June 25, 2011
That's the Night That the Lights Went Out in Georgia
I live in a fairly affluent town. I'm not bragging; I'm just setting up the story here, so bear with me and don't go getting all huffy like I'm trying show off. With the way my hair has looked this week, I have no case for being uppity, but I'll get to that in a bit.
So, I live in a fairly affluent town. Granted, I live in the ghetto section with all one-story houses and small yards, but we pay some pretty hefty property taxes. Therefore, I DO NOT expect my property to be plunged into darkness every damn time the wind blows. And yet, it is, although usually briefly -- just long enough to make me have to reset all the damn clocks in the house.
On Tuesday morning, the weather people predicted severe thunderstorms and hail, to begin at 7:00 that evening. Well, it held off until 8:30, and then it KICKED US SQUARE IN THE NUTS. Luckily, I was able to hit Finish Order on Zappos.com before the lights started to flicker and my computer had a stroke. Because I need some grey sandals to go with the grey skirt that the automated, order-filling email-robot at J. Jill has assured me is on its way.
Anyhoo, the lights went off and on a few times... and then stayed off. And once the power outage hit the five minute mark, I knew we were in for the long haul. Immediately, I stopped beating myself up for being too lazy to go shopping after work, so my fridge wasn't full of soon-to-be-rotting groceries.
Husband got out the battery-powered transistor AM radio that he keeps around for just such ocassions, and the little man in the box told us to go in our basement because there was a tornado warning in our area. The up-side of that was that it's nice and cool in our basement, and with our A/C not on -- and with Husband's COMPLETE INABILITY to keep the back door closed -- it was rapidly getting quite warm and sticky in the house.
[Seriously! Why can't the man keep the damn door closed?! I told him TWICE! But no, he had to keep going out on the back porch to watch the storm, leaving the back door open to let the increasing humidity encroach on our disapating air conditioning. It's like he was deliberately trying to make me miserable! Pfft! See if I make him awesome meatloaf dinner again anytime soon!]
I wheedled away the time trying to send texts. From my basement. During a raging storm. With little success. But it kept me amused and from bludgeoning Husband to death with a flashlight.
Well, the storm raged itself out pretty quickly, and the rain was down to a drizzle, but the lights didn't come back on. Husband brought out the camping lantern (Can you believe we even own a fucking camping lantern?! Must've been a wedding gift or something.), and I was at a loss for what I could do by lantern light. It would have to be something I could do within three feet of the lantern and didn't require any technology. Suicide entered my mind as an option, but I changed my mind when I remembered that I had fudge in the house.
Then I remembered that, earlier that day, I had been sitting at my desk with my legs crossed like a man (ankle on knee), and I noticed that my brown leather sandals were looking dry and worn. Heavens to Betsy! That simply won't do!
I got out my shoes and my beeswax, and I slowly rubbed beeswax into the leather, restoring some of it original luster. Do you believe that shit? Waxing my shoes by lantern light! Practically darning my socks by the fire! I'm a pioneer woman! Except not exactly like a pioneer woman because I got bored after finishing only one of the shoes and went to bed.
Bed sucked. No A/C. No fan. Ick, ick, ick. Husband stayed in the basement to keep an eye/ear on the sump pumps, so he was nice and cool. But that's too much like camping for me, and I'd already had enough faux-camping for one night. I set the alarm on my cell phone and proceeded to toss and turn and sweat. And it's a good thing I thought to set my phone, too, because by morning, the power still hadn't come back on.
You see where this is going. You know how I felt about primping and preparing in my dark, hot, electricity-deficient house. But I'm going to bitch about it anyway.
I took a cold shower, not because our water heater is electric, but because I was projectile sweating. Even after the shower. Oh, what joy. Love to sweat through my deodorant before even getting my bra on. Makes me feel so feminine. Needless to say, I put off getting dressed until the last possible moment, lest I needed to find a new outfit before I even got a chance to brush my teeth.
But my biggest worry was, of course, my hair. In world where power tools are necessary to achieve the bangs perfection set forth by Xena and Gabrielle, the thought of appearing in public without the use of either hairdryer or straightening iron chilled my soul.
The greeting I gave my co-workers on Wednesday morning was to sternly inform them NOT to look at my hair. Which is very drama-queen-ish and of course makes them immediately look at my hair to see what I'm trying to hide. But I had to address it, lest they think for a MOMENT that I had looked in the mirror that morning and thought, Awwww, yeah, baby -- THIS is the look I'm going for!
