Tuesday, September 28, 2010
It was bath time and The Kid had just finished taking a shower in her bathroom. She walked into my room with a towel on her head and another wrapped around her body. I'm puzzled because I know I have a jillion things flopping around in my head and things tend to get lost, but I know I didn't say, "Wash your hair, too." So, as I pondered this she said, "I need a towel." Again, puzzled. What? She already had two. Did she need a third as a jump rope? And because she's a mind reader she said, "I have water on my floor." Big whoop, I thought to myself. I told her to get another towel. She turned to walk away and paused. "Did you say to put the shower curtain on the outside when I take a shower?" (A previous conversation) I said, "No. Put it on the inside when you take a shower, outside when you take a bath."
I know you're thinking something smelled funky and I should have picked up on it. But, in my defense this was the same night I was terrorized by the swimsuits. So, I was occupied with throwing up, crying, texting my girlfriends, and coaxing my self-esteem from under the bed where it was shamelessly hiding with its tail between its legs. But, after a few minutes I kept hearing water sounds coming from her bathroom. Curiosity whispered--more like screamed--for me to check things out. I walked into her bathroom and found her frantically mopping up water with a paper towel.
I cocked my head to the side like a dog because this helps all my thoughts empty to one side of my brain and I think better. Actually, I just didn't know what else to do. My eyes spotted something orange in the tub. Her bathrug. What the H? I walked forward to get a better look and the water seized me and pulled me under to take me back to the Water Queen's lair. I could feel X-Mom clawing to get out and when she broke free we whirled to the surface. I back stroked past The Kid to reach the bedroom door and saw panic plastered on her face like measles.
Maybe it was the water sloshing around in my head or those damn swimsuits (their timing was grand, huh?), but I just could not wrap my head around what to do! I headed for the kitchen hoping a game plan was waiting beside the Lemon Joy. Nothing. My utility closet held a Swiffer, a broom, and a dustpan. Unless there were dust bunnies surfing in her bathroom I was screwed. I convinced X-Mom that maybe it wasn't that bad. So, I went back for a second look.
When, I reached the door The Kid had traded in the paper towel for a wash cloth. Not wanting to fall in again, I eased towards the tub and stepped in about a half-inch of water that pretty much covered the entire floor. So, it wasn't exactly the Water Queen's lair, but she had enough H20 to fill a friggin' kiddie pool! Again, I exited the bathroom in search for a plan. Or, a water noodle. I opened my linen closet to find neither, so I eyed my towels. Did I have enough? I needed a third look.
I went back and found The Kid pushing the Swiffer around. No cloth, just the naked Swiffer. She was just pretty much rearranging the water like some form of aquatic Feng Shui. Great. I took a deep breath and told her that wasn't going to get the water up. She left, taking the Swiffer with her, and didn't return. I sighed and pulled towels from her linen closet. I set the first towel down and the water ran away snickering as if the towel was "It." About three towels in I heard a little voice, "I made you a sandwich." I looked up to see a peace offering dressed up like a bologna and cheese sandwich hovering in the doorway. X-Mom weakened. I thanked her and told her to put it in the kitchen for me.
Six towels, three washcloths (The Kid), a bath rug, a paper towel, and a naked Swiffer later, the Water Queen was defeated and the kiddie pool was closed for the summer. Her shower curtain is now Super-Glued to the inside of her tub.
Stay tuned for the next adventures of X-Mom and The Kid...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
I found a cupcake of a deal online at Express on two bikinis, 8 bucks for each piece. Now, I’ve shared that I’ve been getting into shape. **insert cough** Okay, so not as religiously as I would like, but doing it still the same. I was really excited about the bikinis because they were for my upcoming honeymoon. I always, always look at the reviews of other shoppers for juicy tidbits and thankfully so. Several posts revealed the bottoms run small, so I ordered up a size.
They arrived and I greedily tore open the package to get my hands on them. Very cute. Until I tried them on. The string bikini bottoms were a large—yes, a large—and they covered half of my cheek! Okay, obviously some people like flashing their cheeks—um, some of us need to like this idea a little less than others—but, those bottoms exceeded my comfort level. If I had ordered my regular size, the only thing those bottoms would have seen was the crack of my ass. Because that's exactly where they would have been! I mean, they would be shrimpy on my kid. And she’s 7!
