It seems like my shoe blog has been neglected for far too long and been replaced by my non-stop whining, numerous toxicities and pictures of my naked husband.  But no matter how poisonous I am, I have not been prevented from buying shoes.  (After all, when you find out your spirit is inhabiting a toxic dump heap of a body, you want to gussy it up a little.)

One of my favorite stores ever is Charlotte Russe.  I can’t believe that I had to wait 22 whole years of my life before I discovered it and it’s abundance of reasonably priced casual wear, shoes and accessories.  The store I go to even has a lovely retail-y scent that stays on the clothes after I take them home.  (Granted, this smell is probably caused by chemicals from the plant where a four-year-old Chinese child laborer spends 18 hours a day sewing buttons onto madras shorts, but…oh well!)  It is like an aphrodisiac. 

These are kind of Pucci scarf-inspired, ankle-wrap strappy sandals with a straw basketweave wedge heel.  And did I mention that they are orange?  Oh, no?  People, they are the most delightful shade of creamsicle orange.  I just want to lick them.  And maybe I have. 

So, apparently, I am a Mother Earth hippie.  I’ve been using some holistic, homeopathic remedies and treatments to detoxify my body and generally help me feel better.  I’ve been in so much pain lately, that I was desperate for any sort of help.  My mom found a holistic medicine practitioner in town and we started VIBE-ing and doing some ionic detoxifying foot baths. 

Ionic detox foot baths “work” by sending a small current that goes in a circuit through the body and generates positively charged ions. The high concentration of the ion field attaches to the negatively charged toxins, neutralizing them.  The body is then able to dump the toxins through the 2,000+ pores on the bottom of your feet.

Sounds like hooha, right?  Behold. 

This is my mom’s bath water after the prescribed 30 minutes of treatment.

Here is my water after the same amount of time.

If that ain’t a cesspool full of toxic free radicals, I don’t know what is.  I really wish I had more detailed pictures; that way you could actually see the sandy deposits that sank to the bottom of the tub. 

And now I can’t get the Doobie Brother’s “Black Water” out of my head. 

I am going on a diet.  Do I need to go on a diet?  No, not particularly.  But, my husband decided that since he is at war, he’d like to add another dimension of insanity and deprivation.  And, as we’ve all heard on here before, I do not let my husband do things better than I do.  So, I’m dieting with him; or, more precisely, I’m dieting to beat him.  No, I cannot even stand to be beaten at weight loss. 

I’ve never been on a diet really.  I consider my normal diet to be very good, very well-rounded.  And I exercise like a maniac.  But, in the name of experimentation, I’m trying the Body-for-Life program.  Weight-loss gurus are the most influential philosophers of the 21st century, I think: what, with all the preaching about mind-body connection and the idea that feeling good=looking good=doing good.  And I certainly buy into that philosophy. 

The thing I’ve noticed by reading Bill Phillips’ book though is that it is very preachy.  It’s full of fitness absolutisms and universalisms.  Essentially, it’s fluff.  But it’s supposed to be motivational fluff.  I don’t know…I think I know too much about becoming and staying healthy that Body-for-Life seems a little elementary.  But I’m trying it.  I’m a good sport. 

I’m only a few days in and the transition from “normal” eating to “dieting” has been really easy.  I’m also stoked about the less-is-more attitude about exercise that the program takes.  Instead of spending hours at the gym, I’m now down to hour.  And what will I do with all that extra time?  Dream about all the wine that I’m not allowed to drink.

My husband is very invested in the program.  He’s even taken pictures, which he’s sent to me to post on the Internet.  I love you, honey!  Now I’m going to let everyone see you in your undies. 

Don’t worry, he has a big youknowwhat to make up for his pencil eraser-sized nipples.  And aren’t those dog tags sexy?  Meow…

These are my dogs.  Yes, they are cute.  Yes, they are for sale to the highest bidder.  My life revolves around them. 

 

I do not purport to be a photographer.  I’m lucky if I can keep my finger out of the frame.  And, apparently, I think the closer to the object the lens is, the higher the artistic quality of the picture. 

My husband has been in Iraq now for 20 days.  In anticipation of his deployment, I was preparing to be constantly anxious, worried, on edge.  Surprisingly, the expected anxiety has yet to rear its distressing head.  I think this is mostly because I don’t know what Glen is doing.  Because his assignments are classified and he’s not at liberty to talk about the events that fill his days, I live under the assumption that he stays on the base and lifts weights and makes fart jokes with other guys. 

Obviously, this isn’t true, but I’ve maintained such a distance from the war that imagining the atrocities over there is like contemplating the universe; scary for awhile and then so overwhelming that you give up in search of something more tangible…like bacon.  My days are full of bacon. 

