Sassafrass

Postcards from Halloween: Before and after dark

Halloween went, as these divided holidays often do, just fine. Lil E got to spend a few hours in our neighborhood with four other boys (and two toddler girls -- one as a bug and one as a garden gnome...so funny -- who tried very hard to keep up with the super heroes and Rebel Alliance representatives who sped up and down the steps of each house). After a breather of passing out candy to kids from our own front porch, he took off for the suburbs with his dad for more trick-or-treating. 

The next morning, he happily agreed to send his very-full pumpkin bucket of candy back to his dad's house and turned in a big pile of mini chocolate bars we had here for a Star Wars action figure. Not to worry -- there are plenty of Reese's left in our house, but I am loved that the tricks I touted on channel 5 Saturday morning actually worked once Sunday rolled around.

 

 

I also admit I had a great time sipping my treats on Saturday night with one of my favorite grrrlfriends. Although I haven't been out to a bar or adult party on Halloween in years and years, the scene was pretty much the same -- lots of priest costumes, some puke on the bathroom floor, and the obligatory sexy nurse working her way up and down any Mad Hatter, Michael Jackson, or NASCAR driver who came her way.Oh!  And a very drunk shiny cop. It was good fun.

 My favorite costumes of the night? The dude with the baby from "The Hangover", Billy Ray Cyrus and one of the Texan polygamist's wives. The cult wife costume lady said she just HAD to take a picture with me, which made me think maybe we both were dressed as people being lured to the Dark Side. 

Despite my failed prediction that there would be a lot of Balloon Boys and Kate Gosselins, there was a Mr. Incredible who took a shine to my friend. He's apparently looking for just the right lady to wear the Mrs. Incredible costume he has hanging in his closet at home. No, really. I think he might have to keep looking, but I let him try on my Leia wig anyway.

The final pic: Leia's very practical running shoes and the cowgrrrl's roping boots.

The webs we weave

I've posted about this song on Sassafrass before, but the words just keep rolling around in my head today, especially this verse:

Please, remember me
At Halloween
Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white
By midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came
I was ashamed
Only now it seems so silly
That season left the world
And then returned
And now you're lit up by the city

How many times have you been there -- fully invested and engaged in something silly only to wake up worried that it might not have been so wise after all? I've been there. Hell, I may be there tomorrow morning.

As I sit here in my crazy spider stockings and heels way too high for a Saturday afternoon before I put on the Princess Leia wig and turquoise eyeliner, I am wondering why it is that we both are drawn to and rue the costumery of Halloween so much. I am trying -- trying, trying -- to live more fully in the present, and today I think that could mean a little more self-mockery  and possibly more fun than I have on Halloweens past.

What would you do this All Hallows Eve if you weren't worried that it would seem silly tomorrow?

(Why yes, that is my tool box in the background. Just because a grrrl likes patent leather peep toes, she is not discluded from also loving power tools and levelers.)

Click here to listen to "The Trapeze Swinger" by Iron & Wine in full.

Friday shoegasm: The shoes that go with every costume

Why yes, Party City does have a shoe department. That is, they have a bunch of extra-whorey shoes crammed in between the rubbery-scars-and-toxic-glue kits and goth wigs that are strangely and accurately styled.

Looking over all of the skeezy costumes some women (who are these women? Not me! Noooo, never *cough* me) feel obliged to squeeze themselves into (this is not a slam on anyone's size...I am not about that. It is a slam on the nasty ass polyester that shows everyfreakingthing and is ever-ill-fitting), I have come to the conclusion that we all need a pair of poorly made shoes that can transition from costume to costume, from year to year.

And so, after much deliberation over jingle bell janky boots and something strange called "sports boots" and gangster booties I am not ashamed to say I would wear on November 1st, the winner is...

White patent thigh high boots!

Are you worried that they are a little too sexy-nurse for your sexy cop outfit? Concerned that they won't complement your Kate Gosselin wig or skankified pirate get-up? Worry not.

After all, according to the savvy stylists at Party City (who apparently need a copy editor more than I do here at Sassafrass), here's how these babies  with the 5-inch heel and stretch glossy patent material will address your dress-up dilemmas: "These boots adds more sexy to any sexy outfit, while giving your silhouette a knock out look!"

See? Solved!