On the other hand, the wingy, wonky bangs at least distracted them from the fact that I wasn't wearing any eye shadow. I know -- can you believe I had the courage to leave the house? I should get a parade or a medal or something. At least a cookie.
I did manage to get some eyeliner and mascara on my eyelids, but mastering the subtlety of eye shadow requires better light than the stripes of orange coming through my blinds. Yes, my darlings, weep with me. I did my make-up by the light of the sunrise. Much like those women on the American frontier, having to get their eyeliner straight while being jostled around in the back of a covered wagon.
I just... I don't think I can talk about it anymore. Going to work with my hair in a wet ponytail, my bangs doing everything but lying perfectly flat. Entertaining my modern brain by lamp light. Showering in the dark.
Bottom line -- it was like camping in my own home. Camping. In my home.
*wimper* Hold me, Heather.
June 20, 2011
Danka but No Danka, Dansko
About my feet.
The good news is, unlike Heather, my body hasn't gone so far as to recognize three-inch heels as "the new normal," so I will not be forced to wear ungodly-high heels for the rest of my life. (Heather is, as far as I can tell, not even 100% human anymore because she has basically changed the DNA of her feet.)
The bad news is, my awesome, grown-up 2-1/2" heels are no longer even a sometimes-option. At least, not at my current Body Mass Index. Which is just as well, lest I return to the hobbling, wincing gimp that I had recently been.
So, yeah -- the even worse news is, I spent $300 on two pairs of work shoes that I can no longer wear. And THAT, my friends, has got me a bit pissy.
But the bottom line is good news -- my foot will heal. I have not done permanant damage. Dr. Hottie has assured me that I will not be dealing with foot pain for the rest of my life.
Recently, I've ordered about three boxes of four shoes each, mostly black sandals for work, and a couple silver sandals for the wedding. All 1-1/2" heel maximum.
There were these, by Naot:
I know they're a little Anne-of-Green-Gables, but I like that. And what I really like about them is that they actually have a back to them, so I wouldn't be making that flip-flop sound in the office, which I hate. I don't ever want my shoes to announce my presence -- I want my presence to announce my presence! Of all the black sandals I ordered, these were my favorite. Alas, they were too narrow.
Another pair by Naot:
I've come to understand that Naot is supposed to be Mecca for comfortable-yet-relatively-stylish shoes. And yet -- they leave me cold. They just don't carry wide sizes. You know, you'd think that a company making quality shoes would realize that feet come in different widths. They are made in Israel, so perhaps God's chosen people are all blessed with normal-sized feet?
Here's a pair by some hippie company, whose name escapes me:
They are the comfiest damn things I ever put on my feet. LITERALLY, like walking on pillows, and I know that's a cliché, but I'm not being paid to say it, so you know it's true. However, they are ugly as hell, so there's no way I'm wearing them.
These are by Aravon, which is apparently some non-gym-shoe line of New Balance, a brand that is apparently paying Dr. Hottie to mention them every time he sees me:
Clearly, they're too big. (And please ignore the sock-lines on my ankles.) They were pretty comfy, so I could have just ordered a size smaller. But something about their construction looks... cheap. Not cheap like Paris-Hilton-walk-of-shame, but cheap like I-got-these-at-Payless. The patent leather looks like pleather to me. Again, not wearing them!
[And this is the point where all the men go, "They all look alike! And why am I reading about sandals?!" Except for Marty, who's all, "I like the second pair best."]
Ah, my beloved Dansko:
I REALLYREALLYREALLY wanted these to be The Ones. They are adorable, and I already have two pairs of non-sandal Danskos -- one clog and one platform loafer. Alas, after wearing them around the house for twenty minutes, I had to admit that I just wouldn't be comfortable wearing them around work for eight hours. It's not that they were uncomfortable in any specific way, it's just that they didn't do anything for me, ya know? I feel like a traitor to my people, but I'm sending back the Danskos.
So here's the best of the bunch:
By Naturalizer. Yes, I am officially my grandmother. I might as well just be wearing white orthodics. Oh, I guess they're not hideous, but they're not as cute as I'd like them to be. *sigh*
Ah, well, the search goes on, thanks to the fact that the finalist pair cost half as much as any of the others, so I can afford to buy more. Ironic, no? Maybe I just don't have rich-bitch feet.
Also continuing is the search to find silver wedding shoes, now that I cannot wear my fabulous Ode to a Glamazon:
I never even tried them on. It would have been even more painful to say good-bye if they had fit well. Now, I can just pretend that we didn't work out, and fool myself that I didn't get dumped by the best shoes that ever happened to me.