My main concern has been, now that he’s been gone for three weeks, that six months is a long-ass time.  I was treating this time frame like it was just a drop in the bucket.  (Don’t get all philosophical on me.  I understand that six months, in terms of LIFESPAN, is a drop in the bucket.)  But six months full of life by myself on my own seems startlingly incomprehensible.  Is the time moving quickly?  I’d say “yes”, for the most part.  However, there has been little pleasure and a lot of responsibility in the last few weeks.  There isn’t a profound sense of separation right now, but missing him weighs on me.   

I don’t want to make fun of my readers.

What am I say?  Of course I do. 

So, I just wanted to give a quick “Hello!” to the person who found my website using the inquiry, “Am I important?”. 

I think that’s just one of those questions that if you have to ask, the answer is “no”.  Sorry.

Now it’s time to tell you about my deep and abiding love of Frye boots.  I find all Frye styles sexy, timeless and appropriate to the cultural environment that I live in.  (That said, it feels like I still kick ass in Wyoming without having to wear “official” western boots.)  Where I come from, men find the minis and boots combo far more desirable than tasteful dresses and designer shoes.  Has that stopped me from wearing the latter?  Uh, no.  But if I want to go to the notorious Cowboy bar, I know what to wear in order to not get my hair pulled out by spur-wearing, chap-sporting cowgirl lesbians.  (God, please let someone find my blog by inquiring about chap-sporting cowgirl lesbians.)

Let me present the Frye Harness boots in antique gold. 

 Don’t let the color fool you (insert fools’ gold joke here), they are actually a gorgeous, rich browned butter shade.  And I’m wearing them right now with my husband’s jeans and a lumberjill button-up.  That’s what we call lingerie around these here parts. 

Like many of you, I was subjected to the kind of 9th-grade science class wherein we had to dissect pigs and cats.  From where the corpses came, I never asked.  But now, the age-old question is answered.

Website of Death

Browse.  Peruse.  Make sure to click on the Clearance section where organs and water animals are discounted!

So, my Aunt Flo is visiting. (Wink, wink, Aunt FLO, get it?  Ha!  Those crazy menstrual euphemisms.) 

(You know that I’m kidding right?  That I really don’t think that’s funny?  Okay.  Good.  Moving on.  )

I don’t know when tampon and maxi pad companies started using periods as some sort of super highway to female empowerment.  I understand that they’re trying to erase the taboo of talking about periods and also doing away with the menstruating bitch/shrew stereotype by pointing out that even cheerleaders and candy stripers have periods and it doesn’t stop THEM.  (I actually don’t recall a tampon commercial featuring cheerleaders or candy stripers.  I do recall many with women riding bikes, though.  Like, “Hey, ladies!  You can ride your bike now without desecrating the seat with your torrent of menstrual blood!”)  Okay, their point is that periods don’t have to make us miserable and with the help of Tampax we can turn into even better, more active, more attractive,  popular, class president ladies.  Periods, don’t stop us now!  I am woman; see me bleed.

But today when I was changing my tampon, I noticed that the wrapper had actual “inspirational” sayings printed on it.  I am directly quoting these:

“Push yourself to the limit.”

“Luck is a matter of believing.”

“Let ‘em have it.”

“You can do it.”

Does anyone else find this as mind boggling as I do?  I’m just afraid that I’m not getting the point.  What is Tampax inspiring me to do?  I’m sitting on a toilet inserting a blood collector into my vagina.  I’m not running a marathon here. 

I think my favorite is “let ‘em have it” because it is so open to interpretation.  “Hmmmm, let ‘em have it.  Wow, you know I’ve always wanted to plaster my supervisor’s car windshield with used tampons and now I’ve got not only permission but encouragement to do it.  Thanks Tampax!” 

I love menswear-inspired clothing.  Unfortunately, I think that in order to pull off wearing menswear-inspired pieces, you have to, well, look like a man.  Whereas, my body type can best be described by Nelly:

“Boo, as long as you a thicky, thicky, thick girl you know that it’s on / I peep something comin’ towards me up the dance floor / Sexy and real slow (Hey!) / Sayin’ she was peepin’ and “I dig the last video” / So when “Nelly, can we go?” How could I tell her no? / Her measurements were 36-25-34″*

*Grammatical corrections were undertaken for readability.

But I’m very tall.  The girl Nelly was looking for was a “shorty, hot, and horny”.  And just because I’m unclear about this whole “shorty” business (or “bidness” as they say in the “industry”), the only relevant description is that I’m a “thicky, thicky, thick girl” and my measurements are approximately the same as his hot and horny shorty’s. 

So instead of wearing trousers, I wear menswear-inspired shoes. 

Allow me to stun you.

Apt. 9 Lustrous peep-toe ankle boots.  I use these for crushing men’s skulls and egos (metaphorically). 

Because we hate life, we adopted another puppy.

Her name is Chloe.  And the first time I saw her dandruff-covered fur, I knew she was the dog for me.

Welcome to the family, kiddo.