My most favourite thing in the whole wide world is shoes of all kinds, shapes and price points. I am an equal opportunity addict - and I am addicted; as sick and twisted and vacuuous as it is, I love shoe shopping above all else. OK, finding the perfect t-shirt, that's a close second because a truly great t-shirt is like the orgasm of shopping. But when it comes right down to it, I would give up a thousand beautiful tees for shoes, wondering shoes. I love shoes, lurv shoes, I lik'em a lot, I love a dub dub them.
Having had a daughter, I am beyond excited at the prospect to sharing my obsession because we all know, a boy just wouldn't do. Which brings me to boy shopping, the exact opposite of shoe shopping. Boy shopping is everything that is wrong with the world, of course that would also include such things as Britney Spears' heinous weave and the fact that the Olsen twins are billionaires. The reason that boy shopping is so very wrong is that they shop sans passion. I go to the mall and I am on a permanent contact high, overwhelmed with the choice, mentally jockeying around the dollars and cents trying to justify this must-have sweater and that must-have necklace while Mr. Lemony Lemonade (in this case, acting as the poster boy for all boy shoppers) is like, yeah, that's ok, ummmm, yeah, ok....all I need is a white t-shirt, so, can we go to the white t-shirt section now? White t-shirts? white, freakin' t-shirts? Who goes shopping for JUST A WHITE T-SHIRT? And it's not even like he's all that interested in the crummy white t-shirt either. I go shopping for a white t-shirt and I will finger, stroke, fuss and try one 100 shirts, balancing the merits of each and if the one that I want, the one that I really, really want, because it has a really cute collar or just the right length of sleeve or sits just so on the hip, isn't in my size, I will likely still buy it because I need it that badly. Mr. Lemony Lemonade doesn't find his size, he shrugs his shoulders and heads for the car. One time he refused to buy shoes that he liked because he thought that they felt a bit tight. HE THOUGHT THAT THEY FELT TIGHT? In the shoe shopping world that means, RUN TO THE NEAREST CASH REGISTER AND CHARGE IT. You don't overthink shoe purchases - you just buy. Bottom line, boys don't deserve to shop, what they do deserve is to sit around wrapped in paper towel because that's the punishment for desecrating the beauty of shopping.
Which brings me to today. Baby Girl and I went on our first official shoe shopping expedition because Baby Girl needed running shoes. I had finally accepted that I wasn't going to be able to to justify $70 Nike Shox to Mr. Lemony Lemonade AGAIN (Baby Girl had a pair when she was like one year old and they fit for about three and a half hours) so, I headed over to my fave The Shoe Company. Unfortunately, Baby Girl has recently decided that anything not pink is FOR BOYS and that's how she says it, like, you are an idiot mother and clearly I need to speak louder and slower so that you can understand and get it through your thick skull that I KNOW EVERYTHING. Her recent penchant for all things pink means that she has been making some very dubious fashion choices lately because, let's be honest, pink isn't exactly a ubiquitous sort of colour. Pink should really be reserved for a splash of colour not so much for a whole, heat-to-toe outfit. Anyhow, we got to the shoe store and before I could say, what about these fancy, pink, suede, old school, sneakers, she had removed her own shoes and had put on a pair of bright pink wellingtons with purple spots. As if that wasn't heinous enough, the boots also had antennae and bulging eyes. Once I was finally able to wrestle her attention away from the AWESOME wellies, we reviewed the rather extensive sneaker options, however, Baby Girl quickly rejected each sneaker in turn citing increasingly "boy shopping-esque" excuses; the first pair was "too tall", the second pair "for boys", the third pair was "for Victoria" (not sure what that meant) and the fourth pair was "too fast". I was about to despair when Baby Girl finally alighted on a pair that delighted her. Interestingly, they were the oldest looking pair of running shoes. When I say "oldest" read, they didn't look like they were made by a drag queen or a crafty bedazzler. These shoes were completely devoid of cartoon characters, glitter, flowers, butterflies or other embellishment. She put them on and promptly declared them GORGEOUS. Just when I thought that I was going to weep for joy at her obvious shoe shopping talents, she did the one thing all shoe addicted mothers hope for; she ran back to the display, got another pair of the same running shoes and said, "Mommy, here's your pair." God knows that if I could, I would have crammed my foot into the pint-sized Adidas silver and pink sneaker because the only thing better than wearing new shoes is wearing MATCHING SHOES with your three year old - oh yeah, that's cool. Anyhow, I did obliged by putting on a woman sized pair of sneakers to which Baby Girl exclaimed, "I LOVE THESE SHOES". I couldn't agree more!