Now, it’s totally possible Petunia Prudepants has gotten into the control room on this, but WTF! Who is making these swimsuits? Granted, if Criss Angel walked behind me and performed an illusion trick that made by butt (throw the thighs in while we're at it!) look firm and airbrushed--then I’d flash my cheeks all day long. But, obviously this is not an option at this time. So, I’m going with the next choice, crying hysterically while returning them.
I was never an avid swimsuit shopper, but when I needed one it was never a problem. I grabbed what I wanted, end of story. Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard women rant and work themselves into a tizzy over swimsuit season, but I tuned it out. That was their situation, not mine. Hah! Time is one hell of a comedian.
And I don’t blame the swimsuits. Nope. Add 20,000 cheeseburgers, 1,200 bags of potato chips, 100 pints of ice cream, a jillion candy bars sprinkled with a few years and voila! Hello Miss Jigglebutt!
While my itty bitty bikini days may be temporarily behind me—hey, Denial told me I could hang out with her for as long as I wanted—my swimsuit years are not. I just have to regroup and shop for suits that offer full coverage. Of course, with designers using less and less fabric each year I’d probably have better luck finding Lucky the Leprechaun than scoring an ass friendly swimsuit.
But, hope springs eternal. Just like lipo.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
I’m in the fabric store perusing and my little clone asked could she go over to the next aisle to look at the ribbon. Sure, why not? “Don’t touch anything,” I informed her.
I’m totally engrossed when I hear a pitter-patter sound. A fast pitter-patter like someone was running in the aisle. My eyes never left the shelves and a few seconds later I heard it again. Someone’s kid was running up and down the aisle. I waited for the mom’s voice to tell the kid to stop. Nothing. I mean really. Don’t these moms know they shouldn’t let their kids run in the store? I came to the end of the aisle and nothing had tickled my fancy, so I decided to try the next aisle. I heard the kid running. Again.
What is it with these parents and their kids in the stores? It’s like the moment the kid passes through the sliding doors an invisible beam zaps him and boom, instant loco. I don’t see you running up and down the aisles, so why would you let your kid? Oh, right. He’s training to be a track star.
I turned the corner and heard the sound again. Sheesh. I rolled my eyes so hard it took a few minutes for them to come back down. And they rolled back just in time to see the kid come rushing around the corner. A kid of many talents, that one. Not only was he a track star but he was an illusionist, too! He made it appear as if the kid skidding to a stop in front of me was my kid! Damn, that kid was good.
Wow. I stood in awe for a few more seconds as reality eased in. Hold up. I stood frozen with shock trying desperately to understand. The loco kid running up and down the aisle was my loco kid, which by default made me the loco mom. I hate being the loco mom. Somehow “Don’t touch anything” translated to “Tear up and down the aisle like I just snatched you from the jungle.” Yeah, I can see how that could be confusing.
We locked eyes waiting for the other to make the first move. My eyes spotted something oozing on her leg. Blood. Somehow as she was putting the brakes on her Speedy Gonzales feet she grazed the shelf, cutting her leg. The room started spinning. Was I about to faint because of the blood? Possibly, I’m a tad squeamish, but that wasn’t it.
See, Reality had stopped at 7-11 for a Slurpee and was carjacked by Madness. So, the spinning was actually caused by my body whirling around like a blender making margaritas. I levitated towards the ceiling as blue flames shot out of my eyes. Madness had transformed me into X-Mom. She appears when there is a threat to the offspring. Or, when said offspring poses its own threat to mom’s sanity and total annihilation is essential. It’s all about balance.
I marched my flames and her blood out of the store. I fired off a round of “What is wrong with you?” followed by a few “You know better!” grenades while speeding home. As I approached our street I asked if there were any Band-Aids home. Of course not, because someone—not snitching or anything, but she was the one bleeding—decided the Band-Aids made perfect stickers.
I executed a perfect U-ey in the middle of the street—not only is X-Mom lethal but she possesses expert stunt driver skills—and raced to the nearest store. I grabbed peroxide and Band-Aids, multicolored ones. I could tell my Mom meter was returning to normal levels because X-Mom could care less about colorful Band-Aids, but Mommy understands a kid likes choices.
I downshifted into nurse mode—opting to go with Neosporin instead of peroxide to knock out the sting factor—and asked what color Band-Aid she wanted.
“Why were you running in the store?” I asked as I tore the paper off.
