The Salon: the Highlights

Hello again old friends. Its me, the salty and lizardy one. I have exactly as much time to make you laugh right now as it takes for my brown and gray hair to become blonde. I don't now what the heck I am thinking here because I have years of photo evidence that suggests I make a better brunette. I am not even tan (which goes better with blonde) and while my dermatologist would think that's wonderful, I think its depressing. I do not make winter white look good - and besides, dark colors make you look thinner!

Anyway, my hair stylist is probably at a bar waiting for my color to develop, because I put her through the ringer trying to help me make up my mind on what the H I was going to have her do with my hair. "do you think it will look good blonde? Can you use two shades of blonde? Why are you showing me that picture? That is brown. Ohhh, look at that model on this page. Can you do THAT?". Um yeah, if I had long curly hair, a bod that made a rock star salivate and cheekbones then maybe she could. I also told her not to take offense later when I start crying in realization that it was all a huge mistake. She smiled that "no, you aren't crazy" smile at me and went back to her 5th round of discussing the processing options which I didn't really care about. Then we picked the target picture and she went to mix dyes. At this point I saw a really cool picture of Charlize Theron, but she said, "yeah, let's just stick with this."

It wasn't always this hard. I used to make a good blonde. From my 8th grade Sun In beginnings through college and until I was about 26 when the great Jose Eber (think Liz Taylor and Farrah Fawcett's hair...during their heyday, not now) asked me if my half pink half white hair (an experiment in red which went badly wrong and which I tried to fix by dying it blonde immediately - twice) was my natural color. Jose made his people make me brunette and I didn't look back.

During my Sun In years I got it so light that my friend Greg would pull it out in math class, put it on a piece of paper and say "look, it's white!" My Mother bemoaned my dying my hair at such a young age until I stumped her by reminding her that SHE was the one dying HER hair whereas I was only stripping it of all its natural colors. My half logic somehow won that battle and I have not seen my natural haircolor since. I dyed my own hair through the years with few tragedies. One was the aforementioned pink and white stripes. And one was my highlighting error which resulted in my bangs crumbling off my head and into a sink while I was in Daytona on a business trip. I finally realized that I could no longer maintain it well myself after giving myself some rocking highlights and then realizing that I could not figure out how to cover those roots on the streaks as they grew in.

So now I pay a ridiculous amount to have it done for me. But that poor woman (if you can call this gorgeous, fun, size 0 - 2 woman 'poor') has to work for it. She has to listen to every crazy story I tell and laugh as though they are all funny, and she has to translate my hair need gibberish into something actionable. Today she didn't need to touch my head and she had already earned her money. "hi, I'm running a little late, do you want to have the masseuse give you a quick massage?" My eyes and enormous mouth screamed "OH MY GOD YES!". It was like she gave me a bag of gold.

Oh, sorry, back to the hair. I was waiting for my new beautiful shiny blonde model locks. I was getting all psyched up for the something new and different. What will they say at work? She took off the towel and I turned the iPhone camera on myself to get a look. Yup, I saw a lot of very blonde pieces and some that were less golden - we were blending. But gradually, as she cut and dried and styled my hair, I realized that it was a delightful shade of...brown. WTF? Apparently this was no shock for her, she had tried to keep my hair from getting over processed, and felt a gradual lightening was best. But I had made it pretty friggin' clear that I did not want brown. The cut was decent. I looked decent with the exception of the fact that my makeup was applied 13 hours ago and I was pretty sure that the new color made my eyes melt into my pasty face. "It's brown" I said while smiling. "I mean, it looks nice, don't get me wrong, but it...it is brown. I mean I like it. But it is...not blonde, because it's brown...". She offered me the opportunity to come back in two weeks for her to put in more highlights. WTF. 2 weeks? Am I going to need to take out a second mortgage to be blonde? I suggested that maybe I could put in a little Sun In...do they still make that? You could sense her fear. "you can come back in a couple days. You can't just jump from brown to blonde. You need to do it in stages...". It was like a hostage situation. I was threatening to hold a bottle of store bought dye to my own head. She was negotiating to save my follicles. She refused to let me be a suicide blonde. I would not dye by my own hand.

