Niff.Dot

>
I am going to write an ode. To me.

Here goes.

Almost 30 years ago,
(in about 13 more days),
A child was born with big-ass feet
in a Washington military base.

Her father was an army man,
Clad in camouflage,
Her mother cared for house and home
All through this montage.

She was the first child of just two,
The first grandchild to boot.
So spoiled was she by her grandmother
Her mother it did not suit.

Her kidnergarten year went by,
With nary an incident.
Till a little brother came to be
Her life now had a dent

For he was an annoying thing
Always making a mess.
Till one day she had had enough
Clad him in her Easter dress.

The childhood years went swiftly by,
Junior high as well.
Then 1990 marked the year
Of high school freshman hell.

Her life took a pathetic turn
Her priorities lost formation.
Her social life was more important
Than her education.

She fell in love, or so she thought,
When she was just 16.
Her high school sweetheart was a boy who
With envy was quite green.

He was quite the possessive sort,
With an eagle eye.
If she so much as talked to a boy,
He would yell and make her cry.

Her senior year, her parents did
(I now know, the right thing…)
Her father took a job in Hawaii
His daughter he would bring.

She was distressed, she was distraught,
“Oh how can they do this to me??
My life is gone, my love, my friends…
No prom, no homecoming??”

Her life went on, good times and bad
Till one day, it would be
She was to meet a dashing young man
Her high school sweetheart, a memory.

‘Twas love at first sight, she cried and she sang
His love for me, too shows…
So much that, amazingly, two months later
He got on one knee to propose.

“Oh yes!” she cried, young and naive
Not thinking what lie ahead.
Her parents were stunned, yet understood
this young man their daughter would wed.

Things got a bit hairy, family and all
Her parents lost some of their hope.
She got a bit nutty, emotional and rash
So she and the young man eloped.

They were rather poor for quite some time
Moved out to Texas that year…
Lived with his mother so that they could
Attend college and find a career.

The years they galloped swiftly by,
First one, two, three then four…
Then at the end, when all was done,
Opportunity knocked on the door.

A job for her husband, his BA degree
With a big 5 accounting firm.
They would need to move, puppy and all
To Seattle, they were happy to learn.

Four years later, and yes, here we are
9 1/2 years after “I do”
Successful and settled with dogs and a home
Our marriage, ever stronger and true.

So yes, this is me, my life in a page
Thank you for struggling through.
Damn long-ass blog entry, if you ask me…

um…er…

Damn!

I cant think of a clever last line that fucking rhymes!!

Aw, to hell with it.

voulez-voulez-vous egomaniac.

>Okay, the whole shoe-breakin’-in thing…not cool.

It will get better, I know it will.

Every relationship has it’s rough spots. But you make it through, usually wiser and stronger than going in.

My shoes and I will make it through this.

I need to remember that my old shoes and I had our rough beginnings also: the aching arches, the raw toes. But once the worst was over we developed this harmonius synchronicity that exceeded all expectations. We flowed, we waltzed. Things were blissfully perfect.

For a while.

Then the relationship started to show its age. The permanent creases under the laces, the worn soles. I ignored the signs, not wanting to acknowledge the truth. We would not last forever, my shoes and I. The painful reality of this reverberated through my soul, an aching that seemed would never end.

The day the upper sprang loose from the sole I knew the inevitable had come. I examined the gash, looking for any chance of mending the evidence of time passed, but it was not to be. The gaping wound in my shoe matched the gaping wound in my heart.

For a couple minutes I agonized over the loss, wondering if I could ever share with a new pair of shoes the magic I felt with my old ones. At that moment, it seemed impossible.

Once some time had passed and the air of heart-wrenching emotion ebbed away, I realized, at long last:

Damn, these shoes look like shit.

It was time. I was ready.

So, it is because of that experience I now know that my new shoes and I will also survive, we will overcome. And when we do it will be spectacular. Patience is key. Love is enduring, as I know these new shoes will be.

I see long-term relationship potential here.

At least from what the Dansko people told me anyway.

voulez-voulez-vous Dansko’s

>I got new work shoes today. Oh, tis a happy day.

My old shoes were a sad sight indeed. We had been through a lot together.

From 14-hour shifts on Mother’s day to 60-hour work-weeks, my shoes carried me through them all.

The conflict of needing to wear dressy-type black leather shoes as part of my uniform in a job that has me walking 12 miles a weekend is a fact that has sent me on a quest for the most comfortable and well-wearing work shoe ever.

I think I have found it.

Through word-of-mouth from others in the fine dining industry, I have discovered the loveliest shoe of them all.
This is the Dansko professional, and it “provides shock absorption and flexibility, withstands surfaces of extreme heat and cold, rocker-bottom sole propels the foot forward when walking, protects feet, legs, and back during long hours of standing or walking, and provides stability, reduces torque and pronation”.

