Witchy Woman

Wouldn’t it be really cool to be Jeannie or Samantha, and be able to make stuff happen just by folding your arms and blinking, or twitching your nose? Twitch… and the kitchen is clean! Blink… and a gourmet dinner is on the table (served by a cabana boy) (or Cody). Abracadabra… and the dogs are all bathed and groomed, despite having just spent an hour in the Bog.

They sort of limited their possibilities, though, didn’t they? In their attempts to blend with middle-class society, they didn’t do anything really spectacular, such as conjure up a giant log a-frame house on a ten-acre northwoods island, which is totally the first thing I’d do. They didn’t transmogrify their enemies into leprosy-infested orangutans, either. Which I would also do. And I would laugh – but never cackle.

I never forget anybody who pisses me off, so those stupid cousins I met at Uncle Dewey’s funeral in 1972 and who made fun of me till I sat on the porch swing with my hat over my face crying would totally be swinging from tree branches, unless their leprosy-infested arms fell off. I’m sure I could arrange that, too, being a witch and all.

I would also put my boobs back up where they belong, eliminate my eye-baggage, and vanish about 15 pounds of leftover skin and stretch marks. And give myself green eyes.

But that’s the pop-culture idea of witchcraft. Real witchcraft, if you believe in it – and I sort of do – is a pagan religion, and it clearly specifies that you must do only good, because any dark magic you work will come back on you many times over. So if you go around making people’s limbs fall off, even if they absolutely deserve it, there’s a good chance you’re going to turn into a wart on a leprosy-infested orangutan’s ass.

It’s all about being in touch with, and channeling, the earth’s natural energies. If you do it with belief and respect and gratitude, the energies will assist you.

And while that’s all wonderful, I think I’d like to be a semi-fictional witch, because there are way more possibilities since you get to make them all up.

First of all, I want to be able to fly – without a broom, because I’m fairly certain that I do not own a broom. If I do, we are not on speaking terms, and there’s little chance it would allow me to straddle it and go zooming off. I’d probably have to buy it dinner first.

I also want to be able to levitate things, because it’s way too much effort to walk across the room and get stuff. I’d like to be able to blink up a hot tub on the deck, which would be invisible to the neighbors so they can’t see what I’m doing in there, then blink it away when I’m done, so I don’t ever have to clean it.

I need to be able to conjure up the perfect clothes out of thin air, too, because I hate to shop so much. Or do laundry.

It would also be handy to have the ability to make things spontaneously burst into flames, or at least be able to pop up a nice fireball to throw at specific people targets when needed.

This leads me to believe I had better have the power of healing, just in case I don’t have very good aim and accidentally incinerate the wrong person target.

It is extremely important that I be able to turn into a golden retriever, because they really know how to live. And they’re beautiful. And I want a tail.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that one of my ancestors, Samuel Sayre (Or Sayer. My sister will let me know if I’ve bungled that up too much), was actually a juror in some of the Salem Witch Trials. I fear that this may have burdened me with some bad metaphysical karma, and if it becomes widely known I might have a hard time finding anyone who will teach me any witchy skills. So don’t tell anybody.

And right this minute I’d love to be able to blink myself directly home from work, because it’s been snowing all day, and I suspect my 35-minute commute is going to take something in the neighborhood of an hour and a half. If I’m lucky.

What would you do if you were magic?

Sneaky Pseudo-Sale

I understand the plight of retailers these days; I really do. This does not mean that I am above taking delight in some of the deep discounts currently being offered, as they try to salvage something - or at least minimize their losses - following a dismal holiday season.




I've been planning to go to Coldwater Creek to buy a nice pants/shirt/jacket ensemble to wear to the "night before the wedding" dinner next month. You know, something of decent quality, sufficiently mature and dignified, but not totally abandoning my quirky style.


I looked through their catalog, and saw lots of possibilities, but I haven't bought enough of their clothes in the past to know what size to order. There's no way around it... I'll have to go to the actual store in an upscale shopping development that I normally avoid.





