I have a stiletto addiction. There, I said it. It’s quite pathetic, actually. Ice pick heels that are a minimum of 4” just make my day, especially if they are 9 West. I have no idea why…well, actually I do. See, I find stilettos, if you can walk in them; the most liberating and forgiving of all shoes. Here’s why:
Got a big butt? Not in stilettos you don’t! You’ve suddenly got small ankles and svelte calves. You’ve got an amazing talent for walking on the equivalent of a tightrope with bound toes. Ahhh, refreshing. Got Coach Bags under your eyes, all packed from one of your recent all-nighters? Not in stilettos…Trust me. Once you strap a fashionable pair of these slick puppies on, no one is looking at your face with anything other than dumbfounded admiration for the monumental feat you have just pulled off. Ears that stick out? A lazy eye? Having a bad hair day? Stilettos can fix ALL of that.
Now, I’ll admit that most of my stilettos don’t go with the rest of my “White trash active Mom” wardrobe. Sometimes, I’ll admit people stare strangely when I grocery shop in my stilettos. Hey, I’m just trying to relive a tiny bit of the good ole days and pretend to be June Cleaver. Nevermind that I’m not wearing a dress or pearls…my sweatpants and ratty t-shirt with bleach stains are the modern equivalent.
Now, now…I know what you are thinking – those things are uncomfortable. Well, so is my underwear, which proper etiquette dictates that I wear every day. I personally find stilettos to be very comfortable – so I’d normally say, “Suck it up!” But, in defense, I’m going to list a few of the reasons that stilettos are so wonderful; outside of keeping your tootsies dry in a rainstorm.
If you are being attacked, a stiletto can also serve as a weapon of self defense
Wearing stilettos can near immediately get you labeled as a bitch – which can also be a great self preservation mechanism for anyone who is easily walked upon my their acquaintances
When thrown with the proper velocity, a stiletto can knock down a kid who’s been wrongdoing, from about 20 paces (think boomerang here)
Strangely, your boobs are elevated to a new level where most men are nearly FORCED to actually look at your face for once.
Stilettos take mere moments to put on and take off…no more trying your laces
With much less surface area – it is much more difficult to actually get dog poop on your shoe
Stilettos can send a message – anything from “FU, I’m not interested in your silliness” to “I’d really like to FU” if worn properly
And never, ever forget…stilettos look totally hot with those sweatpants.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
I Got Bim Bam Banana Pops...Dixie Cups
Recently, I was reminded of a long passed (or so I thought) suburban phenomena…the ice cream man. Back in the days before there was CNN or the internet or unlimited txt plans to expose them – there was a lone kid, (I say this, imagining a late teen’d, early 20’d skater dude) who drove through our neighborhood selling wares from the back of his beat up pick-up truck. He came by just after dinner…and he drove slowly, as if a fisherman trolling for bass.
His little bell would ring, and you would have to run nearly half a block and amass a moderately sized mob to qualify to actually make him stop. All the while, screaming your fool head off, “Ice cream man…STOP! I have money!” oh, and wildly shaking your arms above your head as you ran. He’d finally stop, and then you handed him a pile of sweaty coins in hopes you had enough to buy a giant pink foot with a gumball toe (or, if you were my friend Amanda, you handed him your Monopoly Money and got handed, in return, your marching orders).
Either my perceptions have severely changed, or they’ve taken to giving ice cream man jobs to recently released pedophiles.
The ice cream man in my neighborhood makes ME scared to contemplate buying something from the back of his rusted out ’82 Datsun pick-up. I’ve also now taken to questioning whether I’d ever be able to live with myself for spending close to $20 for a family of 5 to sample what I could easily pick up from my local Wegs for about $3. My children have yet to learn what that strange bell ringing is at approx. 5:30pm WHILE we are eating dinner – Seriously?!? You can’t wait 1.5 hrs longer in the summer months to hit kids who already ate? …and that is coming from someone who is aware they feed their family pretty early, relatively speaking.
Instead, it is me who runs to the window or the door to see him casing out the ‘hood, and to decide who it is. I’ve started playing a game with myself. I’m coming up with new & creative names for each of the ice cream men I see (whether it is in my neighborhood or someone else’s). [as a side note – my husband has tried himself to name these men…and failed miserably].