“I was trying to surprise you,” she said. Okay, what? I gave her a hug, mostly to buy some time to figure out that little puzzle. Nothing came to me so I told her not to do it again. She hopped off of the sink and disappeared into her room. I looked to the shower curtain to see if it could offer up an explanation to her answer because obviously I didn’t speak kid. It had nothing.
Great. Where is the frigging parent handbook?
Stay tuned for more adventures of X-Mom and The Kid...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!
(Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Flower Drum Song, "I Enjoy Being a Girl")
Outside of the obvious Little Red Corvette zooming in every month--that's agony all on its own--have you ever realized being a girl is tough? Just the junk we deal with to make it through the day is mind boggling.
For example, I wear heels. A lot. So, walking in them is a piece of cake for me. I feel tall and confident. And they put an extra oomph in my sway. But, the whole time I'm thinking, don't fall, please don't fall! It's a science we subject ourselves to just for that little extra dollop of sexiness. Not only do we have to avoid all the cracks in the sidewalk, but there are sidewalk grates, the space between the elevator door and the floor, man holes, and virtually anything a heel can slip through. Either of these could leave you belly flopping on the pavement or cursing at a broken heel.
Walking down stairs becomes just as precise as a tightrope act. And going up can be just as bad because sometimes the heel doesn't want to join the rest of your foot on the step. Somehow you find yourself sprawled at the bottom of the stairs with your underwear in the spotlight because your skirt is somewhere around your ears.
Now, it's possible to have a day without any stair or sidewalk incidents. So, you're happily strolling down the street making crunch-time decisions. Hmm...sushi or deli wrap for lunch? And a bus roars down the street with a blast of air riding its bumper. The air whooshes around you like a naughty boy on his bike with one thing on its mind. Lifting up your skirt. And while you're fighting to tame your skirt, which by now is hovering above your head like a cotton-blend halo, everyone within eyesight is gawking at your polka-dotted Betty Boop undies.
Then, there is the whole wrestling with the toilet liner thing. You pull it out of its little black box, ripping it of course, while tap dancing in the stall. You spread it out on the seat and wait a few seconds to make sure it's not going to slip in. You race to unsnap, unhook, pull up, and yank down because not only is your bladder dangerously approaching bursting level, but the liner decides it wants to take a swim. Dammit, you're not going to make it! You accelerate at Superman speed and come just short of peeing on the back of your underwear before plopping down. That cooling sensation you feel has nothing to do with a York Peppermint Patty. It's the feel of your naked cheeks kissing the toilet seat. Major ew.
Hmm...interesting...why do 3 of the scenarios involve your undies? Deserves some pondering. So does all the other crazy things we hack through in the Damsel Jungle. But, right now I have heels to repair, Betty Boop underwear to burn, and an ass to disinfect with Lysol.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Skirts skim butt cheeks and some shorts actually show the cheeks. It’s like we've all been inducted into the Raunch Society. Personally, I think there are only a few instances where such shortness is appropriate. The list includes, but is not limited to, strippers, hookers, singers, models, actresses, athletes, photo shoots, and costumes. (Mental Note: The fact that attire for strippers or hookers can be included in the same category as an athlete is...interesting)
Many of us are not in any of these categories. So, why do some designers feel the need to fill up the racks with this stuff? Or better yet, why do we buy them? Let’s face it. Some of us don’t need to be in such a hurry to show off legs that haven’t seen the gym since the 6th grade. And I certainly don’t want to make that observation while you’re bent over trying to grab fish sticks from the back of the grocery store freezer. Please spare me. I’m not showing mine, so don’t show me yours.
I know as women we always struggle with the whole too much/not enough skin thing. But, seriously some of the shorts/skirts out now are borderline, “Dude. WTF?” Again I ask. Is it me?
You know what? I think it really is me. I can remember in my early twenties I thought, the shorter the hotter. And I’m embarrassed to say, I have played Peek-A-Cheek before. We all have. And now that I think of it, short shorts/skirts have always been in stores and I haven’t been offended. So, this means only one thing. Ms. Petunia Prudepants has moved in.
Who let her in? It certainly wasn’t me. It could have been Sensibility. Although, I can’t picture her needing any help on the intimidation front. She is the intimidation front. Petunia is wedged somewhere between “Granny” and “Ew” on the P.Y.T. list. I’m sure Style Duchess would hang herself with a cashmere scarf before summoning Petunia in all her stuffy glory. And FBB? Really. So, that leaves Grown & Sexy. It could be a plot to gang up on P.Y.T. Those two are always going at it. But, I really can’t see that, either.