This shoe makes NurseMates weep.

Tomorrow is my official test-drive. I shall return promptly with results.

If Koo is any indication, I will like them very much. He gives them his Stinky-Rope-Toy seal of approval. The reason Koo likes my work shoes has nothing to do with functionality or comfort. Koo likes my shoes because when I come home from work, there is usually some food-type residue on them. Which he is more than eager to remedy. Though with these new beauties, I’m going to be obsessive about anything getting on them. But if anything does, I can rest assured that Koo will help me out in that area. He’s got my back. Or, my feet. Whatever.

It is a sad day indeed when all I have to blog about is my damn shoes.

*sigh*

voulez-voulez-vous lame.

>damn the broccoli
damn the Wright brothers
and damn the White Sox.

It’s my friiii-day my fruh-fruh-fruh-friiiii-day.

Not for you, suckas.

I want a good kick-ass thunderstorm right about now. One of the things I miss about living in Texas. The kind of thunder that rattles the windowpanes and makes your dog piss the floor. That’s good stuff.

Washington does not have thunderstorms. We just have ceaseless prissy rain. Sissy pissy wussy rain. Tinkle tinkle.

I’m going to go to bed now. It is late. I have no potential for making sense at the moment. My feet and I must retire.

voulez-voulez-vous 18 days 14 hours 18 minutes.

>get my hair trimmed. I decided some time ago to pursue a non-interference policy with my hair. I decided it was best to leave it be and not put it through all the chemical processes women seem to be so fond of these days. My hair is brown, and I’m cool with that. I’m actually more than cool with that, if for no other reason than to avoid the blonde’brunette stereotypes. Actually, it is my theory that only 10% of blondes are actually blonde anyway. And I’ve noticed the other 90% have very unhappy-looking hair. I would prefer to have happy hair, as the happier it is the less I have to deal with it. I just wash it with normal shampoo (spending $20.00 on shampoo? Nuh-uh), comb it out, and tie it up. Then I can spend my time watching TV. Working on my doodle painting. Playing with the dogs. Spending time outside the bathroom.
When I go get my hair trimmed, I will see women with more foil on their head than a Thanksgiving turkey. They sit there for an hour whilst their hair is being stripped of all pigment. They do this so they can dump another color on after they’ve bleached it. Which probably takes another hour. The problem with this is you just can’t color your hair once and then never again. Your hair grows out. You see this. The inch of dark hair at the base of the scalp. So to avoid the embarrassment of exposure as a great big hair-lie, you go in every six weeks, dropping $100 a pop to maintain your non-natural hair color. My hair is bargain-basement hair. I spend $15.00 for a trim every few months or so and end up having to use aerosol hair spray in the eyes of the stylists trying to push $200.00 worth of hair products I neither need nor want. I’ll spend the money on art supplies.
My hair usually spends its time in a knot on my head. Hair in my face drives me nuts. Which is why I keep it long. If it were shorter, it wouldn’t fit into a hair tie, and I would be in a perpetual state of irritation. The problem I’m having now is that I’m coming up on 30 and my hair is more than halfway down my back. I think that’s far too long for someone over 25. Just my opinion. My husband disagrees. Men seem to have this archaic prehistorical male-dominated attitude about women’s hair. Every guy I know cringes when I mention cutting my hair, my husband most of all. The funny thing is that when we’re in bed watching TV and my hair happens to inch onto his pillow, he responds with, “hun…can you get your hair out of my face?” Shit-head. I shoud get it cut then leave the disembodied hair on his pillow. Then it would be his problem. Heh. I got a chuckle outta that one.

I am just now realizing I am using way too much brain power on my hair. I think it’s more out of lack of a decent topic than a genuine concern for the growth of dead cells sprouting from my head. Which is all the more reason to not spend hundreds of dollars of shampoo and conditioner; your hair is dead. It’s long beyond caring what the living think of it. Or do to it. But I know if I were fried every six weeks I’d be pretty pissed. But then again, there was that one year in college…

nevermind.

voulez-voulez-vous fried.

>23 days 17 hours 29 minutes.

>So the powers that be at my place of employment have decided to have these mandatory training sessions on French service, mise en place, modified American service, product knowledge, et cetera et cetera. I have been a fine dining server for three years now, in an undisclosed establishment as to not incriminate myself (a la MM) and love my job. I feel that I am good at it, and acknowledge that there is always room for improvement in refining my technique. Unfortunately these sessions are scheduled on Tuesdays. Mondays and Tuesdays are my days off. Bollocks. My objection to these meetings are not rooted in any logical form, however. I have a problem with my own personal set of principles. I determine what constitutes a principle. As in, “yes these meetings are very educational and informative and no, it’s not that much of an inconvenience as I live 2 minutes away and yes, the meetings are only an hour, but it’s the principle!