Instead, I bought these:
They kinda remind me of the gold hostess slippers that Mommie Dearest used to wear in the 70s. However, I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing...
Anyhoo, I have a few more shoes to buy and try on, and probably return -- both black sandals and silver slippers -- before I call this quest fulfilled. I have a whole slew of goodies in my Zappos.com Favorites list. Never fear, I will keep you posted!
By the way, here is my hottie bitch sister, Billi, in her outfit for the wedding:
[Author's note: The pile of dirty clothes next to Billi are NOT hers; they are The Girl Child's.]
She texted me this photo and asked, of her shoes, "Too trampy for the wedding?"
So I lied and said, "No! They're awesome!"
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! I can't wait to be in the bathroom at the reception and overhear what the bridesmaids have to say about her!
Posted at 10:57 AM | Comments (3)June 15, 2011
Planter's Flashy-Something
So, yeah, I have plantar fasciitis and a teensy-weensy little heel spur. Adding to my disappointment is the fact that heel spurs do not, in fact, jingle-jangle-jingle. They are nothing like badass cowboy spurs, and I will not be slitting anyone's throat with them like Bill Paxton did in "Near Dark." Bummer.
Like many of those afflicted with painful ailments, I find myself asking the age-old question, "Why me?" Now, I know that, with things like lepresy or bad hair, there is rarely an answer, as those conditions are random. Terrible and debilitating, but random, so there's no use for you poorly-quaffed lepers to be torturing yourselves wondering.
Plantar fasciitis, however, does have tangible causes. They can vary from person to person, but you're gonna fall somewhere in the list of probable causes, trust me. I just happen to not agree with Dr. Hottie's claim that supporting my junk-in-the-trunk on too-high heels is the real reason.
After all, there are plenty of women in this building alone, fatter than me, their ample asses teetering around on their stillettos, with no hint of a limp! Seriously! They're, like, balancing a watermelon on two toothpicks! It defies logic!
And so I am left asking, "Why me, Jeebus? WHY ME?!" I wear sunscreen, I gave fifty dollars to Habitat for humanity, I replace the box of baking soda in my fridge every month! I've done everything I'm supposed to do, so WHY have I been hobbled with this useless spur?!?!
Because God is smoting me, that's why. He's smoting me because I have defied His divine plan for me. I mean, clearly, with these shoulders, I was meant to be an amazon warrior or an olympic swimmer or a pioneer settler. Someone not unwilling to put her sturdy frame to good, practical use.
But nooOOOooo. I denied my true calling and became a blogger. As a result, God hath smote me with the athletics-related injuries that I would have had, had I not chosen the path of gluttonous sloth.
It's the only plausible explanation.
Posted at 02:54 PM | Comments (3)June 10, 2011
Probable Cause
Well, I've done it again. Hurt myself by doing practically nothing. Remember when I hurt my shin running across the street? And pinched a nerve in my neck carrying a tree branch to the curb? And sprained my ankle falling on the ice? And pulled a tendon in my wrist sitting at a computer too much? Not to mention the countless knots, kinks and pulled muscles in other various and sundry parts of my body. So much for aging gracefully! Fuck you, too, Father Time, you malicious turd!
Since I wasn't blogging in my early twenties, I have probably neglected to mention that I had several attacks of gout then. Yes, you heard me correctly. When I was a poor, young woman, I had the disease of rich, old men. See? I went right from my Awkward Phase into my Golden Years. My physical peak probably last about a minute and a half, and I slept through it.
So now, I have Plantar Fasciitis. "High body mass index" is code for "fat," in case you weren't aware. I have the disease of Fat Girl Wearing High Heels, essentially. I am so pissed. You guys, upon my epiphanies of, "Hey, expensive shoes are often worth the money for their comfort," and, "Hey, high heels are kinda awesome," I have recently spent about $500 on shoes. Five hundred dollars, I might add, on shoes that are now completely worthless to me because the heels are more than two inches high.
Obviously, in light of this recent development, I have rekindled my romance (albeit one-sided) with Dr. Hottie. Thank God I actually shaved my legs and painted my toes on Tuesday, in anticipation of the pedicure I thought I was going to have, before acute pain forced me to cancel my pedi in lieu of an appointment with Dr. Hottie. God forbid my chiropractor should see my hairy calves and naked toenails!
So here's the conversation we had, as I lay on the table with my foot in the air.
PW: I'm so sorry you have to touch a foot that's been inside a sock and shoe for nine hours.