But they sent me a special 50% off coupon, good only on the website, so I thought maybe I'd take a look. That look revealed that the entire website is a 50% off sale, so now my coupon isn't feeling all that special.





I knew I wouldn't buy the outfit online, but they also have Spanx body shapers in their catalog. I've never owned a pair, but I've heard them praised far and wide for their amazing ability to shape the stubbornest bulges without leaving visible lines.





Yes, I'm on the thin side and not particularly bulgy... but after losing 130 pounds to become that way, I have a whole lot of extra skin hanging around. Literally. Without all that surplus blubber to cover, this skin apparently has nothing better to do all day than sag and jiggle. I'd prefer, in my exhaulted position as Mother of the Groom, not to look all saggy and jiggly in the wedding photos.





So what better idea than buying some Spanx online, 50% off, because even I can read the handy dandy size chart on the package?





Except? They're not on the website.





I utilized the "real time chat" feature, connecting with Customer Service Representative James. (Yeah, like his name is really James.) I inquired about the absence of Spanx on the website, and asked if they were only available through the catalog. James helpfully informed me that Spanx had been temporarily removed from the website for the duration of the current sale.





Huh? The thought of half-price Spanx, which were the only thing I really wanted, was too much for them to bear? A "half off everything" sale isn't really "half off EVERYTHING" if you take half of everything off the site, now, is it?





And there was one sweater that I would have bought online, too. An $80 sweater, for which I would have happily paid $40... except it only came in XS, XL and XXL. I, of course, would have ordered size S. Or maybe M. Which apparently do not exist. At least not on the website. But now, because of the whole Spanx Deception, I don't believe them. I think there are crates of size S sweaters sitting there, but they know they'll be able to move those at full price after their sale, but don't want to be stuck with some of the less-commonly purchased sizes.

I think perhaps "James" gave me a little too much information, because now I just feel like they're being sneaky. I do not approve of this. I am supposed to be the sneaky one, sneaking in and out again with a pair of Spanx for half price.

Plus, they sent me a half off coupon that I didn't even need, because the whole site was half off anyway. Maybe they should've saved all that postage and just sold me the Spanx.

Which I will now buy on eBay.

Blog Humbug?

There are eight or ten blogs I follow regularly. Or, more correctly, I would follow them if they would actually write something!

What is it with the holiday season? Do your computers all go to Seattle on some sort of cyber-pilgrimage? If they do, I am so dressing up like one of those giant 1961-era computers and going next year, because filthy-rich computer moguls probably throw a pretty good party. I could get away with not being able to acutally compute anything, because back then computers were basically just big boxes with lots of flashing lights.

I would like to point out that my updated posts have continued to appear, despite the fact that we are in the midst of "the holidays". I'm sure the fact that I don't really consider it much of a holiday had something to do with it, but still. I wrote.

And just so you know, I look exactly like this while blogging:

OK, OK, fine. It's probably more like this, but not in my head:

I managed to blog even though I had to work! I was off Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and that's it. Well, and today. And tomorrow. But I did work three entire days this week, which is way more than a lot of you. Or at least I was getting paid to work three entire days this week. The amount of actual work produced is considerably more vague.

(It occurs to me that the fact that I spent three days at my desk at work might have something to do with my consistent blog posts, but I'm going to ignore that hunch, because it's more fun the other way.)

I know, I know... people have "families," and "plans," and "get-togethers". Whatever. I could have all those things, too, if I wanted. My family and I have a mutual agreement to leave each other the hell alone, especially at this time of year, and plans and/or get-togethers reek of socialization, in which I prefer not to participate.

My selfless efforts on your behalf seem to have gone largely unappreciated, as my readership is way, way down. Do people suffer computer illiteracy for a two-week span in late December? I didn't have Fermented Fur at this time last year, so perhaps this is the case. I would have thought someone would have been nice enough to mention it before now, though.