In total, I’d like to say, “Let me introduce you to: “ but in actuality, that isn’t happening, b/c I doubt I’ll ever meet them myself, but here goes: scoping out kiddies on my block is Matt, Matt – could use a bath. The suburb one over from me across a mere bridge has Mitch, Mitch – the biker bitch who peddles there [in example – my husband named him ZZ Top. Creative, honey]. In my friend’s area on the east side of town is Randy, Randy – don’t you want some candy? And lastly, over by my work is Tim, Tim – I’m not sure he’s a him, who’s trying to seduce me with his(?) Nutty Buddy…
All in all, these charming and dashing gentlemen have ruined a treasured pastime that I had hoped to share with my children. Instead, they leave me feeling cold and empty with a slight suspicion of anyone driving slowly past my house. I just can’t care, no matter how alluring your Bomb Pop just might be.
His little bell would ring, and you would have to run nearly half a block and amass a moderately sized mob to qualify to actually make him stop. All the while, screaming your fool head off, “Ice cream man…STOP! I have money!” oh, and wildly shaking your arms above your head as you ran. He’d finally stop, and then you handed him a pile of sweaty coins in hopes you had enough to buy a giant pink foot with a gumball toe (or, if you were my friend Amanda, you handed him your Monopoly Money and got handed, in return, your marching orders).
Either my perceptions have severely changed, or they’ve taken to giving ice cream man jobs to recently released pedophiles.
The ice cream man in my neighborhood makes ME scared to contemplate buying something from the back of his rusted out ’82 Datsun pick-up. I’ve also now taken to questioning whether I’d ever be able to live with myself for spending close to $20 for a family of 5 to sample what I could easily pick up from my local Wegs for about $3. My children have yet to learn what that strange bell ringing is at approx. 5:30pm WHILE we are eating dinner – Seriously?!? You can’t wait 1.5 hrs longer in the summer months to hit kids who already ate? …and that is coming from someone who is aware they feed their family pretty early, relatively speaking.
Instead, it is me who runs to the window or the door to see him casing out the ‘hood, and to decide who it is. I’ve started playing a game with myself. I’m coming up with new & creative names for each of the ice cream men I see (whether it is in my neighborhood or someone else’s). [as a side note – my husband has tried himself to name these men…and failed miserably].
In total, I’d like to say, “Let me introduce you to: “ but in actuality, that isn’t happening, b/c I doubt I’ll ever meet them myself, but here goes: scoping out kiddies on my block is Matt, Matt – could use a bath. The suburb one over from me across a mere bridge has Mitch, Mitch – the biker bitch who peddles there [in example – my husband named him ZZ Top. Creative, honey]. In my friend’s area on the east side of town is Randy, Randy – don’t you want some candy? And lastly, over by my work is Tim, Tim – I’m not sure he’s a him, who’s trying to seduce me with his(?) Nutty Buddy…
All in all, these charming and dashing gentlemen have ruined a treasured pastime that I had hoped to share with my children. Instead, they leave me feeling cold and empty with a slight suspicion of anyone driving slowly past my house. I just can’t care, no matter how alluring your Bomb Pop just might be.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Snap Into a Slim Jim!
A few weeks ago, a legend from my childhood passed on. I took a brief second to reflect how Macho Man Randy Savage shaped much of my life. After that moment of contemplation, I took an additional three winks to thank God that I’m still alive.
I have two significantly older brothers. For a few years of my young life, these then teenage boys were given authority over me as “babysitters”. I think the proper term that would be used in 2011 would be terrorists, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on a technicality. My brothers, like most teenage boys, were fans of the ever growing in popularity WWF, in the 1980’s. They had their heroes. They emulated them…well, at least while “watching” me.
Countless times, I was the victim, no…test dummy…no, AHA! I was the excited participant in WWF wrestling bouts in my living room (sense my sarcasm oozing out yet?). My brothers practiced such moves as The Sleeper Hold, The Cobra Clutch, The Boston Crab AND the often imitated but never properly duplicated: Pile Driver. These boys were not professionals. They did not have a spring-loaded floor. Hell, they didn’t even wear ill fitting spandex…for some things; I guess I should be thankful.
I’ve been dropped kicked, pinned up against the “ropes” (usually that meant pinned between the couch & the wall), rug burned, Indian burned, eyes poked, hair pulled and mostly subdued into submission with threats of death or other violence. We had tag team matches with other neighboring kids…many older siblings got free range to beat the hell out of their younger and punier counterparts, who like me were always in tow.