In the end, I told her it was nice. I paid my $$$ money, and I left. It is unlikely that I will find time to go back in two weeks. But I will see her again in 8 when it's time to hide the gray. In reality, the salon isn't all about the hair. It's about having 2 hours of someone pampering you and laughing at your stupid stories and looking at your cell pjone pictures and telling you that your hair is not falling out. It's about having someone surprise you with a 15 minute massage without bitching the whole time, even if you have to pay for it.

I am back in my home, and my reality. And as I rushed my not fully awake from a nightmare hysterical 4 year old into the bathroom after noticing that he had pulled his Jammie's down and was about to pee on my bed thinking it was the toilet, I caught a flash in the mirror. Look at that, a hint of blonde.

Feedback, the good the bad and the ugly

Feedback. How do you define that word? I have become mentally conditioned to expect all feedback to be bad. Some people call it constructive criticism. I define constructive criticism as character assassination. It is a phrase that someone can use as a "get out of jail free card" to insult you and tell you what they think sucks about you. And because they said "constructive", you are expected to smile and say "THANK YOU (sir, may I have another?)" So, you may get the feeling that I do not take feedback well. You are CORRECT! Good for you. I always knew you were smart!

In this age of self awareness, I am completely aware that I take feedback poorly. You might be telling me something that could legitimately help, but what I hear is some combination of "you're fat ugly dumb lazy worthless unlikeable and wrong.". Now what the heck kind of f'd up childhood did I have to make this happen? I had a great childhood with great Parents who loved me very much. I was a fat kid though. And one who I would not describe as very pretty. That fed a lot into my need for positive reinforcement, for fitting in, for being liked. I absolutely needed reassurance throughout my life that I was pretty enough, fun enough, accepted. And in many ways, I still need that. When I receive negative feedback, I take it personally and I shut down.

But you know what? If you say something nice? I thrive and I try even harder to be deserving of that compliment. Don't get me wrong, the praise needs to be genuine. I can smell bullshit a mile away (unless it is my own kids spinning the tale). For me, much of the pat on the back makes the work worthwhile and it will determine the effort level for the next challenge.

I am not someone who can look myself in the eye in the mirror and say "I'm good enough, I'm strong enough and doggone it, People like me." I rely on others to do that for me. Although on occassion, I will admit to announcing to my husband "oh by the way I look very nice tonight." He thinks its okay if he notices this at some point before he is snoring. I think if he doesn't say it in the first 10 minutes, then he isn't feeling it.

And I don't make it all that easy on you. I want to fit in, but stand out. I am quirky and I like being unique. I am an attention whore. I have no problem making a fool out of myself in the middle of a crowded room if I think it will get a laugh. It is harder for me to get up in front of a room and lead a discussion, but I can pull that off without looking as nervous as I am. And at the end? I'm looking at every face to see if eyes are rolling or if people are smiling.

I've rambled long enough without seeming to have a point. Why am I writing this now? Because today I got a compliment that I endured 3 years of torturous feedback waiting for. I had heard so much about what was wrong with me that I shut down. It was as if this feedback-giver gained energy from bringing me down. And while the source of the kudos is not the same as the source of the feedback, it was one of the most satisfying professional moments in years. And it makes me want to do even better. So I end tonight on a good note, feeling reassured that I am smart enough, good enough, and that doggone it, people like me.

Spontaneous Plan Combustion

I used to pride myself on my spontanaeity. I was proud to be one who was willing to pick up and go at a moment's notice. Hell, I was the one who fielded a random phone call from Alpha Chi Rho one weeknight and said "yeah you should bring a keg and c'mon over!". Sadly that led to me having to stand on a bench to look a future NFL'er in the eye and tell him that I had learned just moments ago that my sorority house had some ridiculous rules about NOT being able to host a party and blah blah blah.