Dr. Hottie: Don't worry about it. Does this hurt?
PW: No.
DH: How 'bout this?
PW: Nuh-uh.
DH: No? What about THIS?
PW: OWWWWWWW!
DH: *pfft* You're getting soft. You've been away too long. You used to not scream so much.
PW: You dug your thumb into the part I told you really hurts! DUH!
DH: So I'm thinking heel spur.
PW: WHAT?! No! I'm thinking plantar fasciitis.
DH: We'll take an x-ray and see what it says.
PW: It better not say heel spur!
DH: We'll see. So what happened?
PW: Well, I just got hired on as a real, regular, for-reals employee.
DH: That's great! Congratulations!
PW: Yeah, thanks. Anyhoo, my boss is, like, super-important, and I work on the floor with all the super-important people, so I stepped-up my wardrobe a bit. Which includes wearing heels every day.
DH: How high?
PW: Two and three-quarter inches.
DH: WHAT?!
PW: Yeah, plus I'm overweight, so I'm thinking possible cause.
DH: I'd say PROBABLE cause.
PW: Fine, whatever.
DH: Well, you can't wear high heels anymore.
PW: Dude, I just spent a ton of money of new shoes!
DH: I want you to wear a shoe that laces up.
PW: Oh, my God. Are you trying to kill me?
DH: Maybe orthodics.
PW: [fingers in ears] LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!
DH: Stop that.
PW: I'm forty-one! I'm not wearing lace-up shoes to work!
DH: How about just at home, and flats at work?
PW: How about just at home, and lower heels at work?
DH: Are you haggling with me?
PW: C'mon! I feel so grown-up in heels! And I'm, like, six feet tall at work! It's awesome!
At this point, he just started shaking his head in mock-disappointment, while silently counting in his head all the money he's going to make off his stupid, high-heel-wearing patient.
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (5)June 05, 2011
Thee Royal Wedding Outfit
I have finally pieced together my outfit -- after MONTHS of agonizing over what to wear -- for Older Step Daughter's impending nuptuals, taking place in July, one of the two most disgusting months that Mother Nature has yet to offer up, weather-wise. The other being August.
As you know, dressing-up is always a trial for me. I'm not naturally glamorous, and I have so many "body issues" as to make actual dresses laughable. A single piece of clothing that will fit my top, my middle AND my bottom?! Don't be ridiculous!
But this ocassion has served me up an extra helping of self-loathing, in a waffle cone with sprinkles, because the groom's family will be wearing gowns -- actual gowns -- and the bride's mother's family are all size twos. I happen to know that the mother of the bride is wearing a platinum, floor-length sheeth, which she will be rocking the shit out of. If there is a God, I will break my ankle before July.
Last month, as I was heading off to work, Husband said, "You look really nice. You should wear something like that to the wedding."
Well. He might as well have told me that Bruce Campbell is giving out lap dances because THAT is how estatic I was to hear that! Wear something that I'm comfortable in, like I'd wear every day? UNTHINKABLE! Dressing up means being uncomfortable and not breathing and foundation garmets from ankle to earlobe!
In truth, Husband was probably just weary of my sporatic sobbing. Lickety-split, I got on the J. Jill website and ordered me some pajama-formal-wear!
First, the skirt:
Ankle-length so it passes for formal; elastic waistband so I can have seconds at the dessert table! I know, you are dismayed because it looks so frumpy in the photo, but I will not be wearing it with a white t-shirt and ballet flats, so don't panic.
Next, the shell:
The fabric has a slight sheen to it, so it's dressier than, say, some tank you pulled off the Gap clearance rack. And my hair isn't stringy, so it will look much better on me. Added bonus: I have actual boobies to fill it out!
Then, the cover-up:
Damn right I'm wearing a cover-up in July! I am over forty, people -- these upper arms do NOT go out in public. Especially when there will be a hundred cameras present! Here's a better look at the sweater:
As you see, it's kinda lacey without being actual lace, so it's more feminine than your typical cardigan, and also, more breathable!
Oh, and I am fortunate enough to already have the perfect matching jewelry:
It's by Brighton. I get compliments whenever I wear it, so I think it's suitably eye-catching for the big event.
Now for the pièce de résistance -- THE SHOES:
These silver beauties are the things that will transcend the outfit from merely you-look-nice-today-and-should-wear-that-to-the-wedding, to my-shoes-are-more-fabulous-than-your-entire-floor-length-gown! I just hope I don't get mistaken for a drag queen. I hate it when that happens.
Posted at 05:07 PM | Comments (4)