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
My own personal Darwin award...
Today, I almost became the subject of one of those Darwin Award emails where the author of the awards delights in the novel and amusing ways in which imbeciles and the mentally weak manage to get themselves killed. The sort of emails that always end with a smug quip such as, "thank God that moron is no longer swimming in the gene pool". Well, first, I have news for you people, even if I manage to get myself bumped off in a freak toothpick accident or meet my maker at the hands of a small electrical applicance, I have managed to procreate, so the joke's on you because my wacky genes are guaranteed for at least another generation SO THERE. Which brings me to my near death experience.
I have long known that under different circumstances, my Mother would have been an adept assassin for hire. However, it wasn't until my mother got her first SUV that she really came into her own. It was at this point that all her personality peccadillos converged into sharp focus. I suppose that it surprised us all that when she got what I like to call "the instrument of death", my mother discovered her true trucker self. Leaving aside the fact that as an owner of an SUV, my mother has the carbon footprint of a T-Rex, it is undeniable that she has taken on a sort of larger than life SUV persona like when she steps into the SUV, she is KING OF THE WORLD. My mom readily admits to the rush of power she feels behind the wheel of 600 tonnes of Detroit steel, so at least she admits she has a problem and that is the first stage to recovery. However, that being said, she hasn't really shown any real signs of moving on to whatever step two is (begging forgiveness? making amends? checking into the Betty Ford?...really people, does anyone know what comes after step one?). She also now refers to pedestrians and drivers of small (read: normal) sized vehicles as nuisances, not to be tolerated but to be squashed like the bugs that they are. The carmakers also have their part to play in this little drama as the enablers of all time. Every new model they cook up some new fangled gadgetry that really just ends up making the SUV more threatening than before. Take the reverse alarm in my mother's newest SUV. Because the SUV is so ridiculously oversized, the car makers finally realizing that instead of letting armies of megalomaniac moms and the similarly oversized vehicularly endowed run over curbs, posts and anyone under six foot because they can't see a freakin' thing out the back of the vehicle, they will placate their consciences by installing a little alarm that will warn drivers of these instruments of death that they are about to squash someone. All this means is that my mother now reverses staring straight ahead as the little alarm will no doubt let her know if there is anything to be worried about.
Now, where was I? Of course, my near death experience. Many of you will likely not believe what I am about to relate because in a city of over five million people and thousands of kilometres of roads, the events that I am about to describe would require an unbelievable confluence of circumstances. The sort of circumstances that could be thrown off by the slightest inteference - a left instead of a right, missing the elevator, deciding to go to the bathroom before leaving the office, returning for a forgotten item. In this case, the planets were perfectly aligned and if I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it myself. I swear that (more of less) every word of what I tell you is true, save embellishments and pointless digressions.
Which brings me to the non-event of my near death. I was crossing the street to go to the bank around lunch time today. As I was crossing the street out of the corner of my eye I registered a car had misjudged the light. As the light turned red for the car, it turned green for those of us waiting to cross and simultaneously, I stepped off the curb as the car, frantic to correct its error in judgment, attempted to charge through the pedestrians. Of course, like any God fearing Toronto pedestrian, I KNOW MY GODDAMNED RIGHTS and those rights include crossing on a green no matter what is coming in the opposite direction. If anyone tried to interfere with my pedestrian rights, they were in for a look of death, likely a finger waggle, possibly a full arm gesture and, if I am feeling unusually nervy, a cuss word or two. In this case, I turned to unleash any combination of finger, arm waving and/or cuss word when I found myself staring right into the eyes of my Mother. I would love to say that she was grim, determined, possibly even apologetic looking but instead, I saw what I can only interpret as the face of a woman at peace with the world. So, while I was within a hair's breadth of becoming a stupid, infinitely forwarded, joke email, my mother had achieved SUV nirvana. The best bit is that while I slinked off, head hung low so that no one would notice me, a rather confident and bossy pedestrian took it upon himself to hold up the pedestrian traffic so that my mother could pass. As I hustled away from the melee, presided over by the Good Samaritan Pedestrian, I heard him mutter something about stupidity and gas guzzlers.