Maybe it was none of the above. It’s possible it wasn’t intentional. She could have come disguised as the Avon Lady or after a certain amount of birthdays maybe she automatically comes with the candles. I don’t know. I admit I am too old for the slut look, but I’m not old enough for prude.
The way I see it I have two choices. I can take Denial out for a spin, but she may want to pick up Delusional and I don’t have time to play with them right now. Or, I can play the perfect hostess to Petunia and bring her some lemonade. With vodka ice cubes.
Monday, July 26, 2010
This here body's gettin' old
Gonna whip it back into shape
Got lipo in the morning at eight!
I finished the 21 day bootcamp program on Saturday, so I'd figured I'd dish the skinny. After the first day my arms hissed at me like a rabid cat for 4 days straight. I was in pain! I've never felt such pain after working out. Then again, I've never done a jillion push ups either. My muscles from my shoulder to my elbow were wound tighter than a pair of Spanx. Every time I moved my arm I was afraid my fists were going to turn around and jab me in the face while singing, "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."
Of course, it was partly my fault because I started off thinking I was G.I. Jane and did push ups like the big boys. After about 10 of them I dropped to my knees like the girl I am. And that's how I did them for the rest of the program. I have no shame.
I was supposed to have gone to 11 classes, but I missed 2 because I had very pressing appointments--ahem, hair--to go to. I'm sorry, this weather and my hair are enemies. Seriously, is Earth going through a mid-life crisis? I could have sworn I lived on the East coast and not 3 feet from the equator. Anyway, if I don't keep up with my appointments my hair frizzes up like Simba. Besides not knowing all the words to Circle of Life, I'm not a raw meat type of chick. And it's just not cute, well maybe for Disney it is, but for me? Not so much.
But, this program works because after only 9 classes my six-pack is coming back. If I suck it in real tight and stand at precisely the right angle, it really looks like I'm working with something. And my thighs and arms are toner than what they were. But, my butt is still holding on to the back of my thighs for dear life. Even after 500 squats! Jeez, it needs to let it go.
I guess misery loves company because the thighs are still Dimple City, but there are a few less potholes on the street. So, more work needs to be done.
Sadly, I won't be able to continue the program--as much as I'd love to--because the price was just an introductory type thing. I would have to shell out like $78 more a month. Um, no thanks for 2 reasons. (1) It's cutting into my shoe fund and (2) it's cutting into my shoe fund. Really. Fall is coming and that means boots. Priorities, people.
So, my theory is that I can do the same bootcamp stuff on my own. I've made progress and I don't want to lose it. If I can get up at 5 a.m. and pay someone $52 to whip me into shape, I can do it myself. And expand my shoe portfolio. See? I win, the bod wins, and my closet wins.
My goal is to get back to G.I. Jane push ups. One-handed. Now, that's a tough chick. Okay. G.I. Jane may be a bit of a stretch for me being I'd wear stilettos with my fatigue pants. I'm more like Combat Barbie. But, I can live with that.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Of course “Crystal” can virtually mean anything on the Web and throwing “Blake” in the mix gives me 8,970,000 hits. Let me tell you, I have a pretty impressive resume. I’m a photographer, I sang vocals on Young MC’s “Bust a Move”, I’m a character in Stephen Bly’s books, and I’m someone’s “mummy” in the UK. Yeah…I’m a bad chick.
But, I had to be a little more specific if I wanted to find myself under the “author” fedora. I entered my name every way possible (Crystal Blake blog, Crystal Blake blogspot, crystal-blake.blogspot.com, Crystal Blake author, Crystal Blake Mighty Chicks, etc.) to see what came up and high-fived myself while laughing like the Wicked Witch of the West. But, I did it with great humility.
I’m taking my award—which is not so much of an award as it is a button—and pinning it to my shirt. The button looks a lot like a cut-out hot pink star glued to a safety pin, with the words “Google Me” written in silver. Hmm…I wonder who did that. **wink** Anyway, I’ll wear it with pride as I continue to leave my moxie dust—I’m not a pixie, so a girl has to improvise—across the Web.
