Sassafrass

This is not a shoe blog: Because in order to stop talking about knockers, I need to talk about shoes

The rain clouds have cleared and the sun is calling me away from my laptop. Or at least, away from my work on the laptop. It's Friday, so that means a happy hour of shoe perusal will light me up more than a pom mojito and hefeweizen chaser.

And why not? My work today has centered on posts about bedtime routines, Mischa Barton's cellulite, sunscreen and getting your roots done in a timely manner -- how much more demanding can my day get? Clearly, it's time to knock off the hard work (not to mention the knocker talk of previous posts) and end this week once and for all. So, on to shoes and to four foot-focused questions that have really been on my mind this week:

First, with the birth of Jamie Lynn's bundle of love and adorably inevitable dysfunction, I'm wondering what flip-flops y'allses are wearing this summer? You know, around the $3 million crazy compound or park or trailer park or whatever. I picked up five pairs that are cheap, cute and can be trashed recycled as easily as any Spears sister (oh snap).

 
Second, no matter how cute they might be, is there any way in hell you think you could feel good about wearing Playboy brand shoes? Is there any little possibility -- no matter how cute -- you could wear these wedges without feeling like you also need to apologize incessantly, get a Brazilian and then take a long walk on the beach while enjoy your favorite thing, the smell of fresh rain?

Third, in the words of the ever-articulate Jessica Simpson, "Oh. Mah. Gaw." It is official (this is me talking now, not that other Jess), Re-Run from What's Happening officially comes in a shoe. Or will in the next few days at a muffin-top-XXXLowRise promoting teen retailer near you.

Fourth and final and speaking of Our Lady of Romance and Inappropriate Fathers, how is it that she's so not good at singing and stuff and still makes such sweet, sweet shoes? You do think she  produces all her own preliminary shoe sketches, don't you? Don't you? (How long do these lovelies need to whisper my name before I finally allow them to come home with me and live on my closet floor?)

Now you stomp it out: What shoe snark are you pondering today?

Oh my God, I'm alive! And now back to our conversation about boobs

Last week, last week. Ohhhh yet another last week. I'm not sure if I've ever let this little blog stay alone for this long, but it was one of those weeks filled with so much work-kidstuff-daycare mayhem-Denise Richards reality TV-blahblahblah that it had to be done. Now, where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about tits.

(This is the part where my mom rolls her eyes and says, "Lovely, Jessica," which is really more like "Jess-i-cuhhh!" and is inevitably followed by her description of it clearly being Jackass Driving Day with invitations being handed out to all the dumb shit drivers on the road. I mention this only because her kind of potty mouth is the perfect - ahem - pairing for my breastage terminology. So...back to tits it is).

Many months ago at a lovely little blog gathering, Jeanne listened to my long and complicated divorce story and then told me that pursuing younger men might be a good next move and that I needed to schedule an appointment with The Boobologist immediately. And really, how can you pass up solid advice like that?

(Keep reading about our racks after the jump....you know you want to).

Booooooobs

Nothing like a Monday morning to really get the grrrls perky. And when I say the grrrls, I mean THE GRRRLS and the grrls.

I'm off to the Boobologist, not only a nicety because I am a nearly-divorced lady who could always use a little extra oomph!, but also because I'm (ahem) hanging out with two of my favorite blogger women friends.

Feel free to use the comments to guess who and to weigh in on whether it is better to wear your best bra when you visit someone who refers to herself as the Boobologist, or your most pathetic, especially if the point (oh God) is to come out of their looking rackalicious. Any thoughts?


Ta-ta for now!

This is not a shoe blog: What would it take for you to spend three-hundy on some hawt shoes?

Because these are dangerously close to the shoes in my banner (look up, kitten).

Not in a matchy-matchy, super-perfect wedge heel way. More like, in the spirit of close-to-over-the-top-edness and retro-ish  shoe whorey lust.

I have been searching for those shoes (keep looking) since the day that snazzy little pic was placed up there like the crown upon the head of the reigning Queen of Sassdom.

And if they are as close as it's going to get to the pinky platformy blistery-but-so-worth-it goodness on my blog, does buying them count as a business expense? (Go ahead, laugh with me as I pretend that I could possibly ever in a gazillion years and shoe purchases itemize this little nook on the internets).

Oh, I want. I want.

Just in case you want to actively contribute to the childhood obesity epidemic in this country

Buy this for your kid.  Hurry! Before it gets too hot or the kids get too busy driving their mini-Jeeps aroudn the park instead of running or, God forbid, hanging from monkey bars.

