I have an announcement to make:
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Summer Slacker Girl has left the building.
And let me tell you how I have come to this conclusion:
- I am at this very moment wearing socks.
- I’m looking forward to cleaning the living room tonight because it makes me insane to sit in there and stare at Esteban’s garment bag on the sofa and Tilly’s little cat paw prints in the dust on the bottom shelf of the entertainment center. Insane!
- I have begun to fantasize about neatly organized sock drawers, rather than a random Sock Lottery basket where I put all of the loose socks.
- Just this afternoon, I thought to myself “I should buy a separate scrapbook to put my England pictures in” even though I am a year behind on my current scrapbooks and have an empty leather one to do my wedding pictures.
- I have also decided that I must engage upon a JournalCon craft project so that I have swag to give away. I was going to do temporary tattoos of Chubby Tink and the Weetabix truck, but that seemed too hard. Then I was going to decopage blank yoyos with the Chubby Tink or Weetabix truck and possibly some complementary green or yellow glitter and the url, but that seemed even harder than making temporary tattoos. So now, I’ve got a new idea and have to bring it to fruition. And it will be fun. I’m excited. Far more excited than I have any right to be.
- I started thinking about genealogy this morning. Specifically, taking my digital camera to a cemetary and snapping pictures of all the graves and then putting them up on the local genealogy site for my county. Because, you know, I’m a big genealogy dork sometimes. And it’s not enough that I’ve taken my own family tree back beyond the damn Mayflower into Braveheart William Wallace time periods, no, I must go onward, branch out further, like boats against the current, ever borne ceaselessly into the past…. or something.
- Spending an evening in the pool now seems really boring.
- Not to mention… cold.
- It suddenly struck me at how heathen it was that we have only half a kitchen floor in our kitchen and have had only half a kitchen floor since April. And it pains me that I can’t go and special order my 50’s style floor tile until after JournalCon because I don’t want to be destitute.
- My graduate school information packet exploded, absolutely exploded, in the back seat of my car. And it’s driving me crazy.
- I actually thought about cleaning out our pantry yesterday. And I think I’m going to do it, too.
- The linen closet too.
- Both of them, actually.
I know. I’m completely horrified as well. I think I need some slacking therapy to offset this or I’m going to start handmaking my Christmas cards like I did last year. Because I want to be prepared. And now there are so many more of you that if I’m going to do another Christmas card exchange, I’m going to have to make a gazillion more cards. Gah! I’m trying not to think about it. I may hyperventilate.
Is it possible for someone to be brain dead and not even realize it?
Oh, wait, yes it is. Dubya is proof of that.
Seriously, though. I think I might actually have brain damage and should be hooked up to IV’s and tubes which ferry away my fluids and excrement quite tidily. Because that’s the only reason I can think of that I would have subjected myself to unnaturally hazardous footwear yesterday for no reason other than “they looked cute”.
Girls are dumb. Just in case you had forgotten. Girls are dumb and sometimes weird.
So my uncomfortable expensive and yet-got-for-cheap leather mules yesterday. I think I understand now what that whole foot binding thing is because I lived it yesterday. I mean, I had to psyche myself up every time I needed to go to the bathroom. “You can do it. It won’t be that bad. Think of how much better you’ll feel once you pee. Just think!” Every step needed to be slow and deliberate so that I wouldn’t pitch forward on the three inch heels. And then there was the mule issue. The backs of my feet kept slipping off the platform as the day went on. (Mules, for those of you who are not obsessed with footwear, are those shoes which look like shoes but they don’t have backs on them. Not to be confused with clogs, which are usually round and worn by lesbians, gardeners and scary men named Frank. That is not to say that lesbians do not wear mules. I happen to know that my best friend Mary Kaye owns several pairs of mules. Scary men named Frank might wear mules, but probably not.)
In the fifth grade, my mother allowed me to purchase a pair of red leather clogs with wooden bottoms that were all the rage in 1982. I wore them nearly every day, with outfits that did not necessarily lend themselves to red leather clogs. And then my Aunt Sharon asked Mo and I to fill the “Cute Little Girl” roles in her wedding. And somehow, through some crazy misguided fashion logic of my mother’s, I ended up wearing my red leather clogs with my knee length baby blue dress and white tights. I suspect that she just didn’t want to buy another pair of patent leather mary jane shoes. Imagine a wee Weetabix, clomping down the aisle to deliver the communion chalice. Imagine a wee Weetabix, clomping up the stairs in the naive to light the candles, so very proud of her red leather clogs. This is where adult children get their bitterness toward their mothers. Right there.
Carissa asked me to go to lunch with her and I almost said “Well, no thanks, as I plan to eat the three packets of saltines and the Wendy’s Chili Hot Sauce for lunch so that I don’t have to do any unnecessary walking.” Gah. Every step was planned and deliberate. I ended up walking with poise and elegance everywhere, instead of my normal goofy bubbly walk. My back started to ache because my butt was unnaturally thrust outward whenever I walked. Mo laughed at me, stating “I’ve never seen you walk in heels before”, thus inspiring confidence and grace with every step.
During my fifteen minute struggle to the peasant parking lot, during which I had an overwhelming urge to kick my shoes into the dumpster and then run to my car barefoot, past the entire building with its rows of windows, I decided that I’d never wear anything but sensible shoes ever again. I don’t care if I get mistaken for a senior citizen or a gym teacher. I don’t care if it means that I wear nothing but my Birkenstocks, my New Balances and my Doc Martens for the rest of my life. I’m just not going to stand it anymore.
I now understand why those little piggies went wee wee wee all the way home. Because someone stuffed them in mofo mules.