So, in this brief moment of joyous meditation and introspection, I’m going to merely list the things that the Macho Man might have had an inadvertent hand in that has shaped who I am:
If you do it just right, you can head butt most anyone unconscious
Value a low center of gravity
One can clothes-line most any sized adult clear off their feet – see the above in list for additional tutelage
If you’re going to bite, do it with the side of your mouth, so they can’t put whatever it is you’re biting so far in as to gag you or render your biting useless
Spitting is the fastest way to turn someone else into the aggressor
Anything in a living room can be fixed with superglue, clear nail polish or wall putty
Chest hair can always be pulled to buy yourself 5 seconds when straits seem most dire
These fabulous things kept me safe on a college campus where guys outnumbered girls 7 : 1. They morphed me into a phenom. rugby player. Each earned me countless ounces of respect from potential suitors…and one, ONE most important one earned me the love and devotion of my now husband. Thank you, Randy Savage…Thank you.
I have two significantly older brothers. For a few years of my young life, these then teenage boys were given authority over me as “babysitters”. I think the proper term that would be used in 2011 would be terrorists, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on a technicality. My brothers, like most teenage boys, were fans of the ever growing in popularity WWF, in the 1980’s. They had their heroes. They emulated them…well, at least while “watching” me.
Countless times, I was the victim, no…test dummy…no, AHA! I was the excited participant in WWF wrestling bouts in my living room (sense my sarcasm oozing out yet?). My brothers practiced such moves as The Sleeper Hold, The Cobra Clutch, The Boston Crab AND the often imitated but never properly duplicated: Pile Driver. These boys were not professionals. They did not have a spring-loaded floor. Hell, they didn’t even wear ill fitting spandex…for some things; I guess I should be thankful.
I’ve been dropped kicked, pinned up against the “ropes” (usually that meant pinned between the couch & the wall), rug burned, Indian burned, eyes poked, hair pulled and mostly subdued into submission with threats of death or other violence. We had tag team matches with other neighboring kids…many older siblings got free range to beat the hell out of their younger and punier counterparts, who like me were always in tow.
So, in this brief moment of joyous meditation and introspection, I’m going to merely list the things that the Macho Man might have had an inadvertent hand in that has shaped who I am:
If you do it just right, you can head butt most anyone unconscious
Value a low center of gravity
One can clothes-line most any sized adult clear off their feet – see the above in list for additional tutelage
If you’re going to bite, do it with the side of your mouth, so they can’t put whatever it is you’re biting so far in as to gag you or render your biting useless
Spitting is the fastest way to turn someone else into the aggressor
Anything in a living room can be fixed with superglue, clear nail polish or wall putty
Chest hair can always be pulled to buy yourself 5 seconds when straits seem most dire
These fabulous things kept me safe on a college campus where guys outnumbered girls 7 : 1. They morphed me into a phenom. rugby player. Each earned me countless ounces of respect from potential suitors…and one, ONE most important one earned me the love and devotion of my now husband. Thank you, Randy Savage…Thank you.
Friday, July 8, 2011
You Dented The Siding!
So, recently, I tried to relive some good memories of my childhood. A favorite game of mine (growing up poor in the sticks, keep in mind) was Annie, Annie OVER! This game is simple enough. Split up into two teams. Kick a ball over your house and yell, “Annie, Annie OVER!”. The other team has to catch it w/o bouncing on the ground. If they do – GAME ON! …the chase begins around the house. The kickers have to get all the way back to their side w/o being hit, dodge-ball style, by the receivers. If you’re hit, you’re a part of the opposing team. If it bounces before the other team catches it, they kick…and so on, until there’s only one team standing.
My Dad’s house was a single story Ranch style. My house is a Cape Cod. Close enough. My dad had no trees in his yard. My house is surrounded by massive trees of all types & sizes. I quickly explain the game to my husband (by this point the 6 & 4 year olds are screaming with excitement to play). We look objectively at the house. We size up our scenario. There’s only one small window of playing opportunity…and it is a four foot width over our garage. Sad thing about this…there’s a retaining wall the opposite side of the garage, with a six foot drop. Of course I send my husband into the back yard, with my four-year-old son. Here is what ensues:
I scream, “Annie, Annie OVER!” I kick the ball. The ball hits our house, bounces off and onto the top of the garage. The ball springs off the garage roof and slams into the side of my neighbor’s house. Ooops. I tromp into their yard to snag my ball back. I yell again. Kick. The ball soars above the garage. I swear softly to myself. It is batted down by a pine tree. The ball bounds back to the driveway. My two-year-old claps and squeals, “Do it again, Mommy.” I now see my son leering at me from the breezeway into the backyard. I’ve begun mumbling to myself. My oldest tells me that this game is no fun. I kick again. This time the ball flies up, hits the roof, smashes into another tree branch, bounces off in pinball fashion into my house, back into the garage, into my kitchen window and lastly, blasts my baby in the head. She’s knocked clear to the ground. [Thank God they have an unnatural love for and wear their bicycle helmets all the time]
“IS THE BALL COMING OVER OR WHAT?!?”