Oh, but first, before you pull back any requirements that he actually lift his arm and turn in order to lap up all that ice-cream whereby removing any activity whatsoever involved in the calorie and goodness consumption process, be sure to pop in a DVD of Scooby Doo or something similarly uneducational and anti-brain-engaging.

Happy summer, kids!

 

Grocery or Gabbana?: More shoes I found on Facebook

I can't help it. I'm apparently a social network advertiser's afternoon delight. I see the shoe ads over and over and over and get pissed because they're there all customized-like and taunting me. Then four minutes later, I'm clicking like I have a J-lo shoe budget and a Kimora closet to hold them all.

Now that you've weighed in on whether these gold numbers are Hoochy or Hawt, play along with another gold pair that desperately need your attention.  Or at least your judgment. Feel free to be harsh. These aren't people or ethical decisions, kittens. They're freaking shoes. Gold shoes. They need your stern eye and sense of style-entitlement.

Today's game is called (cue the band):

                    Are these shoes
                    good for the grocery store
                    or should they be saved for
                    a Saturday celeb brunch
                    with Debra Messing and Demi Moore?

                    (see these babies after the jump)

Hoochy or Hawt: What do you think of these shoes I crave?

Remember how this is not a shoe blog? Well, it's still not. Just humor me, kittens. Humor me and play along in the game.

You know...the game where I finally give in to effing Facebook and click the customized ad for Betsy Johnson and other adorable and completely compellingly clickable shoes and find twelve pairs of $350 heels I feel are imperative to my quality of life. Particularly, post-marriage quality of life.

While I am too committed to (gulp) financial freedom at this point (look at me, all Suze Orman and what-not) to buy all of the shoes I lust after (or rather, any $350 pairs), a grrrl can dream. And strategize. And call on all the fabulous women she knows to answer:

Are These Shoes Hoochy or Hawt?
(you can see them shine after the jump) 

A new word in the boy's vocabulary: Commando

As if all this and this talk wasn't enough, this weekend I introduced Lil E to a very important component of, if not healthy, then happy living.

Yes, it was about the joys of being undie-free. Of course, he is a kid and a boy and he has long known the joys of running through the house nakey, waving some parts and jiggling others and planting others on my parents' leather couch. Of course.

And of course, I've pulled off a sweaty overnight Pull-Up and replaced jammies bottoms or comfy pants without Lightning McQueen or Elmo or blue dinosaurs or red cement trucks plastered across the cotton plastered across his nether-regions.

But this weekend, as I slid the purple fleece pants over his little nakey bum before breakfast and morning shows and making soy butter and jelly sandwiches, I whispered a secret of undie-defiance to him.

"Do you know what it's called when you don't wear underwear?" I asked quietly.

Someone give me a vanilla topic to blog about and cancel my business card re-order

The other night I was having a very fun, very casual conversation with a few moms I know well (but not too well) and the topic of my blog came up. Ohhh yes.

It's not that I brought it up. I've learned. Believe me, I've learned.

It's not that I hide what I do, but I'm not exactly wearing the "I'm blogging this" t-shirt and reciting my URL every time someone asks if I'm SAHM, WAHM or what. Apparently, the culprit this time was the kid. Apparently, he brought it up to the husband of one of the moms that I was "probably at home buhhh-logging." This was likely said with an eye-roll that my astoundingly adept three-year old can produce with high drama and on cue all too well and the dad found it funny enough to share with his wife. Fast forward to the conversation, my job as a blogger, blah blah.

And it ended up after some nice questions and lovely interest in my career (who doesn't love that, right? -- especially after spending so many days answering questions only about why the Dragon Tales dragons talk and are made in such awkard color combinations or where eye boogs come from), that I gave her my card.

Ohhh, my card. With that blasted URL. Perhaps, perhaps she is like most of us (me, but maybe no one else) and will shove the card in her purse and never give it a second thought until she has to use it in a moment of desperation to wipe her child's incessantly runny nose (great...I just referred to two varietals of mucus within sentences...that is just freaking phenomenal).

Regardless, what do I do in response? I get right up the next morning and write  a post about phone sex and vibrators.

As the (ahem) gracious and (oh no) talented Jessica Simpson is so fond of saying: Oh. Mah. Gaw.

What was I thinking? What in the hell was I thinking?

You see? This is why I don't give out my URL. This is why I force two or three of you to Google me to find out what goss I am spreading. Seriously. I may have some kind of problem.

