girls and Shoes!

What is it about women and SHOES?

I could end this post right here and everyone would know exactly what I’m talking about. But I feel the need to elaborate.

See, the other day I went running errands—dragging my unwilling hubby along with me. He was okay going to the HobLob for baskets and other sundry foofie items to girl up our newly remodeled bath.  And he was okay going to Target for matching towels. And it was actually him who suggested we pop into the shoe store that was boasting a 50% off sale. (But here I think it was more his reluctance to pass up a bargain than his tolerance for shoes.)

So, while what I really needed was an upgraded pair of fancy flip flops, what I found myself curiously drawn to were these: 

  

And these:

Okay, maybe even something that looked like these: 

Now I ask you . . . are these flip flops? 

I think not. 

I tried on a pair, hobbled up and down the aisle a few times, wondering where in my shockingly simple style of living would I possibly wear them. This from a person who thinks “going out for the evening” means margaritas at Willies Ice House followed by a good movie. And could I possibly wear these shoes there and not be looked at askance? Of course I couldn't. Not that being looked at askance bothers me, mind you.

   

And yet, still I wanted these things! It was like some long smoldering shoe lust had suddenly manifested itself and come to a raging head within my feminine psyche. I felt an uncontrollable desire to possess me a pair of these ridiculous things regardless their lack of practicality and the high probability that they would sit in my closet, collecting dust until I eventually offer them up in a garage sale. (Can you tell that I’ve succumbed to shoe temptation before?)

And my wonderful husband? He goaded me on! “Oh, honey, those make your legs look great. And look at that perky butt. You have to get them. You just have to!”

   

I’m like, "fine… will you take me somewhere shoe-appropriate if I buy them? And if so, where?"

But he had no answer. See, my husband is just as comfortable at Willies in flat shoes as I am. Made me wonder if he was hoping I'd strut around the house in my perky butt shoes just for him.

   

I’m a little baffled by the whole experience. Even a little embarrassed. Not to mention infinitely happy they didn’t have them in my size! Else I would have impulse-bought my way into a pair of shoes I’d have to dust.

Breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

Living in a "project"

No . . . not the projects. Rather, a remodeling project that took roughly three times longer than was promised. I began thinking of it more as a lifestyle change than a remodel, what with boards and tarps covering the hall carpet. What with all my toiletries tucked away in various boxes and me living out of them for ten weeks. What with men climbing in and out of my drawers—wait, that doesn’t sound right—in and out of my cabinets all day long.

But it’s finally winding down. The cleaning crew just left, taking ten weeks of tile shavings, granite fumes and carpet dust with them. Okay . . . so there are no lights yet or knobs on the cabinets. And there’s no glass door on the shower. But all those things are on their way and should be here and installed by the end of the week. And then finally I’ll have some undistracted time to myself when I’m not either waiting for a crew of worker dudes to show up or sharing my space with them.

You’re probably thinking: “how spoiled can one suburbanite get?” To be remodeling a bath during these times of economic turmoil when I’m lucky to even have a bath to remodel? And I’d totally agree with you! What room do I have to complain? And the answer is . . . none.

None whatsoever.

So I’m not going to. I’m just going to share what it’s like to FINALLY have some peace and quiet in the sanctity I can call my own.

It sounds a little like this:

Ommm . . .

I kid you not! J  

P.S. Pictures to follow shortly.  

Dust Bunnies . . . where do they come from? what are they made of? and why won’t they go away!?

I admit I’m not the best housekeeper to walk the face of the earth. Maybe not even the state of Texas. Or the city of Houston. Or my subdivision. Probably not even this cul-de-sac.

I am, however, the best housekeeper of this house. Of that I can be proud.

Even so, I know my “skills” (which were never stellar) have waned over the years. Oh sure, there was a time when I was maniacal about a spotless house. But with the mellowing of age, came the shifting of priorities. I no longer have the time, energy or desire to polish stuff on a daily basis. Oh, did I say daily? More like weekly. And lately . . . monthly. 

Even that was put on hold when we decided to invest in a three week project to remodel our two baths. It didn’t make sense to clean when the worker dudes would be traipsing in and out all day, trashing everything in their wake. So, what meager housekeeping I used to do was ignored during the remodeling.

The promise of three weeks turned into five, then seven, then nine. Next week will mark the tenth week of our three week project and, while I have dusted and cleaned in the rest of the house, I’ve neglected the areas being worked on . . . and I had the dust bunnies to show for it!