I’m doubled over in laughter. The littlest attempts to kick it over the house. [my back still hurts from that one] Finally! I nail it and the ball courses over the roof perfectly. We wait. And wait…and wait. THERE THEY ARE! I scoop up the baby (she’s no good running on her own) and bolt around the garage. OMG! I’m hefting a near 35lb kid while trying to run my out of shape body around my house. I try not to stumble…last thing I want to do is fall, land on the kid, and have to explain to family & friends how the baby died: “Yeah, so we were playing this game you see…and I crushed her.” No good.
I’m running (a feat in and of itself), carrying the biggest two-year-old known to God, trying not to trip and fall when my daughter loudly announces, “Daddy’s coming Mommy! Go faster!” Are you kidding me???
“Cap’n, I’m givin’ her all I’ve got!”
“You’re so funny. I have to pee.” Well…that motivates me. Not wanting to take a dodge ball to the head or get peed on, I run for my life. I wind up back in my front yard, standing in the driveway, wishing for a sudden thunder storm and praying for death. Out of breath and thinking this is much harder when you’re 25 years older…my children scream and whoop and beg, “Let’s do that again!”
I look at my husband. [sigh] I yell, “Annie, Annie OVER!” and kick the ball into the garage door…
My Dad’s house was a single story Ranch style. My house is a Cape Cod. Close enough. My dad had no trees in his yard. My house is surrounded by massive trees of all types & sizes. I quickly explain the game to my husband (by this point the 6 & 4 year olds are screaming with excitement to play). We look objectively at the house. We size up our scenario. There’s only one small window of playing opportunity…and it is a four foot width over our garage. Sad thing about this…there’s a retaining wall the opposite side of the garage, with a six foot drop. Of course I send my husband into the back yard, with my four-year-old son. Here is what ensues:
I scream, “Annie, Annie OVER!” I kick the ball. The ball hits our house, bounces off and onto the top of the garage. The ball springs off the garage roof and slams into the side of my neighbor’s house. Ooops. I tromp into their yard to snag my ball back. I yell again. Kick. The ball soars above the garage. I swear softly to myself. It is batted down by a pine tree. The ball bounds back to the driveway. My two-year-old claps and squeals, “Do it again, Mommy.” I now see my son leering at me from the breezeway into the backyard. I’ve begun mumbling to myself. My oldest tells me that this game is no fun. I kick again. This time the ball flies up, hits the roof, smashes into another tree branch, bounces off in pinball fashion into my house, back into the garage, into my kitchen window and lastly, blasts my baby in the head. She’s knocked clear to the ground. [Thank God they have an unnatural love for and wear their bicycle helmets all the time]
“IS THE BALL COMING OVER OR WHAT?!?”
I’m doubled over in laughter. The littlest attempts to kick it over the house. [my back still hurts from that one] Finally! I nail it and the ball courses over the roof perfectly. We wait. And wait…and wait. THERE THEY ARE! I scoop up the baby (she’s no good running on her own) and bolt around the garage. OMG! I’m hefting a near 35lb kid while trying to run my out of shape body around my house. I try not to stumble…last thing I want to do is fall, land on the kid, and have to explain to family & friends how the baby died: “Yeah, so we were playing this game you see…and I crushed her.” No good.
I’m running (a feat in and of itself), carrying the biggest two-year-old known to God, trying not to trip and fall when my daughter loudly announces, “Daddy’s coming Mommy! Go faster!” Are you kidding me???
“Cap’n, I’m givin’ her all I’ve got!”
“You’re so funny. I have to pee.” Well…that motivates me. Not wanting to take a dodge ball to the head or get peed on, I run for my life. I wind up back in my front yard, standing in the driveway, wishing for a sudden thunder storm and praying for death. Out of breath and thinking this is much harder when you’re 25 years older…my children scream and whoop and beg, “Let’s do that again!”