(Side note: Birthday, January 6; First Blogiversary, January 13. Send money, because I ain't gettin' paid for this.)

(Also, January 10, first anniversary of the Gaping Bloody Head Wound, which may or may not be at least partially responsible for the founding of Fermented Fur. It did lead to my not drinking for over an entire month, though, which was interesting. If you haven't read that post, it's one of the originals, and you really should.)

There is one clear exception to the seasonal blog dysfunction - other than myself - and that is Jenny The Bloggess. Despite the fact that she has a husband and a four-year-old child, which I believe probably qualifies as "family", she has also continued to post, which is a damned good thing. Otherwise I would have been adrift in a blogless sea for who knows how long. And then there's no telling what I would have done to pass the time at work.

She even survived a recent trip to Disney World that involved poisoned clams and brushes with more child-borne diseases than we dare mention. And Mickey tried to kill her daughter. But she is writing.

I'm feeling a deep kinship with Jenny at the moment. Not only are we clearly the most dedicated bloggers on the planet, we also tend to get involved in bizarre workplace conversations. And by "get involved in," I mean "instigate". You know these sorts of conversations - the ones where you're not totally sure what it is about until it's over.

But mainly I'm feeling all kindred because we are both about to lose a finger, or possibly die.

And, because the universe totally works this way, in both cases it is an index finger.

She is suffering from an affliction that she is pretty sure is a cancer pinata in finger-form. I, on the other hand (ha!), sustained a deep, jaggy wound on the tip of my right index finger while trying unsuccessfully to stop a glass from tipping over on the kitchen counter and breaking. (Fail.)

1) Yes, it did happen to be a wine glass. How did you know?

2) Shut up.

Do you know how difficult it is to type with a giant, oozing wound on the tip of your right index finger? Or with a cancer pinata leaking unspeakable gunk and threatening to explode at any moment? Our efforts are monumentally heroic.

And we do it all for you.

Or, in my case, because I temporarily ran out of library books.

Pretty Pendant

Since Tom and I decided not to get individual gifts this year, and to go get a couch-type thing for the family room in the near future, I got one thing for Christmas. Fabulous Fiancee found an artist on Etsy that makes custom fused glass pendants, and she ordered me one with a portrait of my Ripley on it. It's from one of my favorite pictures of him, and it's so beautiful!

(The pendant)

(The original picture)

Thin Ice

I was going to write a whole post about a number of things I've always wanted to learn to do. Then I realized it was going to be a long list, because each one required significant explanation as to why I have not yet bothered to learn it. The fact that it usually boils down to one of two reasons should make it easier, but I still felt the need to justify my continued ignorance.

The two reasons are: 1) Lazy, and 2) Chicken

And sometimes a combination of the two.

Whenever I think about things I've always meant to learn how to do, the first thing that always pops up is ice skating. I have never had aspirations of Olympic glory, but I often dream of gliding around a pristine rink, so smoothly and so fast that it feels like flying.

I've lived in Minnesota for over 12 years now, and since large portions of the population seem to have evolved with retractable blades in the soles of their feet, you'd think I'd have made a point to at least touch a pair of skates... but I never have.

My excuses for not learning have changed a bit over the years. When I was a kid in West Virginia, there was only one place to skate in the entire area, and there was no way I was going to learn (translation: fall down a whole lot) in front of a million other kids who would point, laugh, and otherwise ridicule me. There was also the strong possibility of taking a skate to the head while lying in a tangled heap on the ice. This is not a good way to meet boys.

Later, I was busy being a mom... and morbidly obese, which is not a good characteristic to have if you are hoping to learn to ice skate. Go get a Butterball turkey. A nice big one. They might even be on sale now that the holidays are behind us. Then try to balance it on the edges of a couple of rulers. Every time one of those rulers slips off its edge and is crushed under the turkey, that's one of my ankles snapping. You can see my dilemma. Back then, my feet and ankles hurt all the time, due to lugging around an extra 130 pounds, and successfully maintaining vertical posture on ice skates without ending up in traction was highly unlikely.