No? Not going to do it for the slutty poly-frock you're going to wear? Dammit! Well, at least they are going to help me work my Princess Leia out after the trick-or-treater is sound asleep at his dad's house.

Now, does Party City make a clutch bag that can fit a light saber?

Final question: For the love of breast enhancement, who in the world would purchase these or these from Party City? I mean, unless you also have to pick up a case of tiny bubbles and orange plastic tablecloths to go along with your cutlets. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Friday shoegasm: It's raining boots

Last week's shoegasm was all about frivolous ankle boots that you don't need but look so good. This week's is all about practicality. Sort of. If you have to slosh around in crap weather, you might as well have shoes with a splash of color, a little heel, or some detail that brings sunshine to your outfit.

Can I get a hell yeah? First, a note about the boots that disappointed, followed by five of my favorite styley galoshes.

Boo, hiss: I really, really wish that I could recommend all of the tempting rocker rain boots made by Chooka. Sadly, my own killer koi tattoo boots cracked irreparably after only one year. If you're willing to buy boots you may only wear for one season, then check out Chooka. If you're looking for investment rain gear, steer clear. Dammit.

Woo-hoo:

Now wedges, which have all they height and girly-glee of a heel with added stability and comfort of not balancing the ball of your foot, just got a little smarter with these rain boots. Won't you look sassy splashing around in these by Sperry Top-Sider? The graphic cuff fabric and steel eyelet adds a little pizazz to the black boot, which also has cozy microfleece lining. $75 on Piperlime.

Check it! Similar styles and colors are wayyy on sale for $49.99 on Amazon.

Aren't these just a little slice of...well, slouchy sweetness? And they're Vans! So it's kind of like the tennies you decorated in 1989, but for wet weather. And trips to Costco. Maybe a crazy, impromptu playdate. $77 on Shoes.com.

Hunter makes the classic, well-constructed rain boot. And while alternagrrrls and farm grrrls alike can rock them in standard hunter green and preppy yellow. But now that Hunter's offering them in cute colors, like this high-gloss violet and lava and (EEE!) silver, why wouldn't you take your classic boot up a notch? $115 on Piperlime and on Zappos.

If you're need your gear to take you from nasty subway station to happy hour, and if you are still digging the wedge-heeled rain boot, check out these babies by Betseyville. Who knew splishy-splashy could also be sessy? Although Betsey Johnson designs are sometimes a wee bit flashy, even for me, I think these boots are hot. Also good? On sale, kittens. $83.99 on Shoes.com.

OK, so I am a little obsessed with my new leather motorcycle boots but there is just no way I am going to wear them out into the slush and puddles. That's why I also now obsessed with glossy, strappy motorcycle rain boots. Who else would have come up with something something so cheeky than the man with the Cheetoh tan, Michael Kors? $129 on Zappos.

This is not a shoe blog: Friday shoegasm

I admit it -- I was not down with the whole ankle boot revival. At least not the funky-shaped, ruffled, slouch, cuffed, convex heeled, Ziploc bag-looking ankle boots that seem to dismiss all the loveliness of granny boots for a shoe that just seems hard to wear, makes short legs look even shorter, and layered cold-weather clothes look even frumpier.

But I am also a big enough shoe whore to admit that I am coming around. Slowly. And to a point. I'm going to reserve my ankle boot-wearing for my favorite jeans and steer clear of piling them over thick tights or leggings. That's just me, though. If you have six-foot legs and can pull that look off, more power to you, sister.

I came to accept the ankle boot more fully when I rebelliously wore sandals last week and ended up with chilly little piggies that were repeatedly, inadvertently dunked in puddle after puddle on the way to my car. "I get it!", I screamed at Mother Nature, who I am convinced is up there somewhere sporting Crocs and holiday socks, "I will put the peep toes away!"

Since I'm not ready to go fully into knee-high boots just yet and while I wait impatiently for the slow-moving barge that is apparently crossing the Atlantic to deliver my new motorcycle boots, ankle boots it is. 

These distressed suede boots by Nine West feed my buckle fetish and are a refreshing change from the same old-same old of black leather. They also happen to match the big old grommeted belt I scored at a Girlfriends Garage Sale last weekend for 8 bucks. At just under $150, they are a bit spendy if you already have a closet full of boots, but I know I'd wear these so much that it would be worth the investment. One more bonus -- the platform will elevate you out of those pesky puddles. Score!