So yeah, that's nice, right? A sweet, smart mom (any one of them whom I would love to be better friends with) hops on and finds all that goodness a-waiting her.

Not that I take it back. No no no. I do a check in before every publish and I usually do hit that button with gusto. But I feel a little like I am a sixteen-year old who has just been told by her Gap manager to please go back to stocking v-necks (crew necks, scoop necks, ballet necks) in the back and to kindly please STOP SCARING THE CUSTOMERS.

There it is. Clearly, there it all is.

Grrrlfriends, raunch and delicious dilemmas: Just another Thursday morn

Just got a call from Lulu, my dear friend from the days of Women Studies graduate school yore. My friend who was forever on a miso soup and scotch detox diet and had this crazy/strangely compelling idea of (this is the point when all relatives must look away, at least until the third paragraph) fashioning a vibrator to a suction cup and then attaching it to a pedal-operated trash can to really...ummm...well, you get the picture (and I know you have a picture). How could I not love her?

You know it's a good night out with the grrrls when...

*  Two days before your big day, you throw out the idea of meeting up for a birthday celebration to the women who hold work/family/social schedules that rival Hillary Clinton (minus the sensible suits and matching scarves but with just as much of the "What colorist gave you those killer highlights, mama, and can I snag her card?!" talk I imagine Hill to have with her grrrls) or at least Lindsay Lohan, but without all the drugs and rehab and stringy hair and leather leggings (OK, maybe one Halloween there were leather leggings, but that's long been forgiven and archived with the photos of bi-level haircuts).  And this time, taking into account seventh grade baseball season openers and  breastfed babies and boyfriends and commutes to the waaaaay south side, it works and all the grrrls are there in one circular naugahide booth together.

*  When we get to the heart of the matter, bullshitless, no dance around the big matters with idle chit chat or courtesy smiles. When we ask outright about honeymoon babies and engagements and why in the world one of my grrrls won't let her man-friend keep so much as a toothbrush at her place...after dating for years, where in the world to find a bra like that one that keeps those other grrrls up prominently and in place.

*  When the discussion goes to having such a raging and naughty appetite while pregnant that, even when you can't see around your belly and frankly don't even care who is under there, you are still going for it with vigor only weeks before the baby is born.

* When the conversation then turns to a complete and total disinterest in being touched by whomever that was underbelly once the baby's born, being breastfed and claiming every bit of energy you have to offer.  And gentle reminders that those feelings do end. Not for a long time, but they do indeed end.

*  When a table circled with sassy, sophisticated, savvy women is hysterical while one grrrl admits she has a no-poop rule with her sisters -- her beautiful, professional, equally sassafrass sisters -- at her sleek new condo. Why? Because they have reputations of being (ahem) regular toilet cloggers and she will have none of that, thank you very much. And you know what? You all get the rule completely. Totally get it. You think it is hilarious, but you do get it.b (And yes, this is the stuff that makes my grrrlfriends wrestle the bloggy notepad from my purse while I'm ordering another Newcastle. They know who they are, and they know they don't hate me, just understand the need to monitor me. Closely).

*  When you all know there are gimlet get-togethers and those evenings when you all had your nails did and martinis are in order, but that this night, most of these nights are clearly about the beer. Nothing too fancy, nothing that you can't pronounce, simply good beer. Oh, and not the giant cans of PBR the hipsters in the corner are drinking and who you can't stop staring down for being so striped knee-high, Arcade Fire-loving, thrift-store-looking but really $48 t-shirt-wearing, girls-in-skinny-jeans, boys-in-skinnier-jeans ridic.

* When one of your grrrls picks you up, one drops you off and they all get you gifts you would have picked out for yourself but probably not bucked up to buy. When they know you -- maybe not always the everyday details -- but in the same way they did when you were dancing on platforms at Medusa's, sneaking Malboro Lites and crushing on boys you all still squeal with disbelief because they are gay gay gay.   

*  When they still get you -- even though you've changed and evolved and grown up, sometimes together and often quite separately in your own parts of the city, the country and your very different lives -- and remind you of it with winks and inside jokes that are going more than twenty years later and with the kind of prodding and support only those kinds of grrrlfriends can offer after so much time of seeing each other through.

*  When you all intersect, even after being in such different places, by being mothers and stepmothers, married and separated and single, working and staying home and somewhere in between.   You may not huddle together in a bathroom stall to wait for the results of pregnancy tests, scribble notes to boys or whisper over who is on the pill or who has your Girbaud jeans, bitch about after-school jobs as lifeguards and babysitters and telemarketers, talk honestly about sex in cars and seven-hour hair braids and blossoming boobs. But you meet anyway, or when and how you can. The words are different and the conversation is strikingly the same.