Now, I'm mostly just lazy. I don't like physical activity. I don't like the cold. But I still want to learn to skate. I don't need to be able to spin, jump, or even skate backwards. I'd just like to be able to go around the rink at a reasonable speed and not break any of my body parts. I figure my window of opportunity to achieve this is rapidly diminishing, as I am getting older and more brittle by the second.

My hermit-like tendencies also get in the way. I don't know where, other than the city ice arena, I might be able to go. I will not take a "beginners" class with a bunch of five year olds (who would likely wet their Pull-Ups laughing at me as I repeatedly ended up on my middle-aged ass). Running over toddlers with the Zamboni is probably frowned upon.

Trying to learn on my own in the midst of a crowded open-skate session would be suicidal. I don't even know if the ice arena rents skates, and I don't want to call and ask. I am not exaggerating when I say I have never so much as laid a single finger on a pair of skates.

I would never, ever skate on an actual pond. Every year, people head out on frozen lakes and ponds, and fall through. I don't care if the ice is allegedly five feet thick and they're driving Hummers and towing snowmobiles on it. There can be thin spots. It is water. I cannot walk on water - or skate on it - so I'm going to stay on dry land, or a nice, safe, climate-controlled indoor rink.

I could probably skate on my own frozen pool cover, but I suspect that would be setting a bad example for Darwin.

Really, it's probably not worth the effort and potential un-insured injury. I suspect it would end up being like public pools. I don't visit them. Too many people, too many potential annoyances. I'd probably be further ahead to just buy a really cute, sparkly, flirty little skating costume and a pair of white ankle boots and twirl around in the family room.

I might still fall down, but there would be no witnesses other than Tom, and he's seen me fall down lots of times.

UPDATE: I tried to buy a skating costume on eBay, but I got outbid. In the middle of the night, so I didn't even have time to increase my bid before the item closed. I'd hate eBay if I didn't love it so much.

Laughter is the Best (Veterinary) Medicine

The following is a conversation that just took place in my office, mainly involving myself and Dr. Vet-Friend, though there were three witnesses. They didn’t participate much, but they did laugh a lot and encourage us. They really should know better.

We were discussing (for some reason) blondes. Dr. Vet-Friend and I are both married to blondes, despite the fact that we do not consider blondes to be “our type.” Yet, as you may be aware, Cody (my fantasy-obsession) is also a blonde. But I maintain my stance that blonde boys are icky. Except Tom. And Cody. I guess Dr. Vet-Friend’s husband gets an exemption, too, but only from her.

DVF: Now, my sister’s husband… he’s gorgeous.
ME: Which one?
(She has several sisters, and I can never keep them straight)
DVF: He’s Portuguese.
ME: Oh, yeah, him. They do have some beautiful kids.
DVF: Yeah, I always worried about that, if we had kids. What if they were blonde?
ME: You’d be in the nursery, moving the little name tags around on the bassinettes.
DVF: I’d be like, “Can’t I have that one over there, with all the dark hair?”
ME: The one who kind of looks like a gorilla? You could always just go up to somebody and say, “Hey, I’ll trade you.”
DVF: Yeah, it’s not like they’d be all attached to it yet or anything.
ME: Then they’d try to hand you the blonde baby.
DVF: And I’d go, “Oh, nope, that one’s not mine. It doesn’t look anything like me...”
ME: “...No, I saw it come out, and it didn’t look anything like that.”
(Pause for hysterical laughter.)
ME: I’d be all like, “Hey, don’t you guys have any puppies?” Because I could totally do that. If I could be like a doggie incubator and have puppies, that’d be OK.
DVF: Yeah, and you’d only have to do it for 62 days.
(Gestation period for dogs. Beats the heck out of nine months, huh?)
ME: But with a litter of puppies, what if I grew extra nipples?
DVF: Oh, that’d be just like in the Meredith Gentry books where she had to be with that guy who had all the extra testicles!
ME: Testicles?
DVF: No, I mean tentacles. The guy who had the tentacles on his abdomen, and she was all grossed out. But later they turned into a tattoo and she was OK with that.
ME: Oh, yeah, him. Well, too many testicles could be a problem, too. But Tom might actually like it if there were extra nipples.
DVF: He wouldn’t think that was creepy?
ME: Well, it might turn out to be too much work for him. I do ask a lot of him as it is. He might have trouble keeping up.
DVF: Maybe not if he had extra testicles.