My husband mocks me in regards to my principles.

To add insult to injury, they had set up a Krispy Kreme buffet to soften the blow and make the meeting more appealing.

I shall hence explain why this is problematic.

About a week ago, I had what I call a not-quite-cancer-scare. I was having…well, female problems, and went to the doc to check it out. Upon examination, several small masses were found. A biopsy was taken. An a week passed before the results came back. When you’re waiting on biopsy results, a week turns into a long-ass time. And during that week, I masqueraded my fear with humor. Joked about it, convinced myself and everyone that it was no big deal, and that if it was cancer, oh well, better start looking for some kick-ass wigs.

This week also gave me ample time to re-evaluate my attitudes about my health. I have not always been the healthiest eater, nor the most physically active, nor the best at taking any supplements to ensure I am consuming the nutrients necessary for health and vitality. It finally occurred to me that poor health habits and disease tend to go hand in hand, and I was the only one who could do anything about it. I was going to take charge of my health and live a long, healthy and happy life.

The results came back negative, just some benign bumps that could easily be removed. This strengthened my resolve to adopt a healthy attitude.

I’ve been doing well. My exercise routine isn’t quite up to par yet, but I have been doing great with my diet and taking multivitamins, Omega-3’s etc etc. It is not difficult as I keep no tempting foods in my home.

Then this damn meeting.

I find it ironic that a training session on fine dining would offer up Krispy Kremes as refreshment. We stress well-prepared healthy cuisine, and they’re serving us a heart attack in a box. Funny.

Despite the insane temptation, I was successful in resisting the decadent little rings of saturated fat and sugar. I just sipped my pomegranate juice and payed attention to the lesson. And felt fabulous about it when I got home. Heart disease is the number one killer of women, and I’m not going to engage in dietary habits that will contribute to that statistic. After all…don’t you know? I’m invincible!

voulez-voulez-vous invincible

>So. Thanks to miss Naiah for getting this idea swimming through my head…and as a tribute I offer up a sort of co-post

Now…I am going to discuss something that has proven controversial in the past and has always been received with a certain amount of skepticism as to its sincerity.

I am about to criticize women. But not all. Only a small but noticeable percentage of them.

And if one, and I mean one, person attributes this to jealousy, low self-esteem or cattiness I swear to God I will find you. Oh yes, I will find you. And it will not be pleasant. I will bring an iPod teeming with Barry Manliow if pressed.

So. It seems to me that the aim of a great number of girls in their early twenties and a select sad few in their mid 30’s is to base their entire concept of self-worth on how they look. I will grant you that yes, in high school, I spent a great deal of thought worried about how I looked. I would look in windows as I walked by, checking to make sure my hair was in order and my lip gloss intact. I based my self image on how many boys looked at me. As I hit my twenties, it waned, but it was still there. Thankfully I grew out of it. And this was ten, fifteen years ago; things were not a great deal different, but just enough to matter.
I got married, and now have a wonderful husband who tells me constantly how beautiful he thinks I am…and it means so much to me that he does. Because I know that even when I’m 80, or if I were to have some disfiguring accident (knock on wood), he would still feel the exact same way. Because now I know that it is not of the outside he speaks, but of me, the person…who beyond the face is funny, caring, kind, intelligent, talented, witty, loving and nurturing. And after several years, I can understand and acknowledge that. But I am lucky. I have changed my priorities such that I am able to develop myself as a person, internally. Some women realize this as well.

Some do not. I think it’s a curse upon girls who are ‘potentially pretty’ as they feel it is their social obligation to look perfect all of the time. The thought that someone would look at them and not acknowledge their attractiveness is terrifying.
The difference between 10 years ago and now is that when I was in high school, not one girl I knew had breast implants or plastic surgery. I knew of no one who had an eating disorder or a hair stylist. No one even had cell phones. (At that time they were still the size of a shoebox). What I have noticed is these girls are having a hard time growing out of this phase. I work with a relatively young group of people. I work in a restaurant, so most of the employees are young with a diploma as their highest level of education. The boys seem relatively average; they party a lot and smoke too much weed, but they’re in their late teens/early twenties. They do that. But the girls are the ones I worry about.