Ooo, I’ve got to run…a waiter just walked by with a bottle of champagne for me. It has my name on it and everything! Wait. They spelled it wrong…eh, it happens.
So, a big thanks and smooches to you all!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Then, you catch your foot on the coffee table or the door. In my case it was the brake pedal of my car. Brake pedal…really? How is that possible? And of all toes it's the big one.
You instantly freeze because you’re afraid to look down. If the polish survived an attack like that it would be a miracle. Or, the polish was made from liquid armor.
You take a deep breath and slide your eyes down to take a peek. The polish is gone taking a chunk of the nail with it as a souvenir. You search for the broken piece to place it back on your toe. Why? Because sanity has taken a coffee break and it's the only thing you can manage at that point. You carefully match up the jagged edges to remember how fabulous your toes used to look.
You silently mourn your perfect pedi. You shed a tear for all the colors you already had in the line-up. The neon green you’ve psyched yourself up to try because you were too chicken before. There was that pretty blue that reminded you of Caribbean waters and of course the sexy candy apple red. All gone and never to return until next summer.
Then it hits you. You can clip the rest of the nail down close enough to the broken part! There’s still a chance! You immediately speed home.
As soon as you open your door you go into rescue mode and set up headquarters for Operation Pedi-Coat in the bathroom. You kick your shoes off to maximize balance and hike your foot up on the toilet. You pick up the clipper, take a deep breath, and say to the shower curtain, “I’m going in.”
You clip slivers off nice and gently because it’s vital to preserve as much of the polish as possible. It’s already looking better. You get so excited you almost topple over, but you quickly regain composure.
As you continue to clip it becomes painfully obvious you’re running out of nail. Your heart starts to race because you realize the nail broke off into the meat. Anymore clipping and not only is your toe going to jump up and jab you in the eye, but you’ll need stitches.
The nail salon is not going to be able to fix it either. Sadly, you realize the soldier could not be saved. Your only option is to wait for reinforcements—the nail growing back. But, there’s only one month left in the summer and your nail is not going to grow back in time. You’re pretty much screwed, so you’ll have to make do with the situation at hand.
You can (A) get a boring light color so the chip will be less obvious, (B) get a fake toenail, (C) stand with your toes curled under, or (D) wear closed toe shoes for the rest of the summer.
Let’s examine the choices. Okay, (C) is only reserved for gymnasts and gorillas. If you're not swinging from vines or back-flipping on a balance beam keep it moving. (B) is not exactly necessary because your situation is not that serious. It’s just the corner and not the entire nail. Plus, let’s be honest…it’s freaking weird. (D) is doable, but it’s hotter than a hooker's underwear outside and do you really want your feet kayaking around in a pool of sweat? So, (A) it is. Personally, I’m going with option (E), getting black polish so I can color in the missing piece with a Sharpie.
The things we women do to preserve our cuteness.
P.S.--I really hate that friggin' chipped toe...
Monday, July 19, 2010
That thong th thong thong thong
(Sisqo, "Thong Song")
How did it happen? For years we cruised through the decades never knowing something like that could exist. They crept quietly onto the tables and racks at stores. They hid in catalogues. Then, the moment came for them to reign in all their cheekless glory. The female jock strap, G-string, dental floss, sling shot. They created a new era. Welcome to Generation Thong.
Seriously, love 'em or hate 'em, we need them. I don't care what anyone says, panty lines are never ever cute! And hello if you get a wedgie it's everyone's business.
Somewhere over the past 12 years I've morphed into a full-fledged thonger. And proud of it. The process was gradual, though. It used to be I only wore them with tight pants or skirts. Now, I wear them with everything! Not a stretch since everything is tight now.
Honestly, I don't see how we ever made it without them. For those of you that feel as if something is stuck up your bum, I understand. But, there is a method. You have to get the ones with the skinniest string possible. And they have to be your right size. If you wear a large don't buy a small because that string will engage in tug of war and you'll be wearing your buttcrack as a belly ring by the end of the day. Painful.
I admit my opinion is probably a little biased. So, I figured I would give "underwear" another shot. I took a pair of regular Jane's for a walk one day just to see what I had been missing. And you know what? I'm really choked up about picking my ass all day.
I had on a dress and everything was fine. While I was home. As soon as I stepped outside the Jane's went spelunking. All day long they rooted around. I pulled one side out and the other marched in. A few times both sides went for it. I guess one side didn't want to be outdone by the other. And what were they looking for? Hieroglyphics on my colon wall?