See why I’ve been following her around for ten years? We crack ourselves up, even if everyone else just thinks we’re strange.

I Fail at Festivity

I tried to achieve some measure of the holiday spirit. I really did. I even solicited your suggestions, and while they were all well-meaning, none of them quite did the trick. The anti-holiday carapace around my heart is just too sturdy to crack that easily.

Then, yesterday, I was sitting at work, and started worrying. Tom and I had decided over the weekend that we would go together after Christmas and buy a piece of furniture we’ve been wanting for our family room. But what if he bought me something? I should buy him something. But what??? He’s so hard to buy for, and I work every day right up to Christmas, plus I hate to shop. Way too late to order anything online.

Shit.

Maybe we could just do something festive together when we finish work at noon on Christmas Eve. Again… but what??? I can’t shift from Grinchy to ho-ho-ho quite that fast. Shopping? On Christmas Eve? I might be holiday-challenged, but I’m not insane! What about a nice early dinner, followed by a romantic evening at home? That could work, but “going out to dinner” is my suggestion for everything, and he seems to resist spending money on dining out when we have perfectly (semi-)edible food in our own kitchen.

Beverages and romance at home? That’s all well and good, but that’s on our agenda a few times a week as it is, so hardly “special occasion” worthy.

When I got home last night, I mentioned all this to Tom, and he pretty much told me it was my own damned fault, and it was too late to get upset about it now. I am a victim of my own lousy attitude.

Hey! I put up the tree, didn’t I? Huh? Well, yes, it involved picking up the 2-foot, pre-lit, pre-decorated tree from its home in the closet under the stairs, carrying it up to the living room, and placing it on the bookcase. I did dust the bookcase first, and that should be worth a bonus point or two. Then I arranged the snowman tree skirt around its base, straightened a few displaced ornaments… and plugged it in. It took all of three minutes, but we do now technically have a Christmas tree. Thanks to Yours Truly.

The fact that I also placed my stuffed Grinch and Max on either side of it should not count against me at all.

I didn’t buy a single Christmas gift. Tom will handle the check-writing and the “mutual gift giving” for The Boy and Fabulous Fiancée, and they are taking care of purchasing the traditional Papa Murphy’s pizza which we will enjoy at their house on Christmas Day.

The one gift that I did buy isn’t really a “Christmas” gift. It’s a painted feather for Curt, for his Magic Feather collection, and I got it because I thought of it… I didn’t care if it came in time for Christmas, or for his February birthday. The only factor was that I wanted him to have it for his often-stressful drive to visit his family in Idaho. He just happens to make the trip at Christmas. (It did arrive on time, the night before his trip, and I was really pleased about that.)

So, what to do? How do I make something special out of what I feel, deep down, is just another day? Especially when I’ve already shot myself in the foot, metaphorically speaking, and done nothing right up until today?

Now I hate Christmas more than ever. It’s a royal pain in the ass, whether it’s my fault or not. Festivity isn’t something that should take so freakin’ much effort, if you ask me.

I guess if there’s any chance of flourishing Christmas Cheer in my house, I’d better hope that three spirits visit me sometime tonight.

What's the Big, Fat, Hairy Deal?

This is a real "chicken or the egg" imponderable.