The first group I’ve noticed are the ones who have fanatically low self esteem, which is pretty typical at that age, but they think the cure is external. I see them drool over the ribcages of Victoria’s Secret models. I see them get breast implants, when they were perfect just the way they were. They spend hours in tanning beds, with no consideration for the damage they are doing to their skin nor contemplating the threat of skin cancer. I know some of these girls personally, and it’s hard to hear them speak about a pimple as if it were a permanent scar and a pound as if it were the kiss of death. They put themselves through both physical and mental torture all because they have assigned their appearance as their identity. “The pretty one”. Pretty is fleeting. Some day, some person somewhere might say, “ah…she used to be the pretty one”. And then? Their obsession with their looks is a mask for their turmoil, because for whatever reason, they have no self-worth. And it breaks my heart. Because that could have been me.

The second group I’ve noticed are the ones that get on my nerves and the ones ‘normal’ women loathe and are thereby deemed as catty. They’re the ones who don’t grow out of it when they hit their 30’s. They’re the ones who dolly themselves up not so much for self esteem, but to be noticed. They want to be desired by men and envied by women. They are constantly trying to out-do each other. They spend their free time shopping or getting their hair bleached while discussing what they need to get from Macy’s. (This is true; I’ve seen it when I was getting my hair trimmed). They have an attitude that the other group does not. They have an arrogance about them. They look upon the homely with pity. They strut. They are constantly fussing with their hair. They travel in packs, I’ve noticed. I’ve had them at my tables at work. They have the biggest rocks on their French-manicured fingers and flash them whilst sipping their champagne. They have inane conversations. The blather on about how munch money they spend on shoes and how their husbands are never home. They tend to be condescending to me even though in 15 years they will realize how much happier I am than they. They wear so much makeup, you can almost see their skin screaming underneath. Women are competitive by nature. Obsessively. You see them staring each other down, looking for some flaw, some imperfection that they themselves don’t have. The type of place I live in is littered with this type of women. I see them at the coffee shop with their Tommy Hilfiger-clad toddlers in their $500 stroller chatting with other women and their designer babies. What are they teaching their children? They always have to have bigger, better, more. They’re insanely trendy. One has it, then two, then it’s a plague. Why do women have to make being women so damned difficult? Why can’t they just have the same attitude that men do? You hang out, chat up your buddies, go to sporting events, laugh at each other’s balding hair and high-five ’em when something awesome happens. Men have it made. They know how to have a good time; they’re not threatened by their own gender.

Please keep in mind that this entire entry is only based upon my own personal acquaintances and observations. I do not speak of all women. There are those of us who think Mac’s are the shiznit and the Spurs are the best damn team in the NBA. We kick back with a beer and some great conversation. These are the kind of women I am friends with. We enjoy each other’s company; we can spend an evening hanging out without mentally contemplating the cost of each other’s Lois Vuitton. Hell, I don’t even have any friends with Louis Vuitton. They’re all tote bags and backpacks. They know how to live. How good we have it. We kick ass.

I will tell you this: there is one very important piece of evidence that proves Type 2 women buy into trendiness:

Velour jogging suits.

’nuff said.

Voulez-voulez-vous velour.

Yes, this is my greyhound. Yes, she is bubble-wrapped. I saw bubble wrap. I saw dog. Bryan was busy installing his surround sound. She kinda hung out like that for about 15 minutes when my husband realized what I had done to our dog. I told him I didn’t feel as if I had to explain my art to him.

I don’t have a topic in mind. None. I’m gonna drone on about nothing for a while here so if you don’t wanna read about nuthin’ I suggest you go knit a few burgundy afghans. Three trophies for The Cheat.

I don’t have any trophies. Not even a pizza trophy.

My bamboo needs water again. I’m not mature enough for this level of responsibility. After working all day the last thing I wanna do is water bamboo. I talked to Bryan before we got the bamboo. I told him that our lives were going to change and we were now responsible for something greater than ourselves. He agreed that we were gong to share in the caring and nurturing of the bamboo. Then guess what? I work all day, come home, and where is he? At a Seahawks game! Football?!?!?. He’s off with his buddies having a good ole time with beer and garlic fries while I’m left at home to tend to the bamboo alone. If I wanted to be a single parent I would have bought some bamboo before I knew him. This is bullshit.

Actually, I’m not resentful that he’s at the game. I’m resentful that I’m not.

To Hades with the bamboo.

So I just realized that I myself am thirsty. That means I have to get up. On my feet. Feet don’t work so well. After traipsing back and forth nonstop for 12 hours they’re kinda pissed.

I’m torn between my dislike for dehydration and my feet’s dislike of me.

I’m even too tired to use any creative wording or random vocabulary. What the hell am I doing here? I am not in the right state of mind for this nonsense. Armadilla armadilla.

Voulez-voulez-vous armadilla.

 

>27 days, 13 hours, 51 minutes.