*  When you can all get on the dance floor and work a Depeche Mode song like it is 1989 and you are on fire and afraid and all shaking it, singing it, sharing it together.

When you live with retired folk, this is the kind of shit you have to listen to

I work from home. Rather, I work from my parents' home. My parents are retired and so they have adorable weekly outings to breakfast at the local pancake and club salad place, then head off to Costco and the grocery store and if my mom is feeling saucy, the dollar store. Sometimes, they get a baked chicken wrap and 35-cent Diet Coke at Costco. Every week, though, they are home in time to see Jeopardy and finish reading the paper.

Did I mention they like to stop in wherever I am working and offer up little tidbits of news or brainstorms or show me the thousands of listings of apartments they download for me? They do.

Does that sound ungrateful? I don't mean it that way. They have also been incredibly supportive, have stepped up generously to help me raise Lil E these last six months and have opened their home to us with no pressure to stay or leave (despite what those listings might tell you). Truly, it has been a blessing.

A blessing for 24 hours minus mayyyyybe one or two interrupting moments. Today, after my dad and I laughed once, twice, maybe three times over this effed up news item, I heard them laughing about it together in the living room several more times and then calling my brother to laugh with him about it. He was doing field work out of town, but they called to yuk it up over the potty lady. I told you: retirement is good times, y'all.

Then my mom popped in politely on me while I worked. I was posting intently, she was full of fifth-grade grrrl giggles. They'd been reading about the prostitute employed by Governer Spitzer. And, no shocker, they'd been giggling about it, probably over leftover chicken bakes. Nothing's more fun that talking hookin' over a late lunch.

"Jess, I have a question about this hooker girl," my mom barely got out over her giggles.

"Yes?" I was suspicious.

"Apparently, she is an aspiring musician with a MySpace page?"

This already captured my attention because my mom barely let call waiting into the house a few years ago and still refuses to believe people need to text message, let alone Facebook or MySpace or mystery shop.

"Yes?" Again with the suspicion.

"Aspiring musician is a good goal for a hooker, right?"

Suspicions and sarcasm confirmed. I waited for the punchline. I got it in...3...2...1...

"My guess is she plays the pipes?!"

Yes, she was, in fact, laughing at her own joke as soon as it flew from her mouth. Not long after, she was laughing at my dad's contribution. She continued.

"But your dad says it's more likely the organ."

Pause. Pause. Near-impossible restraint. And then, yes, full-flown laughter.  Ohhh.

I admit, this one was funny. And sure, they do make me laugh. Sometimes. OK, lots of times. Of course, most of that is over stuff Lil E says but this time...this time, they got me.

Ohhh, the pipes. Ohhh, the organ.

Well-played, you sassy, snarky, news-pondering chicken-bakey retired parents you.

Well-played.

Actively disproving that this is not a shoe blog

Ahhhh, nothing like shoes to make the heart really flutter on the Day Of Love. Suuuuure, a man can bring you flowers and offer you a little bit of late-night romance (oh, for those sweet sweet interludes during Letterman commercials) but a great pair of boots or heels or totally impractical ankle-strap wedges that you are meant to be worn only slightly longer than said interludes last give a grrrl good lovin' like nothing (or no one) else.

Leaping in a little late to the rainboot game, I finally purchased a pair of wellies I've been lusting after for months. Following 418 passes with the shovel, I put my desire for sassy rainboots into the "deserve" category, right there next to the one where I justified a $40 wide silver belt as a "need." After I consulted the appropriate people  to find out if they were worth the money and being told emphatically, "BUY. THEM. NOW," I did. And I am ecstatic that I did. Love them. Love. Them. Love them.

Of course, clomping around my house and Starbucks and random bars in the middle of the day (I kid) in these new faves just inspires to make more wise and near-fetishistic purchases.  Up next? Playing on the metallic thang and my late-70s-rooted obsession with Dr. Scholls one-strap clogs -- remember these beauties that required a great deal of clomping themselves, came in many colors that also registered as "needs," and caused my mother a lot of irritation that I wasn't fully picking up my foot when I walked in order to make maximum clomping impact and was thus ruining the hardwoods in the house? -- are these masterfully updated foiled clogs in not-too-rocker-glam silver.