Am I able to have - and enjoy - so many big, hairy, shedding, drooling, mud-bogging, snow-melting, leaf-collecting, barfing dogs because I am not naturally fastidious in the housekeeping department?

Or... do I not bother with extraordinary housekeeping efforts because I have so many big, hairy, shedding, drooling, mud-bogging, snow-melting, leaf-collecting, barfing dogs and it's a totally un-winnable battle?

I'm leaning toward the first option, honestly, but since I've always had dogs and never cared about housekeeping, we'll never know for sure.

It seems that whenever I mention to anybody how many dogs I have (three, at present... but it's been as many as seven), they always say something like, "Oh, my goodness! You must vacuum all the time!"

Why would they think that?

The answer is no, I don't. In order to de-fur my house to the point that the Cleanliness Police seem to assume is "necessary", I'd have to vacuum non-stop, and never do anything else, such as eat, sleep, bathe, or actually enjoy my dogs. And I'm all about enjoying my dogs. (Also eating, sleeping and bathing when appropriate, but mostly the dog thing.)

Is my house white-glove clean? No way. Is it a festering, virulent, petri dish waiting to be sealed off by the Centers for Disease Control? I doubt it.

There is a lot of dog hair in my house. There. I said it. And? It doesn't really bother me. We (mostly Tom) get out the Dyson every few days to try to keep the fur-drifts below ankle depth, filling the dirt bin of the vacuum a couple of times - just in the living room. There is still a nice fur border around the baseboards and around the bottom of the furniture, in that space the vacuum can't quite reach. I understand that there are attachments for such a dilemma... but I don't really care enough to figure out how to use them.

The Sofur is called the Sofur for a reason. Sofa + Fur. Do I feel the need to take the rubber squeegie brush and try to de-fuzz it six times a day? No, because there's no point. It will be re-fuzzed in two minutes, and I can either get an ulcer worrying about it, or I can sit on the Sofur with the fur-producing monsters and relax.

Seems like a no-brainer to me.

I make sure our dishes get through the dishwasher and that our countertops are relatively sanitary. Tom takes out the trash. I never permit anything growing in the bathroom to attain sentience, and I run my work clothes and sweat suits through the wash. We're not pigs. (Although I understand that pigs are actually very smart and a lot cleaner than stereotypes would suggest. So maybe we are.)

Seriously, what's wrong with dog hair? People act like it's big wads of ebola virus. I like dog hair when it's on my dogs, so what's the big panic just because it's also on the floor, the furniture, and my clothes? What? I'm infested with dog-cooties? And that's a bad thing? It's winter, so just think of it as free insulation in those drafty corners.

So what is the awful reality in my house?

Well, if you're going somewhere that having a bit of dog hair on your clothes is going to make a bad impression, you'd better not get dressed until seconds before walking out the door, and I advise against wearing black. Walk fast, and take a tape-roller with you. Luckily, working for a veterinary clinic, dog hair on the clothes is not only expected, it's sort of encouraged. It's a fashion accessory.

If the thought of a single dog hair in your food makes you gag, I advise you to eat a) in the kitchen, b) over the sink, and c) directly out of the can. Because if you take a plate more than three feet from its point of origin, there's going to be hair on it. I simply pick off any obvious ones, and don't get all worked up about the ones that are undoubtedly hiding. Consider it garnish.

If you come to visit and are staying the night, I'll try to keep the dogs off your bed. I promise. They like to snooze on my bed, and every night I end up with dog hair in my Blistex, so I know how annoying that can be. But banishing my dogs from the bed, never being able to wrestle and snuggle before going to sleep, is just too high a price to pay to avoid such a minor annoyance. I guess my priorities are a little bit different than most people's.

There has to be a way to make it easier on us dog owners. Some way to remove the stigma. What if we developed a whole line of dog-owner-friendly decorating products? Then they'd look the same, clean or dirty, and nobody could point accusing (dog-hating) fingers!

