would have it, I like something a little more understated and age appropriate.

So you can imagine my complete and utter joy when I do find something that stays on my foot, and doesn’t have Sleeping Beauty dancing on it. Sometimes it does happen, usually when I’m not shoe shopping on purpose. And when it does, I buy them, no questions asked. I don’t even stop to think if I actually need them or if I will use them. The Husband actually encourages this because he hates when I go on shoe searches, and he doubly hates my surly attitude when my efforts are fruitless.

Well my dear friends, I just have to share with you my latest finds. Thank you Target. Thank you Merona. I snatched these right up, and they were on sale. Some little redhead is ready for summer. It was a good day for me and my carnie feet.

 

Have a lovely weekend my dear little poopsies!