I of course quickly called my mother to confirm that what I thought had just happened had actually just happened and I am pleased to announce that my state of shock and near-death experience was of no interest whatsoever to my mother, however, she did express great concern that I not tell anyone in the family about the "incident" and of course, I am keeping my promise...
I have long known that under different circumstances, my Mother would have been an adept assassin for hire. However, it wasn't until my mother got her first SUV that she really came into her own. It was at this point that all her personality peccadillos converged into sharp focus. I suppose that it surprised us all that when she got what I like to call "the instrument of death", my mother discovered her true trucker self. Leaving aside the fact that as an owner of an SUV, my mother has the carbon footprint of a T-Rex, it is undeniable that she has taken on a sort of larger than life SUV persona like when she steps into the SUV, she is KING OF THE WORLD. My mom readily admits to the rush of power she feels behind the wheel of 600 tonnes of Detroit steel, so at least she admits she has a problem and that is the first stage to recovery. However, that being said, she hasn't really shown any real signs of moving on to whatever step two is (begging forgiveness? making amends? checking into the Betty Ford?...really people, does anyone know what comes after step one?). She also now refers to pedestrians and drivers of small (read: normal) sized vehicles as nuisances, not to be tolerated but to be squashed like the bugs that they are. The carmakers also have their part to play in this little drama as the enablers of all time. Every new model they cook up some new fangled gadgetry that really just ends up making the SUV more threatening than before. Take the reverse alarm in my mother's newest SUV. Because the SUV is so ridiculously oversized, the car makers finally realizing that instead of letting armies of megalomaniac moms and the similarly oversized vehicularly endowed run over curbs, posts and anyone under six foot because they can't see a freakin' thing out the back of the vehicle, they will placate their consciences by installing a little alarm that will warn drivers of these instruments of death that they are about to squash someone. All this means is that my mother now reverses staring straight ahead as the little alarm will no doubt let her know if there is anything to be worried about.
Now, where was I? Of course, my near death experience. Many of you will likely not believe what I am about to relate because in a city of over five million people and thousands of kilometres of roads, the events that I am about to describe would require an unbelievable confluence of circumstances. The sort of circumstances that could be thrown off by the slightest inteference - a left instead of a right, missing the elevator, deciding to go to the bathroom before leaving the office, returning for a forgotten item. In this case, the planets were perfectly aligned and if I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it myself. I swear that (more of less) every word of what I tell you is true, save embellishments and pointless digressions.
Which brings me to the non-event of my near death. I was crossing the street to go to the bank around lunch time today. As I was crossing the street out of the corner of my eye I registered a car had misjudged the light. As the light turned red for the car, it turned green for those of us waiting to cross and simultaneously, I stepped off the curb as the car, frantic to correct its error in judgment, attempted to charge through the pedestrians. Of course, like any God fearing Toronto pedestrian, I KNOW MY GODDAMNED RIGHTS and those rights include crossing on a green no matter what is coming in the opposite direction. If anyone tried to interfere with my pedestrian rights, they were in for a look of death, likely a finger waggle, possibly a full arm gesture and, if I am feeling unusually nervy, a cuss word or two. In this case, I turned to unleash any combination of finger, arm waving and/or cuss word when I found myself staring right into the eyes of my Mother. I would love to say that she was grim, determined, possibly even apologetic looking but instead, I saw what I can only interpret as the face of a woman at peace with the world. So, while I was within a hair's breadth of becoming a stupid, infinitely forwarded, joke email, my mother had achieved SUV nirvana. The best bit is that while I slinked off, head hung low so that no one would notice me, a rather confident and bossy pedestrian took it upon himself to hold up the pedestrian traffic so that my mother could pass. As I hustled away from the melee, presided over by the Good Samaritan Pedestrian, I heard him mutter something about stupidity and gas guzzlers.
I of course quickly called my mother to confirm that what I thought had just happened had actually just happened and I am pleased to announce that my state of shock and near-death experience was of no interest whatsoever to my mother, however, she did express great concern that I not tell anyone in the family about the "incident" and of course, I am keeping my promise...
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