As my life evolved, pets, jobs and babies led to a depressing decrease in my spontanaeity. Sometime around the day after my engagement I became a planner. Hard core in that if I planned something and it didn't go my way, I would become a little crazy. I don't think I was a Bridezilla, though I guess my bridesmaids are the one to ask about that. I do recall a very silent New Year's Eve dinner with my fiancé. After I listed the 35 things that I had set up for the wedding, he asked one question. What crosswalk were he and his groomsmen going to reenact the Beatles' Abbey Road album cover for pictures? I had not worked it out yet but had told him that I thought there was a crosswalk at one of the places that we were getting photographs. He said something along the line of "well then I guess you haven't done that much after all.". I would expect that some of you ladies reading this can appreciate the blinding rage that I felt that moment. Anyway, I liked planning, because I generally liked the reward for good planning. "Best wedding next to my own." That made me feel like it was all worthwhile. And it made me want to plan more. I have a 19 page wedding spreadsheet which takes you from comparative pricing all the way through spa appointments and photo ordering. I offered my services up to friends who don't love planning events, but unfortunately most of my finds like to plan their own wedding...selfish :-)

This week I planned my oldest son's 8th birthday party. I took off the day of his birthday and the day after so I could get the house ready for the weekend. I planned out nearly every second of the next 3 days. The day of his birthday worked out mostly as planned. Take him to school along with school allowed "healthy" muffins. If chocolate chips and chocolate glaze are healthy, then so be it. I then did the grocery shopping in a virtually empty grocery store - ahhh paradise. I finished his family birthday cake and then started in on finishing my boy's video montage of his life in pictures. New software to me, so that threw my cleaning plan out the door as it sucked every second of the day until it was time to pick him up. My PLAN on getting him was for him to go to a rare Thursday karate class. But alas, my boy announced he did not want to go...he wanted to go to the park. You know what? The plan was out the window. I picked up his brother and we went to the park. The fact that Mommy, who is opposed to temperatures below 75, was taking them to their favorite park instead of Daddy had them in awe! It should have! It was 56 degrees in February, and that must have altered my brainwaves, because I was up for it. And I found when I got up and played around with them, I was warmer. We ended up discovering trails that I didn't even know existed. We had a BALL! A spontaneously unplanned ball!

Next change of plan was a restaurant change for dinner, but I recovered quickly and enjoyed it. At home he was elated by his presents and thought his cake was cool even if he didn't taste it because he was too full from dinner.

The next day was supposed to be 100% cleaning and set up for the party. But I went off plan pretty early. First, in response to my 4 year old's reaction to the 8 year old's video montage the night before(near tears, why aren't there pictures of meeeeeee?), I had a new montage to make. It only took 2 hours now that I "got" the software. And then? TJMaxx. Why? Because I had two gift cards and I wanted to!! And after that straight home, right? NO!!! Sushi for 1 please. Yummm. After that I was left with two hours of panic cleaning and set up before retrieving the boys, going to Wal-Mart for more folding chairs, and then to karate. After we got back, I spent the next FIVE hours sorting through every toy in the house and trying to both organize and purge all at the same time (without being caught doing the toy purging part). By bedtime I was exhausted, but it looked as good as it was going to.

The next morning I was Momzilla. "DO NOT PLAY WITH ANY MORE TOYS UNTIL YOUR PARTY IS OVER!!!!! NOW PUT THOSE ALL AWAY. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I CLEANED THIS ROOM!!!!!!". "NO, YOUR JEANS, NOT SWEATPANTS. YOU ARE NOT WEARING SWEATS TO YOUR PARTY!!" Yeah, I was not pleasant. By the time I picked up the cake a realized that they did it wrong, I was crying in my car and trying to figure out how to make it up to him while wondering if our Scheduled Mad Scientist was still going to be able to set off a rocket in our backyard with 50mph gusts of wind. Should I buy a piñata to make up for that if they can't?? Was the Scientist even coming? WHY HADN'T THEY CALLED TO CHECK IN?? I DID NOT KNOW HOW TO ENTERTAIN TWELVE 4 - 11 YEAR OLDS!! I HAD NOT PLANNED FOR THAT!!! The party started at noon and my plan was to feed them immediately. I planned for people being there a little late, so no worries there. I had NOT planned for my son to take 4 of his friends outside to play and start a good old February baseball game when he had guests still arriving and when I planned to feed them! But maybe the best part of the day came when I went outside to call them in for lunch. I watched my Husband pitching to the five boys and I heard them laughing and smiling and running. Who cares what I planned. THIS was what it was about. They came in, they ate and sang and watched the science show while driving the scientist a bit crazy. They laughed and yelled and my son launched a rocket in almost sideways wind. Their Parents got to watch too since he party ran about 40 minutes over plan. I couldn't have planned a better day.