I picked, pulled, shimmied, and wriggled to no avail. And you know there is no discreet way to pick a wedgie in public. It was one of the most uncomfortable things ever. Either, I've been wearing thongs for so long that I've forgotten the wedgie invasion or they got together the night before and lubed the inside of the Jane's with Crisco.
I was so disgusted I threw the Jane's across the room as soon as I got home, vowing to never wear them in public again.
"Hey. Don't blame us." They said. "We just wanted to see what it was like."
"What are you talking about?"
"Everyone wants a thong these days so we wanted to see what the fuss was about."
"But...your underwear. You're not designed to be a thong! You're supposed to be on the butt, not in it!"
"Just trying something new."
"Oh, yeah?" I said sarcastically. "What did you think?"
Jeez. Everyone wants to be something else.
Monday, July 12, 2010
It’s a catch 22
Cause the cure is found in you
I don’t want it but I do
You’re just like poison
My affliction, I’m addicted, I can't lie
Baby kiss me one more time before I die
He’s mysterious, strong, reliable, and sexy. I’m addicted to another man. Scratch that. I’m obsessed with another man. I can’t help it. From the moment he came on the scene, he got inside my head. It’s a dangerous thing.
I know his every move, I know what he smells like, and I know where he lives. But, he doesn’t know I exist. It will never come to be. See, we both belong to someone else. I have a great guy and he’s a figment of someone’s imagination.
Seriously. He’s a character from a series of books I’ve been devouring by Janet Evanovich. Freaking hilarious! The main character (Stephanie Plum) becomes a bounty hunter out of desperation at her cousin’s bail bond agency. And she is the worst bounty hunter ever!
If a gun-toting granny, a 250-lb hooker turned friend, and exploding cars don’t make you race to the bookstore…Ranger most certainly will.
Ahh…Ranger. Curse that Janet Evanovich for introducing me to him. He’s Cuban-American and once upon a time he was Special Forces. Now, he runs his own security agency and rescues Stephanie. He only wears black and Evanovich often describes his shirts as being “painted on.”
I can sum him up in one word. Yum!
I’m not in the least bit embarrassed by saying this, I STALK RANGER! I feverishly flip through the pages searching for his name. Before him I never did that to a book I liked. Reading ahead ruins the element of surprise for me, but in this case I have to get my fix.
Stephanie is caught between a seesaw relationship with her cop boyfriend (Morelli) and jumping Ranger. And she’s not the only one. Evanovich has created a fun rivalry—equipped with T-shirts—between her fans: Team Ranger and Team Morelli.
And you all know you want Ranger across your chest. Why? Because somewhere in this cosmic world it’s written that a girl shall lust after the bad boy.
Take my guy (Nick) for instance. He’s tall, sexy, and also rescues damsels. But, he lacks that one thing Ranger possesses. Eau de Bad Boy. I thought he was perfect. And he still is. For my first book.
But, Ranger has poisoned my mind. Obviously reality is an issue with us and nothing short of divine intervention is going to fix it. So, to ease my bad boy hunger, I’m going to have to create one of my very own. I’m not sure how or where he’s going to fit in, but he will.
He’ll be so kick ass delicious his pheromones will smell like cupcakes baking in the oven. And kvkt Liiromfndf wmd’t nr kkle oe rkliyz…Whoops! My eyes rolled back in my head at the sound of that. Sorry.
What I meant to say was even Sensibility won’t be able to resist him. Hmm. Light bulb!
Until I know where to put Future Bad Boy, he’s going to have to sit tight in the condo upstairs. You know how many “women” I have up there so it’s going to get ugly. They’re going to climb all over him like ants on a cookie crumb. So, I’ll need a security system. Like a Bad Boy Protection Program.
Hey, maybe Ranger could come over and install it. **wink**
And while all the gals—including Sensibility—are stuck to FBB’s windows like wallpaper I can sneak off to visit Christian Louboutin.
**Evil grin** Bad boys are good.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I own 6-inchers and 4-inchers. Platforms, flats, and Mary-Janes. Peep-toes and open-toes. All of these represent a fabulous shoe portfolio, but something is missing. Several somethings. Manolo, Choo, and Louboutin. They stand tall and emulate the three C's. Copy me, Crave me, and Covet me. They're the big dogs. Or, in this case the Big B's. **sigh** I heart Big B's.
