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?

How you know your friends know you too well

First, she's not only seen your boobs, she's seen the Before Boobs and After Boobs. And she has definite opinions on both (all four? what's the proper numeric assignment on that?).

Second, she needs up-to-the-minute (and preferably texted) information on all things boy-related. This isn't optional and it can be accompanied by snorts or shiraz (either is good). It is a full-on teched-up sixth grade giggle fest, minus the headgear and padded bras (well, on some of us).

Finally, she sends you links like this one. In the middle of the work day, following one conference call and before a deadline. No words, no messages, no witty repartee. Just a link because that's all it takes. She knows you will get why. She knows you will laugh and poke fun and let the sarcastic comments fly but then will surely begin to crave the lovely luciteness, even just for a bit of fun at BlogHer. Or to trade off when one of you finally installs a pole in the playroom, convincing the kids of your intense admiration for the dedicated men and women in the Chicago Fire Department and yourself of the fabulous ab workout pole-robics really is (no, really). Or just to throw on and wrap around and around your calves while posting on...I don't know, natural remedies and inappropriately-named cocktails and toxic baby whatevers. She also knows you won't actually order them (even though the idea of owning a pair of Promiscuous brand anything is overwhelmingly tempting) because you can so feed your newfound bra-lust with eighty bucks.

Yes, she knows you well. Too well, maybe. And that's why you not only heart her back, you're blowing off the rest of the day just to page through Zappos until you find the perfect link to ping back (like these, for when boots are just too...oooohhhh hot...and platforms are still the protocol, which can totally happen when you are a working mom in the big city).

It was what it was: A court update

As it turns out, court is very good people watching. Of course, if you've ever been there, even for jury duty, you know this.

That was the distraction, sitting with my dad for what seemed like a long time but was really just an hour or so, since "only fifteen minutes" is a legal term that means "longer."

And thank goodness for my dad, who occasionally patted my shoulder or grabbed my hand and listened patiently as I reviewed what I would say if I was asked when I stood before the judge.

As it turns out, though, the attorney for the other person in this matter, didn't show up. And without that attorney, we couldn't proceed. Without him, we got a continuance and we left exactly where we were when we got there. Just with less nerves.

I certainly don't want this to be dragged out. I certainly wasn't happy that my time and money were wasted for a few giggles over Creepy Guy who slid in right next to me on the bench.  But I did feel good about being there, being so supported by dad, being confident in how well-represented by my own attorney and in walking out of the courtroom knowing I've fulfilled my part (and so much more).

Everyday, I am trying to move this along, to move forward myself, to settle into my life of thriving and our lives of peace and sweetness and health and joy. It doesn't always work out that way, of course. Hell, it doesn't always work out our way. Some days just are what they are, and that's all they can be. Nothing bigger and shinier and wrapped up in ribbons, nothing less.

Pssst! All shoe notions confirmed with the very sassy red patent peep toes peeking out from my attorney's classic blue suit. I told you so.

It is what it is: Today we go to court

Months and months ago, when I received a court order for a progress hearing on June 2nd to examine the state of my divorce and resolve any of those detailed and seemingly-gigantic divorce issues, it felt like a lifetime away.

But then, for the last eight months out of survival and then sanity and then a need to just be and breathe, I have taken my life in much smaller increments than I did before my marriage crash-landed. For a while,  Wednesday felt like a lifetime a way. Then it was next week, then it expanded slowly from there. Still, though, what I can take on in my calendar comes in little boxes now, not in big grids or multi-month pages to be flipped every so often.

And actually, that is a good thing. It slows me down. It focuses my attention. It keeps me as present as I can possibly be when I'd otherwise have been consulting my calendar and Crackberry (who are we kidding, I haven't taken the time to figure that out yet?!) and looking four or ten or seventeen weeks ahead.

But all that being in the present means that sometimes, things like court dates sneak up and settle into your lap. And here mine is.

I feel good. I feel confident. I feel supported. I feel strong. And I am told I only have to feel that way for the fifteen minutes or so we are in front of the judge.  Then I am free to cry into my dad's chest or stare into a latte or just go back to work. I imagine, it will be -- and I will be -- just fine.

Or rather, I envision it will be just fine. When I leave the court room today, past the half-door separating the seating and the judge's stand, beyond security and back on to the el, I will be one step closer.

One step closer to being done. That could be a long way off or it could be next week. No matter. It's too much to take on regardless of how many days or hours it ends up being until this is finalized and I am free of everything it has been.

I'll just take on today's court date, and keep it right there, with as much as I have and as much as I can pull up. Nothing more, nothing less.



Pssst. As completely Donna Mills on Dallas as it sounds...yes, I will be wearing something fab on my feet. Smart, sassy power shoes (which, for me, do not match in any way the navy Republican suit I was required to wear in my former corporate life) totally impact litigated lady's confidence. I kid you not.

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.

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) 

This is not a shoe blog: Kuh-logs

Kittens, a little slice of loveliness has fallen upon my feet. And for a mama who nearly always has soy butter or the inside stuff from cheesey crackers somewhere on her person, this is heaven.

Heaven in the form of silver (yes, silver) clogs.

They were a birthday gift from a friend who paged back through these lil ol' archives and found my favorite shoe posts and ordered up the shiniest of them as a surprise. Ohhhh, they are making me (and my Russian Navy-painted tootsies very, very happy).

As if they aren't framing my mommy uniform well enough, the very best part is the kuh-lunk kuh-lunk kuh-lunk as my clogs meet the hardwood in the long corridor of our new place.

It's still empty, only a few boxes and framed posters and new beds fill the big open space, and I like the echo of me and my shoes moving from room to room.

When I'm still, leaning against the kitchen counter or sitting in the windowsills and looking out across the rooms, I map out where my furniture will go, plan where to put all the pretty things I am busy packing up in another apartment and at my parents' house.

In that silence, I like what I'm seeing. I'm envisioning our new home, yes. But I'm also envisioning the new life we're moving into. It won't be perfect and it won't be without it's stretches. But in it, there will be lots of sun coming in through the windows -- sun that makes patterns on the floor, floods the color on the walls and reflects on the texture of my new shoes.

There will be corners for each of us, where little metal cars can spin their wheels and pennies can pile up and plastic tools can be put to work. Where scrapbooking supplies might actually be taken out of storage boxes and novels that have been lovingly dog-eared and read and debated sit in stacks. Where photos remind of us of where we came from and moments we're making.

And there will be a long table where our friends can come over for playdates and parties and spontaneous Tuesday night dinners (especially friends who bring shoes...or at least beer...aw hell, juice boxes make us perfectly happy). There will be a rocking chair to cuddle in and a big couch to cozy up in and a welcoming kitchen to laugh and make quesadillas and coffee and quinoa and chocolate cake in.

Here, there will be times to be silent and still, to look out over it all and make plans, rearrange, think inside and beyond the red walls. There will quiet steps and late night padding from room to room to make sure all is calm and safe. And there will be a hallway where there is room enough to take long, confident strides.

Kah-lunking all the way.