In the end, I hope I look back at these 3 days and remember my lesson. Having a roadmap is important, but life just isn't as fun without the unplanned side trips. I have to go now, because my plan is to lay around and do nothing. The children are not on board with this plan yet, but I think I might override them. Final lesson learned? There is absolutely no reason to wear heels all day for an 8 year old's party, especially when it is in your own house. Ouch.

Bitch Slapped by Inspiration

OK, so I am very aware that I have neglected you recently. I apologize, but I will force my excuses upon you now... Strep, stomach flu, throat virus, other random virus, pneumonia...and 2 beautiful petri dishes I call my sons. During my abundant and constant, hypochondriac-like worry about them, I have not been inspired to write. Well today my kids reminded me STRONGLY that they are my constant inspiration.

Day 7 of pneumonia boy's "staycation." I'm working from home and trying to focus. He is feeling much better than yesterday when he was writhing in pain from some mystery leg pain that I thought was a clear sign of Prednisone poisoning but which may actually be tied to the virus that caused the pneumonia...or growing pains...eh, who knows, take your pick. He feels better than the day before that, when I ripped out his stomach lining by giving him all 4 gut eating meds simultaneously on a no longer full stomach. And, in general, he feels better, because he did not have the complexion of a vampire until around 7pm.

Let's go to the mall Mom. I'll bring a book.
No.
Please.
No.
Please??
No.
But...
No.
But pleaseeee?
No!!
WHY would You want to go to the mall?!?!
To get new clothes. And shoes. I am in the mood for new shoes.
You want new shoes? Show me you can tie a shoelace!
After 4 years of trying to get him to tie a shoelace, the kid did it in 5 minutes. Seriously?
So can we go to the mall? Just you and me?
No, I'm working.

Then it was time to pick up little bro. He came in with a vengeance. Within minutes a full fledged battle was waging and then the little one hit the big one with a curtain rod. Within 20 seconds of being in time out he starts crying about his throat. I look in horror thinking "noooooooo, not another illness!!!". No.

Mommy, a stick is stuck in my throatttttt!
You ATE a stick? In timeout?
Yes.
The stuff from the basket the (fake) tree is sitting in?
Yes. It won't go down!!
Drink some water (it was neither stick sized nor inflexible).
It's still there
Eat some bread. Did that work?
Yeah. Can I have more bread? Can I come out of time out?

Less than an hour later...
Pneumonia boy finds the blow torch like lighter and lights a candle on the table. Neat boy that he is, he wipes the soot from the bbq lighter on my 4 day old tablecloth. After dinner, where the little one wept openly at the thought of putting any piece of the tiny hill of mashed potatoes in his mouth, I told him he could blow out the candle. Just seconds later...

What the...did you PUT HOT WAX ON YOUR FACE???
No?
(long pause as he picks at a spot near his mouth)
Mommy, will you help me get the wax off my face?
It was relatively easy up until I had to get the glob off his eyelash, but he took it like a man.

Apparently the man decided that he deserved a drink.
I looked over a few minutes later upon hearing him cry and seeing him start ripping off his shirt (international symbol for I spilled something on myself and hate being wet).
oh, did you get yourself some juice? (please tell me it wasn't the one from the pantry hat I saw him eyeing earlier...it is)
Mmm-hmm
How's it taste?
Good
Oh, 'cause it expired in March of last year.

Cut to bedtime. After vehemently warning the little one that he better not stick his hand in the toilet and swish it around before brushing his teeth like last night, they began their bedtime routine.

The little one climbs in and out of bed as the oldest pulls a new (and by far my favorite) stalling tactic. He climbs on the chair behind me and begins rubbing my neglected back.

Does that feel good Mom?
Very.
So you still want me to go to bed?
Um, sort of, not as much.
SORT OF???

4 year old jumps back in bed to count.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 freakin' a hundred!

Conversation with back rubbing but totally innocent nearly 8 year old begins to sound disturbing...

Mom, you should take off your shirt, it would be easier.
(he means the 30 ply sweater that I am wearing over another shirt)
Do you like this mommy? You can moan if you like it so I know it feels good.
(Ewwwwwwwwwww!!!! Dearest God, please don't let anyone hear him say that and please don't ever let him remember he said that to his Mother when he is older and knows better).
No, I am not going to moan. Thank you for the back rub. Go to bed.
Really??? You want me to stop???
No, not really, can you scratch now?