I agree with Cookie magazine that they are perfect everyday urban mommy wear, paired up with dark, good ass jeans (Cookie only mentions that the denim costs a bedillion dollars, but I like to think that the good ass part is implied as it is so critical to co-op pick-up and drop-off and the fifteenth grocery store trip and inevitable tantrum this week). Who will notice that soy butter stain when your shoes are shining like that?

Clogs give you the chance to really flex those dorky/adorable sock skills you have (also perfected in the late 70s) with just a bit of subtlety perfected this side of your 30s and the millennium, make steps toward that ideal of comfy and styley (read: looking fabu while easily hoisting and hauling the tantruming child), and allow you to clomp up your own hardwoods hassle-free. Perfect, mais non?

I'll be happy to toss the last few years' worth of urban sneakers for some Sassafrass-worthy clogs, at least once the slush disappears and I'm ready to pry the rain boots from my feet.

What's the object of your shoe lust for the spring? I'm all about copy catting, so do share the details, kittens!

Linkety Dinkety Doo: My grrrls

Every week in my soul/sanity/muscle/motherhood-saving yoga class, my teacher begins by asking us to breathe out all we want to release from our week, to give back to the universe. And then she instructs us to breathe in all the goodness we want to fill up that space. This week, the goodness I want to breathe into the corners of my body and spirit comes from the women I know.

Many of you know the women I know. Many of you read them and have playdates with them and work with them. No matter how well or how long these women have been my grrrls, they continue to impress me with their ambition and writing and insights and sassafrassness and kick-assedness, whether they are moving through their own days and worlds or stirring up the tide throughout the universe.

Check these mamas out:

The fierceness and fire that are the MOMocrats.

The confessions and caffeine headaches kicked by Crazed Parent.

Ohhhh, the home reno and the hilarity that is House in Progress.

There is so so so much more of this to come. Well, as soon as I'm all stretched and Zenned.

File this under: Why do I care about this crap?

Superbowl, schmuperbowl. Who played? Who even sang at half-time? Do they even do that in a post-JJ/NI* world anymore? Really, who cares? We have some critical issues that need our attention (or at least mine), kittens.

Like the Chupacabra, the Holy Grail, Stone Henge and how in the world itty bitty capers can pack such a culinary punch, my fascination with these things is oft-pondered (what else are you supposed to do while you're painting your nails and IMing during conference calls?), over-analyzed (no really, my therapist thinks it is fine for me to fork over $125 an hour to discuss the Curse of the Celebrity Spears) and over-shared (mostly during painfully long road trips that require several hours, multiple Big Gulps and more turns through an old Us Weekly and the one unscratched kiddie song CD than any adult needs ever).

Join me, won't you in enabling the concentration on complete and useless crap:

I admit, I didn't just look at Jenna Bush's bridal gown options, I studied them. Sad sad sad. Totally #9, right?

I confess, I'm curious how many crazy folk sent Brit Us Weekly subscription extensions while she's a-wasting time in the get-happy house for the next two weeks.

Honestly, if I can pull myself out of the creepy hypnotic chasm that is Tori Spelling's cleavage, I am slightly mesmerized by her ever-changing belly.

Come clean, you want to know how this wondrous disaster deflated too.

*Janet Jackson/Nip Incident, if you're nasty.

Party of one

I've been nursing a NaBloPoMo hangover and even after the weekend of blissfully not posting, could not make myself get something going for Monday. I'm better now. Or at least happy to be back here.

After putting myself -- and my wedding rings -- out there, I've been amazed at the comments and support that has flooded my screen. While I am still reaching to twist the phantom bands on my left hand on occasion and still getting used to the nakedness I find there, I am glad that part is done. And what I love is that there has been and continues to be infinitely more support and grace and kindness than I ever imagined, most of it offered up when I take a deep breath and reach out with as much honesty as I can muster.

This helped as I pulled the black satin cocktail dress from my closet at the apartment, shimmied into it with a new pair of high high heels, and made my way alone to a good friend's wedding.

First came the Bugaboo, then came the Hushamok. Damn you, Euro designers for invading my cervix's sense of style.

People! I'm nearly un-married. Please don't make a mama's ovaries flip like this. It is way premature. Way, way premature and way, way outside the budget. Even with the shoe allotment added in.

Would it be weird to put a three-year old in one of these? Or maybe get it for the neighbor kid and just stare longingly through their back door at its tres moderne-ness? Anyone want to strike some kind of sick baby-lust deal?

Rockin' Bloggers get drum solos, not just drum rolls

Now that the giddy little giggles and grateful blushing has (mostly) quieted, it is time to pass on the good stuff to the bloggers that rock it like its hot. Give them the love they deserve for all their honesty, humor and general bad-assedness.

