Shoes

While I was on my recent vacation up north, my sister and I were cruising through the store everybody shops at but nobody admits going to. (Don't pretend you don't know where I was.  If I hadn't been out of town, I probably would have run into you there.) 

When we got to the children's section, there was an aisle display of tiny shoes with heels on them.  As an adult, I am appalled that they sell these to children. They are not being sold as "dress up," they are being marketed as shoes - and by a manufacturer that I used to buy baby shoes from.  It horrifies me. 

As a child, my reaction would have been different. I'm certain I would have thrown a tantrum worthy of prime-time television right on the floor in front of that display in an effort to secure a pair of these babies for my very own.  (It might have just worked, too.)  

Decades ago, I recall begging my mother to buy little high heels for me that were sold with the cheap toys in the grocery store.  They had high black heels, silver soles and black elastic over the top.  When I was lucky enough to finally score a pair, the heel broke off the first time that I put weight on it.  That was not enough to keep me from coveting a new pair next time, but it was enough to keep my mother from buying me them.  

My mother had an entire closet devoted to shoes alone, so I come by my love of footwear honestly.  (Yes, Kate, I am aware that I wore only Crocs for a decade, but that was because I broke my foot and only Crocs were comfortable.)

When I was a preschooler, Mom took me to get a new pair of summer shoes. We went all over town trying on different pairs, and each time I told her that they hurt my feet.  Mom drove to a neighboring town and experienced more of the same results, a crabby Chris with sore feet.  After I'd complained bitterly over and over that all the shoes I'd tried on hurt, we arrived at the final store and the clerk brought out one last pair for me to try on.

When I saw him approaching me, I couldn't contain my delight.  "That's what I wanted," I exclaimed, "RED shoes!" 

I'd be wearing these today if only they were my size!

www.StillSwimmingUpstream.com

Flea-market Find

A couple of years ago when we were at a low ebb financially, we had an urgent need for a mattress.  Being the shrewd shopper that I am, I hunted down a cheap one at a perpetual flea market near us.  It was only $219 (including tax) and came with a five year warranty.  What was I thinking?  We actually bought a mattress set at a flea market.  Seriously.  Although the thought did occur to me that the warranty was virtually useless, the price certainly was right so Jerry strapped those suckers to the roof of our car and off we rode.

Ever wake up feeling like you've spent the night sleeping in a cardboard box?  The next morning I wanted to be shaken out, uncrumpled and given a good ironing.  And things got worse.  Over the next few months whenever we sat down on the mattress, we would hear sprongy noises and sometimes in the night we'd hear sounds suspiciously like wood splintering.  Turns out buying the flea market mattress set was not our finest hour.  Go figure!

As time progressed, fortune again smiled upon us and we decided to purchase a new mattress and relegate the flea market find to the guest room.  This time we purchased a memory foam knock-off from an internet site.  It came vacuum packed and when we opened the plastic, it exploded into the mattress that we know and love to this very day.

Now that I was once more enjoying blissful slumber, I began to feel guilty about our guests' visits.  We shop at all the high class places (I guess that's obvious by now) and at one of them we found a piece of one-and-a-half inch memory foam padding, which we bought for the handsome fee of $29.99.  Nothing's too good for our friends and family.  Imagine my surprise when our visitors started telling us how well they slept!

Kids can sleep anywhere!

The story ought to end there but it doesn't.  When we moved south, we realized that our beautiful bed with its antique headboard would not fit into the master bedroom of a house built in the 2000's.  We were forced to put it - with its wonderful internet memory foam - in our guest room in the basement. 

So now guess what we're sleeping on again?  I'm pretty sure that some night Jerry is going to roll over and the box springs will implode underneath us, but until then I'm sure happy to have that inch and a half of foam between me and the flea market mattress.

The Big Little Crash of 2012

Have you ever noticed when you see a fender bender that usually one of the cars is brand new? When there's that new-car smell inside, there's danger lurking outside your door.

December 13th, Jer got a new Dodge Journey.  (The salesman, Julio Olivera, is Cuban and told a lot of highly entertaining stories which made the purchase way more fun than normal for me.  If you are a local and in the market for a new vehicle, you owe it to yourself to go see him at Stateline Dodge.  And remember to tell him "hi" from me, please.)  The car has a smooth, quiet ride which makes it a favorite from the get-go, in my book.  It was born in Mexico,
but since it's a Chrysler, we can call it American made, right?

Typical Charleston house

For the first few work days of the new year, Jer had business in Charleston.   What's not to love about Charleston?  It's on the ocean, every nook and cranny is packed with history, there is a huge shopping district, flowers are blossoming in January and we've never had a bad meal here.  So, of course, I have gone with him.  I'm not one to turn down a good time.

The Evil Column

Charleston only has one problem in my view.  There are too many cars and not enough parking spaces.  To remedy this, we always stay at the lovely Ashley Inn which has its own (miniature) parking lot, not to mention a friendly, friendly staff. (This means YOU Susan and Jan!)  We think of it as our "home away from home" and feel quite comfortable there.
  
When Jerry pulled in yesterday to drop me off, a panel van pulled in behind him.  As he was backing out, he saw the van in the right side of his rear-view mirror and a large palmetto tree on the left.  What he didn't see as he was maneuvering his way out of the tight space, was the brick column next to the tree. That was in his blind-spot.

Although he didn't see the column, he certainly heard the crunching sound that the bumper made when it came in contact with it.  What a way to start the new year!

The Damage

Jerry heard me mention his accident to Kate and he said that cracking a fender in a parking lot can't be considered an accident.  My  mom would agree with him.  She always told me, "That's what bumpers are for, Christine." Then she would add, "Don't bother to tell your Dad, dear."

Win, win

After reading my last post, my daughters asked me to make a few clarifications.  Malibu Barbie wants you to know that she never dresses me.  Indian Princess Barbie says you will know if she's dressed me by whether I look good or not.  If I do, she did.  If not, then not.


Princess has a point.  Today, for example, I am wearing a (formerly) white tee shirt that my son-in-law intended for Goodwill and a pair of striped men's boxer shorts that at one time belonged to Malibu Barbie's boss.  I'm ashamed to admit that this is not even a low in wardrobe choices;  sometimes they are actually worse.  I know this because I have been looking at old photographs.  Talk about masochism!


I realized I've pretty much spent a lifetime looking frumpy, dowdy and generally wearing clothes that frankly weren't all that flattering.  Then I remembered:  I made a pact with myself when Princess was born that I wouldn't buy anything new until I got down to my pre-pregnancy weight.  My reasoning, I dimly recall, was along the lines of motivational. The thought was that I would inspire myself to lose those last few pounds faster. 


Well that was a dumb, dumb idea! Daughter is pushing twenty-three and I recently lost almost enough to get down to my highest weight during that pregnancy. About now would be a perfect time to admit defeat.  I could justify an entire new wardrobe with just that single sentence, one that will make me look like the hottie that is trapped inside me.  Except now I don't want anyone to see my wrinkly chest, my bat-wings or my chicken neck. 


So what I'm saying here is that I'm going to let vanity prohibit me from wearing more stylish clothes?  Isn't that the very same trap I set for myself originally?  Apparently these last few decades have taught me nothing. 
 
So, thank God Indian Princess got old enough to take charge of the situation!  Tomorrow she will be arriving for a week's visit.  She will probably take one look at me and drag me off shopping.  We will go directly from the airport to the mall.


She will get to do what she likes best (shopping) and I will get to do what I like best (spending time with her!)  So it's win, win. 


Ain't life grand?