So these are the gifts that my babies gave me today to remind me that they are (the meaning in my life. They're) my inspiration! How could I ever think I didn't have something to say? I have at least 1 2 3 freakin' a thousand things to say.

Whaddya Mean You Don't Want Mommy to Make Your Cake?!

I was reading my friend Jules' blog (A Little Bite of Life) and she was talking about the fact that her gourmet cooking has really spoiled her family and now she can't make normal food without complaints. Well I don't have that problem as I am often greeted with "I don't like that" when my 4 yo and sometimes 7 yo catch first sight of their dinner. Ironically half the time it is something they actually do like. Anyway, my point is that in general I make decent but not gourmet food.

That said, I spoil the heck out of them when it comes to their birthday cakes. This is a handed down tradition from my Mom who always custom made my birthday cakes. We aren't talking about your average cake either. She made a Barbie cake that stood up, a pair of Levi's cake, a guitar cake and even a Corvette cake!  For her it wasn't just for birthdays either.  She spent hours one Easter on a lamb cake.  As fate would have it, the lambs head was not interested in staying on the rest of the cake.  She tried endlessly to use icing and toothpicks to keep it on.  I will never forget that day when she said "Elizabeth?  Go out to the garage with your father!"  I questioned it and was told to Go.  I looked in the window on my way outside and watched my mother smash the living shit out of that cake.  That sure silenced the lamb!  I do not believe she ever made a lamb or Easter cake again.

I may have taken those for granted back then, but as a Mom, I can now appreciate the love behind each and every perfectly made frosting flower.  And I decided to make it a tradition for my kids as well.  I am not as interested in doing it the "right way" with all the special techniques and the icing that works best.  I like my shortcuts when it comes to using frosting from the can even if it doesn't quite work as well for decorating.  But I've done okay.  Over the years I have made a real looking stand up fish bowl with fish and everything, two ginormous castles that took 5 boxes of mix, Super Mario World-my first experience with fondant, Spongebob, Megamind, Cookie Monster and the Super Hero Squad Helicarrier. My kids either loved them or lied very well.

This is not to say that these cakes all came about smoothly.  The first castle cake I did was for my nearly 8 year old when he was turning 3.  I was pregnant with his baby brother and it took me something like 5 hours of on my feet time to complete.  It was by far the best one I ever did though.  2 or 3 years later he asked for that same cake again.  By now his little bro was diagnosed with an allergy to eggs.  So the castle was made with applesauce and mashed bananas as a substitute for eggs.  And let me tell you, they do not have the holding together power that cakes with eggs have.  I had to travel 30 minutes with that cake on my lap just hoping it wouldn't collapse before we got to his party.  It was held together in spots by icing.  But I beamed when other Mom's hosting parties at the bowling alley came over to check out this monstrosity.  And then there was Super Mario.  I have to say, I kicked some butt on that cake and had figures out of fondant that really looked like Mario and Yoshi and the mushroom bad guys.  I was elated.  I put it in the cardboard box to protect it and went to bed.  The next day I heard my Husband yelling at the little one.  I was like "WHAT would make him yell so much?"  pause...pause..."OH MY GOD THE CAKE!!!!"  I ran downstairs only to see the 3 year old's claw mark down the front of the cake which ripped off Mario's legs and eye.  I ran back upstairs to cry by myself.  My oldest came up to me that morning as I was weeping and said "Mom, LOOK at me.  We love it even if its ruined because you made it!"  That pretty much cemented the value of making them cakes, and it made me cry different tears.  Good thing too because later that day we drove 5 hours to a campsite where we were meeting up with our family for the birthday.  In that 5 hours, the back 1/4 of the cake pretty much dropped off the end like an avalanche.