My portfolio will not be complete until these are resting in my closet. My goal is to have one of each. Oh, who am I kidding? I want them all, in every color! And if by chance I actually slipped my piggies in a pair, I'm pretty sure I'd faint. But, that's okay because my feet would look damn sexy sprawled across the floor. Right now, all I can do is look. And drool.
The one thing that's stopping me from crossing the street to Big B Boulevard is something called a price tag. Sure, I could drop the hundreds--ahem, thousands--it costs to take them home. But, sensibility parachutes in every time and drags me away. Why don't I fight back?
Honestly? She's a little scary, that Sensibility. A presence that can't be ignored. And she's freakishly strong. Seriously. I think she's supernatural. Or either she bench presses SUV's.
She saves me from self-inflicted wounds like stupid and crazy. Good stuff. If I get the urge to drink caterpillar blood. But, not when it comes to the Big B's! I don't think she understands the magnitude of diversifying my shoe portfolio. How could she? The closest she's come to dolling up is camoflauge paint.
But, I'm a shoe broker...it's my job!
You know what? It's my money and my feet. I should be able to put anything I want on them. I don't need permission. Especially from someone who has never worn anything other than a combat boot! The next time she blocks me from buying a Jimmy Choo I'm going to stretch myself up to 5'3" and let her have it! I'm going to tell her she's not the CEO of my life, I am. And that means I'm the one running things. Not her!
And after I peel my face from her fist...I'm going to ask her if she'd consider letting me get them on sale.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I was in the store with my mom when it happened. I left her in the “Mom Section” and ventured out on my own. My shopping senses picked up a scent and my nose shot up in the air to take a whiff. I turned my head to the left and spotted a red and yellow sign.
70% Off. Hot damn!
I combed the first rack and right on the edge sat a black and white dress. I spotted the little pink sales sticker…$59.99 marked down to $17.99! Oh, be still my beating heart! Yeah, I'm a sale slut.
I snatched it up and held it at arm’s length to mentally scan my shoes and belts for possible matches. It was worth a try-on so I slung it over my arm and headed back to find mom.
“Oh, that’s really cute. Where did you get it?” She asked.
I pointed in the direction of the sales rack. “Over there where it says 70% off.”
“Where? Over here?” I moved my eyes slowly in the direction of her voice. My head joined in a few seconds later.
“Oh, I see it.” She said as she ran her hands along the clothes.
Was she looking for her size? No. Couldn’t be.
“That’s not my size.” She mumbled.
I heard the music from Psycho play over the loud speaker.
“Do you see my size?”
My brain ceased all functions and I moved on auto pilot towards her.
“I found one.” She said.
I screamed and passed out. Oh, wait. That only happened in my head.
“I’m going to try it on, too.”
Aw hell. A generator kicked in and jolted my brain. I needed a plan. Okay. After I put my head between my knees and gnawed my lip off, I was going to tell her it didn’t fit. Problem solved.
But my little 7-year-old clone followed me. She perched herself on the small seat and waited patiently. If I didn’t try that dress on she was going to snitch. Dammit! Bullied by my own kid.
I picked up the dress, wrestled it over my head, and tugged it down. It was hideous. Yes!
“I don’t like it!” I shouted over the wall.
“Me either!” She shouted back.
I zoomed out of the fitting area, jumped onto Denial, and rode it right out of the mall.
I rode along for a minute or two before Denial needed a tune-up. I spotted Flabbergasted and Discombobulated across the street. They had a full tank of gas and were headed to L.A., so I hitched a ride.
I love my mom dearly. But, she’s 68-years-old. She has her own style and I have mine. They don’t play well together and until that day had stayed in their own corners. Either they had watched Elmo and learned a lesson in sharing or something was wrong.
Had I really reached that point in my life? Impossible.
I rolled my eyes to the top of my head and looked around. P.Y.T. was trying on lip gloss and G&S was reading a book. I glanced over at Style Duchess. Yeah, I have one of those and some others I’m sure you’ll meet over time.
She had a sign on her door. “Gone to the spa xoxoxo,” it read.
That was it! She does that periodically and it’s cool because even she needs a break. When she’s on vacation I know not to go within twenty miles of a store. But, she snuck off without warning and I was tagged by a matronly dress. Obviously.