I give you, some seriously, snarkily, sassily Rockin' Bloggers:

Rachael at Redsy, for your beautiful, bold honesty and boot lust.

Susan at Friday Playdate and so many others, for your styley shoegasms and offering to deliver scorpions to my *cough* former residence.

Charlene at CrazedParent, for the beautiful pale blue light of kindness that is all around you. That and the scraphappiness that I both envy and adore.

Danielle at Foodmomiac, for your scheming, saucy ways only you could convey by Crackberry.

Zoe at I've Come Undone, 'cause you funny, mama. Plain and simple.

Here's to you, Rockin' Bloggers!

This is how you know you are a true Rockin' Blogger

First, a blogger who you bow down to her for her giftedness, poise, clever humor and kind ways, political rabble-rousing and poignant personal insights, hands you the Rockin' Blogger trophy.

Second, you smile, curtsy and thank God, the scads of people crowded around laptops and clamoring to read your next post your one lovely and occasionally-employed faithful reader (thanks, mom), and the people in the balcony (can people cheer from some kind of virtual balcony...outside Second Life, that is?) and your agent, pimp or fabulous friends across the country who send you emails that say, "I am bossy and I say you must blog this."

Next, you do a little happy dance, or as much as you can in clicky-clicky shoes after years of doing more dancing to the Fruit Salad Salsa than anything with an uh-uh-uhhhh groove that drives you and twelve grrrlfriends to the closest platform/counter top/keg stand. The happy and dancing are firmly rooted in annihilating the bullshit that you would have just been happy to be nominated. Oh, and that the Rockin' Blogger award perfectly matches the decor and so no rearranging or designer hiring will need to be done to accommodate it in your sidebar.

Fourth, you get home, change out of your red carpet finery and into the comfort of yoga pants still well-shaped by your body print, and prepare to share your award with the world. Or at least that one reader.

Then, you stare at your laptop for fifteen solid minutes, trying to figure out how the hell to get that award on your blog without the benefit of an X-acto knife and spray adhesive.  Following this torment, you fire off eight to ten pleading emails to anyone who might listen and respond with kindergarten-level instructions on how to make the pretty badge appear easily.

Next up, the waiting. The breaks to play Scrabulous with seven strangers and your pastor on Facebook, interrupted only by ten to twelve flips over to check any possible email response in between plays.

Finally, the instructions come from someone benevolent and blissfully techied-out. This is followed by a surge of excitement that indeed, you can and will get this mothah after all. Tiny pause to curtsy to reflection of self in laptop screen, then many more minutes trying to work out the "simple" instructions like some God-awful algebra-trig midterm problem (Merciful Isis, please send Lil E a math tutor and the small fortune it will cost to keep her employ as long as necessary for grades, confidence and mama-sanity).

Add to that a rallying cry of you-can-do-eet-ness and many, many irritating attempts to manage, configure, publish, check and republish the fucking award. Curse the instructions. Curse the award. Curse the giver of the award. Curse its adorable pinkness which demands its presence on the blog in the first place. Curse your own rockin'-ness.

And then, by the good graces of the sometimes-forgiving internets and the energies of all the other Rockin' Bloggers out there, something works and the bad grrrl makes it up on the sidebar. You have no idea what you actually did to make the difference and get it there, but baby, it is there. Like a bright and shining beacon. Like a wink and a smile. Like an Oscar above the crappy black and white TV with four channel reception.

You refresh once, twice, three times, just to make sure you aren't dreaming up your success. Just to make sure it stays. You aren't and it does.

And you know what? None of that work and frustration matters. Because that little pink sweetness is just one small reminder of the women you admire, the writers you connect to and the blog that you have that is, like you, right where it needs to be.

Up next, I share the love with my own nominations (and a nice little swag bag with the steps to put that badge up) or the Rockin' Blogger award.

This is not a shoe blog

Or is it? After all, NaBloShoeMo is upon us and although I haven't yet joined (sigh), I may need some sweet kicks to make an appearance in the final days.

Hello, mama! Have you seen the ahhh-freaking-dorable rain boots at PiperLime? Damn you, Gap, with your continuously luring brands marketed at sassy mommies! And damn you for making me wish the rain would come in buckets that last for so many days that I'd feel compelled to buy these rubber lovelies (now there's a term I haven't used since college) out of necessity and not just for indulgent puddle jumping on occasion.

Who knew walks to co-op could be so koi?  So deliciously, delightfully koi?