So this year I asked my 7 yo what he wanted. And he told me he wanted his picture on the cake like his cousin had. He made it VERY clear that I was not supposed to try to do this myself with icing. I could pretend I'm not devastated, but I am. I mean he doesn't get the fact that I can't make that.  I could let it be the death of my tradition, but I won't. This year the kid will get two cakes because I'm stubborn and belligerent and I take great satisfaction out of spending hours on end swearing at inanimate baked goods that are not respecting my culinary authority by looking like what is in my head.  One cake will serve the immediate family on his actual birthday and the one he wants will be served to a couple of friends that are coming over that weekend. At least its my artwork he is asking for.  He wants the picture from the invitation I made to be on the cake...the one where I superimposed his head onto some other kid in a labcoat's body.  Hey, its something.

This is the eggless Super Mario disaster with caved in back side, claw marks, and one candle placed very intentionally in Mario's missing eye socket.

Epilogue...please tell me that the 4 year old did not just see the castle cake on this blog post and tell me he wants it for his birthday...eh, what the heck.  3rd time's a charm.

Potty Mouths Who Raise Babies, an Autobiography

Young readers, specifically those related to me, please stop here, turn around, and go find a nice blog about how to get into prestigious colleges on a full scholarship, learn how to make high grossing movies and take your Aunt/Mother (ME) to the Hollywood award shows.  Thank you.

I've tried to shelter all of you from it, but I have a potty mouth.  I swear like a sailor and I like it.  I don't like offending people with language, I just like the added boost of expression and emphasis that it provides.  For example:  "Move your car!"  does not nearly have nearly the impact that "Move your f'ing car you douchebag!" has.  Swearing is abundantly prevalent in society today.  I mean just consider the term MILF!  Let's face it, these are not Mom's I'd Like to Make Sweet Love Too.  Because if they were?  They'd be MILMSLTs, and that just doesn't make any sense.

I recall a great example of well used profanity when I was receiving a review from a manager about 17 years ago (that hurt to say).  My boss, who is like a second Father to me now, said "Liz, at times, needs to tailor her thoughts before expressing them."  I looked at him and smiled.  I responded..."So, what you saying, is that   PERHAPS (insert pompous uptight co-worker's name here) doesn't need to get F***ED so much as she needs to get LAID???"  He smiled and nodded his head at me.  Since this was the only negative thing he had to say and because he was right, I accepted that feedback happily.  At the same time I know my language was one of the things that endeared me to him and the rest of the guys in my department.  This was evident from the first meeting that I had with that group of gentlemen.  Something that was said in innocence CLEARLY set any one of them up for a dirty joke, but they all looked at me and then down at the table with smirks, their words unspoken.  I looked at all of them with a laugh and told them not to worry because they did not have to watch their f'ing mouths around me.  The relief in the room was palpable and I was one of the boys.

Fast forward several years and here I am, a MOM.  And my Mom never swore.  NEVER!  Until I was an adult and I learned that she actually had a somewhat filthy little mouth herself.  I tried very hard to keep the F word out of my vocabulary around the baby.  But somehow, repressing that word seemed to make others come out more frequently.  Dammit worked its way heavily into my vocabulary for some reason - but it wasn't as easy to use dammit as an adjective, so I developed an affinity for friggin' too.  Because no one can bitch if I say friggin'.

One day my beautiful 3 year old was playing and all of a sudden I hear him say DAMMIT.  What?  "WHAT did you just say???"  Little voice "Dammit, Mommy!"  "Why did you say that??"  "'Cause I hurt my hand."  Well, SHIT.  Now I was in a pickle.  I would have been okay if he had just said it out of the blue.  But he hadn't.  He used it appropriately in a sentence.  In hopes that my Husband would never hear of this, I tried bargaining with my 3 year old.  "Look, I won't say that anymore if you don't say that anymore, okay?"  "OK Mommy."  Later that day my Husband walks in looking at me in disgust.  "What?!"  "Do you know what our son just said?"  Friggin' of course I did, so I said "no, what?"  "He just said dammit!"  "Did he use it properly in a sentence?" "YES, he DID!"  "Oh, well then you better start watching your language around him!" I said with a grin.  He wasn't fooled.  We both knew it was me, all me.  I thought we were out of the woods until I was in the car later that year with my son and his baby brother.  We were second in line at a stoplight and the light changed to green.  A nanosecond after the light change I hear "MOVE YOUR F????ING CAR" emanating from the cute little boy in the cow patterned car seat behind me.  He is not yelling at me, but the guy in front of me.  Lucky for him because I would have kicked his a$$.  (Not really, but it sounded good).  I inquired pretty vehemently, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"  He had said move your friggin' car.  Now some of you may have been appalled by this too, but I was relieved and pretty much okay with it.