I couldn’t believe how they’d taken advantage of my neglect. They were everywhere! And they’d grown . . . I had bunnies the size of my Boston Terriers! If I’d waited another day, they might have taken over the house. Then who'd be here to enjoy those new bathrooms? So this morning, even with the shower door and lighting due Monday, even with the cleaning crew coming on Tuesday, I just couldn’t take one more second! I had to break out the Bunnie Buster!

I’m left thinking that Dust Bunnies, whatever the heck they are, earned their name from their ability to breed like rabbits. And I’m eternally grateful for my Dyson with it’s amazing bunnie busting capabilities.

All clean . . . again J  

At least for a month. 

Or so.  

Those !@*& Worthless Piss Ants

Today’s blog is brought to you by the Pharaoh Ant, aka the sugar ant—or piss ants as my uncle used to call them. Specifically the ones roaming my kitchen cabinets this morning. I can't help but remember my uncle's joke where the kid is sitting on the sidewalk, using the lord’s name in vain and swearing at the uselessness of piss ants as he methodically squishes them one by one under his thumb. Along comes a priest (of course) and lectures the boy on how nothing in God’s good earth is useless. The kid’s answer is far from politically correct so I won’t share it here. Suffice to say that it’s that punch line that filters through my head whenever I get pharaoh ants in my house. This morning’s object of their teensy, little affection was the honey I keep tucked up in my spice cabinet, delicious on my morning oatmeal.

Now, I love our multi-legged friends as much as the next person. I even saved a cockroach the other day. Saved a cockroach! ME! I kid you not! He was outside scurrying along the sidewalk on some mission of utmost cockroach importance. My husband went to step on it but I stopped him . . . I mean -- what’s one more cockroach in a city where they outnumber us a gazillion to one? The key, though, is that the cockroach was outside, right where it belonged. Unlike those piss ants, crawling in and out of my spice cabinet, lusting after my honey. MY honey! I got stingy with those ants, thinking hey . . . get your own honey, this is mine! But then I realized . . . that’s sort of what they were doing.

Anyway, here’s my breakfast . . . the same one I have most mornings. Some fruit and steel-cut oatmeal drizzled in honey. And sometimes seasoned with teensy little piss ant bodies. 

Yoga and toes, Yoga and toes--they go together like toga and clothes

Well, okay, I don’t have a clue what that was all about. It's just that lately I’ve been getting the biggest darned kick out of myself and the things I say! Like the other day when I couldn’t stop laughing at how funny the word ‘DIRT’ sounded and how funny I sounded saying it! 

But dirt is not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about yoga. 

And toes. 

I know, I know . . . yoga is not about the concentration on one’s tarsals at inopportune moments. Yoga is about connecting mind, body and spirit. It’s about re-learning the fine art of breathing. About losing yourself in the flow of the practice. It’s about building muscle memory, about toning the body, about calming the monkey mind and exploring a path toward inner peace. It’s about focusing on one thing at a time—one breath, one thought, one pose. It’s about centering.

It’s not—definitely not—about toes. Or at least not exclusively.

So then why is it that I’m often distracted by the condition of my own toes? I’ll be forward folded into Utanasana and find myself thinking, Dang! How’d that middle toe get so darned crooked? Is that the one I broke kicking a rooster back when I was in middle school? Yeah, it must be that one.

Or, I’ll be in Down Dog, another toe-staring pose and think, Wow do I ever need a pedicure! 

Or, in Clam pose thinking, Hey, I didn’t know I had a freckle on the end of that middle toe!

Sometimes, while I’m teaching, I’ll vocalize my concerns. Mainly to see if anyone else is thinking the same thing I am. “Is it just me or does this pose over extend the toes?” Sometimes I’ll get a nod of agreement. A grunt or two. Maybe a giggle. But more often than not, it's just stone silence and I end up thinking, “yep… just me.”

Barbara, my friend and yoga mentor, asked me once whether my toes were changing as a result of yoga. So naturally (and since Barb and I are always barefooted when we’re together) I looked downward, toward the objects of our discussion. Sure enough, the darned things did seem different! They’d spread a little further apart as a result of their extensive use. And I can't help but wonder whether it was her comment that made me focus more attention on them. I keep wondering how much longer, more crooked, less groomed they’ll become over time. I keep wondering why on earth I’m even paying so much attention to them!

So, tell me, is there any more useless thing to call one’s attention to than toes? Have I just wasted two minutes of your life by asking you to read about my fixation on the things? Two minutes that you’ll never get back! If so, I’m sorry. But you have to think of me! Obsessed to the point where I’m actually writing about the darned things. 

I suppose this is where I say how much I really need to get a life. Okay, fine . . . you say it.