I look at my husband. [sigh] I yell, “Annie, Annie OVER!” and kick the ball into the garage door…
Friday, July 1, 2011
Out Of Body Experience
Ever had one of those horrible flip out moments, where you just completely lose your mind…and strangely at the same time, you’re standing beside yourself utterly sane? Let me walk you through my most recent pointless meltdown. It all began simple enough. Needless to say, I must have been stressed up to my eyeballs for this monumental of a blow up over a herb. Mt. Kilimanjaro would have been envious.
Tonight for dinner, we’re having meatloaf, green beans and sour cream & chive mashed potatoes. Everything is done, except for the addition of the chives. I open the cupboard. A little voice in my head tells me to calm down. “There’s no chives?” I spin my Lazy Susan. “Where the hell are the CHIVES?!?!” I spin Susie again, this time with much more vehemence. I look at my husband [let me interject…right about now, I’ve stepped outside of myself. There are two of me in the kitchen. One a rampaging lunatic, the other the model of serenity.]
“DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY CHIVES ARE? I wouldn’t just NOT buy more if we were out!!!” [Insert my husband’s blank stare.] Lucid Me tells Psychotic Me to settle down…it’s just chives. Stupidly, I don’t like that bit of advice and proceed to slam shut the cupboard door with the same force as a category 5 hurricane. “Look what you just did, Over-reactor…now you have to clean up your spice rack.” Even the voice in my head has banded forces with the AWOL chives to conspire against me to thwart my charming dinner. At this point, since the onlookers are gawking, I decide to remove myself from the entire scenario. I stomp upstairs. Cursing loudly, smashing my foot into a misplaced toy, tripping over the desk chair, spilling a cup of water (somehow I also wound up with a paper cut) - I sit down. Even the cat is now peering at me.
“Really, Cat?!? You think YOU could do it better? YOU CAN’T MAKE SOUR CREAM & CHIVE MASHED POTATOES WITHOUT THE CHIVES….Otherwise, it’s mashed potatoes that taste funky.” Sensible Me sits down, puts an arm around Unstable Me, tsking all the while. Slowly, the two mes begin to merge back into one slightly more reliable marble-holder. I realize I just challenged my kitten into a cook-off. Laughingly, with self-degradation, I look at the cat once more, “Going to be a bitch to beat me without that opposable thumb.”
I get up to go back downstairs, ready to make my apologies to my family who is now sitting at the table. With an impish grin, my husband hands me the bowl of potatoes and says, “Want some? They’re good, but would be better with some chives….”
Tonight for dinner, we’re having meatloaf, green beans and sour cream & chive mashed potatoes. Everything is done, except for the addition of the chives. I open the cupboard. A little voice in my head tells me to calm down. “There’s no chives?” I spin my Lazy Susan. “Where the hell are the CHIVES?!?!” I spin Susie again, this time with much more vehemence. I look at my husband [let me interject…right about now, I’ve stepped outside of myself. There are two of me in the kitchen. One a rampaging lunatic, the other the model of serenity.]
“DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY CHIVES ARE? I wouldn’t just NOT buy more if we were out!!!” [Insert my husband’s blank stare.] Lucid Me tells Psychotic Me to settle down…it’s just chives. Stupidly, I don’t like that bit of advice and proceed to slam shut the cupboard door with the same force as a category 5 hurricane. “Look what you just did, Over-reactor…now you have to clean up your spice rack.” Even the voice in my head has banded forces with the AWOL chives to conspire against me to thwart my charming dinner. At this point, since the onlookers are gawking, I decide to remove myself from the entire scenario. I stomp upstairs. Cursing loudly, smashing my foot into a misplaced toy, tripping over the desk chair, spilling a cup of water (somehow I also wound up with a paper cut) - I sit down. Even the cat is now peering at me.
“Really, Cat?!? You think YOU could do it better? YOU CAN’T MAKE SOUR CREAM & CHIVE MASHED POTATOES WITHOUT THE CHIVES….Otherwise, it’s mashed potatoes that taste funky.” Sensible Me sits down, puts an arm around Unstable Me, tsking all the while. Slowly, the two mes begin to merge back into one slightly more reliable marble-holder. I realize I just challenged my kitten into a cook-off. Laughingly, with self-degradation, I look at the cat once more, “Going to be a bitch to beat me without that opposable thumb.”
I get up to go back downstairs, ready to make my apologies to my family who is now sitting at the table. With an impish grin, my husband hands me the bowl of potatoes and says, “Want some? They’re good, but would be better with some chives….”
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