We could have carpet in all the shades of the dirt spectrum. These would include mud, dirt, sand, and "spring thaw." It would also be available in three patterns: dog-hair-crosshatch, random barf-stain, and dustbunny.

Wall coverings would be featured as well. You could have your choice of wallpaper or faux-finish paint kit, which would cover the bottom three feet of the wall with a representation of the smudgy-smeary discoloration from a dog's body oils, as well as splatters and splashes from mud slung from a happily-waving tail. If you have one of the drool-producing breeds, you could add the gooey-drool-rope decals.

Bedding would come in only one color. Brown, with dark brown smeary paw prints all over it, so that when someone (Darwin) comes in all muddy and leaps up on the bed, you'll never be able to tell the difference.

Furniture upholstery should just come in angora. With all that angora, you'd never, ever notice the dog hair. And your clothes would be all furry anyway, but nobody would be able to tell if it is dog hair (which they think is bad) or angora (for which people pay lots of money).

I actually have a scarf made of golden retriever yarn, and it sheds. A lot. Go figure.

That's the best I can do. I can't promise to become a fastidious housekeeper. But I can come up with ways to make it a lot harder for people to tell just how bad it really is. Or isn't. And that's the point.

Form, Function or Fashion?

(No body parts have fallen off any of the resident clinic animals today, which should not be disappointing, but for some reason it kind of is… so you will have to endure a post about another retail-related experience. Sorry. But Nellie can’t afford to lose another leg. Because then she’d just be a bowling ball with feathers, and if she lost a wing on the same side as her missing leg, we’d have to teach her to use a crutch so she didn’t tip over all the time, and chickens aren’t that smart. Plus they do not have hands, so we’d have to design a chicken-friendly crutch, and I simply do not have the time.)

PROLOGUE:

I can safely shop for very few things. These include jeans, sweaters, and… well, maybe just jeans and sweaters. Everything goes with jeans, and I happen to like ugly sweaters, so there’s little risk involved. Buying anything else requires concepts such as “matching” and “fashion” and “age-appropriateness,” and I’m really bad at all of those.

Do I need to remind you of the Green Canvas Circus Shoe Disaster of last May? When I purchased them, I thought there was a chance that they were awfully adorable, but it turned out that they were just awful. There’s a very fine line between “cute and trendy” and “tacky and shame-inducing,” and I have no idea where that line is. I hoped they’d be a jaunty addition to an outfit consisting of white, blue and green Capri pants and a green t-shirt, but instead I looked as if I’d been in a freak weed whacker accident and received bilateral foot transplants from Dipshit the Clown.

(Visual Aid)

I tried to salvage the shoes, for reasons that still escape me. They featured a green and white striped bow secured by a big green button (see above), so I chopped the button off of the right shoe, only to discover that the bow was attached with some substance that essentially fused it to the canvas. It was totally not coming off.

The slightly mutilated shoes now reside somewhere in the depths of my closet. If I ever come across them, perhaps I will donate them to some worthy charity, such as a clown college for underprivileged kids.

So it is always with great trepidation that I embark on any sort of shopping excursion.

CHAPTER 1:

On Tuesday, I was out (theoretically) buying shoes to go with my dress for The Kids’ wedding, and striking out in a major way. While I was there, though, I began contemplating the condition of my winter coat. It is a sage green parka with a fake-fur trimmed hood, and not too hideous – for a winter coat. However, it has recently been diagnosed with Unreliable Zipper Syndrome. I can get it zipped up just fine, but getting the zipper back down is an iffy proposition. I’ve been forced to either pull it off over my head like a giant poly-filled hoodie (not good for the hair), or shuck it off over my hips like a pair of coveralls, depending on how high up the zipper is stuck.

This led me to the outerwear section of the store. Winter cold has set in, and it’s way too early in the season to have a coat that I can only fasten using the drawstring tie inside the waist. Then I realized that I was faced with the age-old “form, function or fashion” dilemma. There were lots of stylish coats in interesting colors and fabrics… but this is, after all, Minnesota, so I began thinking “warm” instead of “attractive.”