To save myself from myself, the next time I go shopping with my mom I'm burying my wallet in the yard and handcuffing my hands to my belt loops. I'm not taking any chances.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Time kidnapped me and dropped me off ten years later…
I didn’t give an explanation for this blog. This is for all the ladies, gals, and chicks who have found themselves between the between. We’re not 20, but we’re not 40. As a matter of fact you don’t know what age you are. If you’re like me you think you’re still in your twenties, but your birthday proves that was over 10 years ago. What happened?
Okay. Think of it this way. If we were food we would be the Mighty Kid’s Meal at McDonalds. Why did the King of Fries do this? Because they realized at some point kids feel a Happy Meal is babyish, but a Big Mac is too much. And they still want a toy!
This is us. Mighty Chicks. Wedged between P.Y.T. and Grown & Sexy, but we still want to play. We’re young, but not that young. And we’re not old, either. We’re Bi-Youthful. Our bodies are betraying us; we have two gray hairs, and we still have zits. We’re constantly in a tug-of-war with P.Y.T and G&S. And let’s face it. Sometimes it sucks!
Like you sashay into Forever 21—don’t act like I’m the only one—to check out what’s new. You wander around and you spot a hot little—and I mean little, but that’s a blog for another day—dress. You eye it. You touch it. You want it. This is what happens.
“Oh my God, that is so cute.” P.Y.T. says as she reaches for it.
“Are you freaking crazy? She can’t wear that?” G&S screams.
Something hits a nerve and you immediately roll your eyes to the top of your head to confront her.
“What do you mean I can’t wear that? Says who?”
“Your boobs. They’re kissing your navel and you can’t wear a bra with that dress.”
“Excuse me.” You snap back. “But, my boobs are not at my navel.” Okay. So, they’re at your ribs, but jeez! That’s not your navel.
“Don’t listen to her. She didn’t take her Bean-O this morning.” P.Y.T. tells me.
“Yeah, and you didn’t take your Flintstones.” G&S shoves her.
You leave them to killing each other and move to the next rack. But, P.Y.T is a sneaky little thing and somehow the dress ends up in the fitting room with you. You try it on anyway and guess what? It looks like crap.
It’s actually a reasonable length, stopping below mid thigh. But unfortunately the only toned part of your leg is a millimeter above your knee. And wait a minute…something’s not right with your hips. The fabric is bunched, so you smooth it out. What the hell? That’s not fabric, that’s extra meat!
Your self-esteem slips a few notches because you realize your body has gone soft and you’ve got to whip it back in shape. It’s new territory. Before, you were a P.Y.T. Your body had snap-back. Now, you’re at the part where you’ve got to work to keep what you’ve got. You tell yourself you’re going to exercise, eat healthy, and moisturize.
And what do you do? You head to Baskin Robbins.
So, to all my Mighty Chicks out there who have veggie hearts and ice cream thighs...I hear you.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
"Tell me about it. I tried to do a cartwheel the other day, just to see if I still could, and I felt gravity pulling me to the ground."
She looked at me. "That wasn't gravity. That was your ass."
Okay, seriously. I've been bodyjacked. I'm not sure how or when it happened but some twenty-year-old stole my six-pack abs, my toned legs, and my firm butt. I looked in the mirror one day and for the first time I didn't like what I saw. PC term: Cellulite. Real girl term: Big Dipper Dimples. Because that's what they look like when you connect them. And for $1 they'll jiggle.
Anyway, while my real body is AWOL I'll have to shape up what I've got. Fun. My first step in de-jiggling was going to a 21-day bootcamp program this morning at 5:30 am. First thing that popped into my mind was a drill sergeant yelling at me in his gravelly voice to move my jelly ass and running me so hard my ovaries fell out.
But, Sergeant Satan had better things to do and a personal trainer was running Hell. We did strength training in timed intervals and I got a total body workout. How do I know? Because I could barely lift my leg to get in the car. The best I could do was sort of roll into the driver's seat. And when I lifted my hand to put on mascara I swear I heard my arm call me the B-word.
Only 20 more days to go. Yay.
I'm going to push through it or die trying--a few times I think I did. In the end I'll be toner than tone. Firmer than firm. Tighter than tight. And most importantly my butt will have divorced my thighs and relocated to a condo up north.
So, to the bodyjacker...Keep the bod toots. I've moved on to greener pastures and firmer asses.