His little brother is 4 now and went through a mini Dammit stage, but I think this was more for getting a rise out of us.  Other than that, he has kept his mouth pretty clean.  Because "Whores" isn't technically swearing, and he only says it after he says the word "Star."  I'm usually laughing too hard and too busy posting it as my status to actually correct him.  I mean if he said it after he said "Crack" or "I'm going to see some" or "Mom, you and your friends are" then maybe I would be a little disturbed.

I'm trying to be a better person around them.  Sometimes its hard, like when they stand on my hand in their sneakers or headbutt me by accident in the cheek or jump off the chair onto my back when I'm not paying attention.  Actually, its those times that make me think they are going to grow up thinking that "MOTHERffffffff" is a curse word (the f in this case makes the sound of a deflating tire, and my face resembles a giant tomato monster shaking its head).  But hey, progress is progress.

So have I taught you anything today?  I did not think so.  So what the hell are you still here for?  Go update your f'n Face Book account or something.

Sensible Shoes - and Other Horrors

Sparkles and Jammies

I have never been someone that you would call "practical."  But I do go through my phases.  If I look back about 12 or 13 years, I would tell you that I probably had 10 pairs of shoes.  I don't know if its true or not, but it wasn't an extensive collection.  I remember a friend from work making fun of my "Witchy Poo" shoes.  I thought they were cool.  Black with a silver buckle.  Loafers with a couple inches of heel.  A little pilgrimy, but they were comfortable, matched a lot of my outfits and I wore them at least 4 times a week.

At this point nearly anyone who knows me now is laughing and saying "No Way!"  In fact my Husband would actually choke on those words and call me a liar.  Because you see, at this point in my life, I couldn't count my shoes if I tried.  If I did, then I'd have to admit I have a problem.  But deep down inside, I know that I am, in fact, a shoe 'ho.  I love them.  I can't pass a shoe rack without kicking off whatever I'm wearing and sliding my foot into the glass slipper.  And they are not practical shoes.  Not the leopard print or the neon pink or the red Christmas plaid or the purple with a silk bow or the royal blue spikes.  In fact, not even my sneakers are practical, because I was blessed to find a pair of Twinkle Toes for adults at the outlets.  Sparkly, Oooooh!

Most of my shoes are platforms with between 4 and 6" of heel on them.  Those are my work shoes, and no peanut gallery, I DO NOT work on the streets.  My intention was not to buy a lot of FMPs.  My intention was to have something in my wardrobe to attract attention away from my stomach, hips and a$$.  Because even when it is not fun to buy clothes?  It is STILL fun to buy SHOES.  Add that to the fact that 5 extra inches of height subtracts around 30 pounds (my own calculation), and its a win win.  And I liked win winning!

Really high and sometimes crazy heels have become a sort of trademark for me.  There are a couple of others who share that title with me, but some of the shoes I covet make even those friends turn up their nose.  Of course I still buy them, because who doesn't need a pair of toe-less fuchsia boots?  Duh, I do (thank you very much Kim Kardashian and ShoeDazzle)!!  A friend rates most of my shoes on the schwing scale.  Apparently my blister causing black patent leather 5 inch loafers rate highly on the schwing scale - though not quite as highly as do their identical red counterparts.  And I wear my hot shoes everywhere.  I once spent 6-1/2 hours in 4-1/2 inch heels at the mall.  I had saved my favorite store for last and by the time I got there, I couldn't have run out of there if it was on fire.

Now that you possess this knowledge, I will share a secret with you.  It is upsetting, and scary, and when I think of it too much, I almost tear up.  Yesterday I bought a pair of sensible shoes.  They are more sensible than my Pilgrim Witchy Poos.  They don't have a SINGLE sequin on them.  THEY WERE ON DISPLAY NEXT TO NURSE SHOES FOR PETE'S SAKE!!!  And?  They are...comfortable.  I KNOW, it makes me SICK.  I don't think I can wear them to work or to any social events or to the mall. I just can't.  But I'm pretty sure that I can use them to grocery shop.  Maybe.  If I go a few towns over...where no one recognizes me.  If you see me?  Please just look away.