Which left me with one section from which to choose, and I went with a ZeroXposur brand, which claims to be super weather-resistant and warm. They don’t have all the nifty little accents and details, and mostly come only in black. I threw “fashion” out the window and got the longest one they had, in order to prevent ass-freezing. It may be the most boring coat I’ve ever owned, but at least I’ll survive till spring. (Bonus? $150 coat, and with the holiday sale, and some special coupons I’d accumulated, I got it for $50! Score!!!)

(Dull, but snuggy-wuggy warm coat with functional zipper.)

CHAPTER 2:

On my way home, Tom called and asked if I wanted to meet him at Famous Footwear, because he needed shoes, too, and they have a “buy one, get one half off” deal. Even though the second pair is half off, you do still get both shoes. I checked.

Once there, I realized how woefully ill-equipped I am to buy dress shoes. I am planning to wear a wrap style dress with a small feather pattern, in shades of tan, brown, blue and off white. I’d figured some sort of neutral tan shoe… maybe? The first pass through the store seemed like a wash-out, but I really wanted to get this shopping chore out of the way, so I kept looking as I waited for Tom to arrive.

(Reminder: The Dress. Face cropped out due to unsightly eye baggage, which is why I'm getting airbrush makeup for the wedding, because outdoor lighting is Not My Friend.)

While I browsed, I got to listen to some customer totally go off on the poor sales clerk. She wanted to return a pair of shoes, but explained that her daughter had ripped up the box and lost the receipt. (Note to any clerks out there: When a customer enters your store, and the first words out of his or her mouth are, “I have a small problem,” clock out for lunch. I do not care if it is 9:15 AM. Run.)

The clerk said that the tag on the shoes was not one of their store’s tags, so there was no way the shoes had come from there. (Which should be completely obvious if you look at the other shoes in the store, none of which have tags even remotely resembling the ones the customer had just slammed on the counter.)

Unreasonable Customer ranted and raved for a good ten minutes, saying she knew they came from that very store, because she’d also bought two pairs of boots that same day – though why that had anything to do with the situation is beyond me – and she repeatedly asserted that she was “being completely honest,” and she couldn’t understand why the clerk couldn’t be reasonable and work with her. The clerk, not caving just because someone was being a high-decibel moron, stood her ground. Then, with a “thank you” that was dripping with sarcasm, the customer left, and the average IQ in the store rose by 77 points.

(Side note: When people keep telling you how “honest” they are being, have you noticed that they are always lying their asses off?)

Eventually I identified two or three Famous Footwear options. But all of them were in very, very shiny patent leather. Is patent leather “in” this year? Is it ever? One style came in sort of shimmery brown or navy, and another style was only in the shimmery brown, a bit darker, but with a square toe and lower, thicker heel. Is navy ever in style? Or is that always a fashion “don’t???” Tom is great with what matches something else, but shoe style? I needed outside assistance. But who???

Fabulous Fiancée, of course! She knows shoes! Plus, it’s her wedding, and I’d hate for her to look at the pictures years from now and go, “I don’t know how I managed to marry someone whose mother would actually wear shoes like that!” So I called her cell, and I could hear the surprise in her voice when she answered. “She’s calling me? She never calls me. She never calls anybody. And it’s during the day. Why isn’t she at work? I’m at work! OK, what the hell’s going on???”

Thank doG for the internet. I was able to explain my dilemma. Do I opt for square toes and a probably more comfortable heel, but run the risk of making my calves look chunky? Or do I have pointier toes and higher, thinner heel, but in a less granny-ish style? And what about the whole patent leather thing? She was able to look at the exact shoes online and offer a much-valued opinion, and probably save me from getting an aneurysm.

(Contender, but not selected)

(The winner, and Official Mother of the Groom Shoe at the 2009 W/B wedding)

Now I’ll probably decide I hate the dress after all, and have to start all over again.

THE END.