I haven't danced on a speaker in a long, long time. But if I get a chance again, I promise to hike up my Units dress, cover my forearms in rubber bracelets, and pull on these granny boots that have gotten a perfect little patent makeover. I love the red detail and almond-shaped toe (not such a fan of the stunting rounded toe, ladies...not such a fan). OK, OK...these I would wear with tights and the right dress.

I don't think I'd rock full-length boots in metallic leather at the Starbucks or preschool playground. But boots a third of the size? Suuuure. These bronze ankle boots have a sassy little tie that I like to think of as a shoe peek-a-boo when you sit down or cross your legs. Wearing these boots will also give you an opportunity to give all your silver jewelry a rest and let your shoe shine be your main accessory.

Now you: Any thoughts on ankle boots? Yes, no, maybe, already ordering some up?

Just when you thought I couldn't be more chatty

As some weeks go, it has been an on-air one for me. I'm busy talking fall fitness on the radio for my job here -- including one ahh-oooga! ahh-ooga! show with DJs (I kid you not) Wienie and The Butt this morning (oh, the sweet life) -- and am preparing for a few Halloween segments over the next few weeks.

This afternoon, I get to take a break from abs and high-fructose corn syrup rants to talk with the lovely and inspiring Honoree Corpron Corder, author of The Successful Single Mom, and Morgan Day Cecil from ModernMarriedMama. I am thrilled to be a guest on their Blog Talk Radio show, Single Mom Revolution Radio, during the lunch hour today.

We will be talking about the very real heartaches and opportunities of dating and break-ups (and of course, shoes) when you are a single mama. All you have to do is tune in here, dial in  if you have a question or comment, and laugh, nod, or sniffle along with us if you really hear what we're saying. 

If your kids are whining or you can't blast the streaming audio in your cubicle or some phenomenal shoe sale is calling to you, worry not. I promise to post the link to the segment here soon.

In the meantime, fire away the questions you have you'd like to hear us address!

Just a sidebar: My first Blog Talk Radio experience on Single Minded Moms Radio was so positive and empowering and led me to become friends with the very talented Matt Logelin and made me raise my hand in sisterhood with Alaina from Ms. Single Mama and Jessica from OSoloMama. I just chose not to discuss dating at that time. Now, kittens, I can spill all the details freely.

This is not a shoe blog: The best shoes always return to you

Long before I turned a corner of my home into a cubicle, I worked downtown, just around the corner from three shoe stores. THREE! SHOE! STORES!

I bought many pairs that were ridiculously uncomfortable, launched me from earning a salary to getting disposable income deposit into my checking account every two weeks, and eased the misery of working for a nonprofit. Among those shoes purchased to justify my swanky downtown professional existence in a dusty building with a squeaky elevator that always smelled like hot dogs, was a pair of beautiful, plum-colored suede shoes. They tied with a big black grosgrain bow and made me feel like a flapper when I pulled them over black, black tights and with a flitty black chiffon dress.

I adored those purple suede lovelies and it pained me to add them to the consignment bag last year when I purged 42 pairs of shoes from the plastic tubs under my bed. I hadn't worn them in years when I said goodbye to them. As pretty as they were, their time had long past.

Those shoes -- like my blue shark skin (seriously, real shark skin) Mary Janes from first grade, my granny boots and combat boots and first pair of pink knee-high leather boots, and more recently, my red peep toes -- have a special place in the closet of my heart.

That's why I gasped a little when I saw them again, only now updated and higher heeled and designed by Diane von Furstenberg and even more fabulous. So, so pretty.

And since I am certainly not above a good knock-off (or at least a really good alternative), I also am delighted to see the spirit of purple suede past alive in these booties by a very highly regarded designer at (shhh) Payless for a fraction (this is about shoes, kittens, not math) of the price.

Either would be adorable with thick tights, or a fitted wool or sweater dress, or even with jeans. And I am pretty sure one of those pairs is going to be on my feet very soon.

When Monday finally fell

My Monday began at 1 a.m. I intended to be in bed much earlier. To have a long bath, maybe even really read the words in Real Simple magazine rather than just rub my fingers over the pretty, pretty pictures. Instead, I was making a ham sandwich on a mini bagel for Lil E's lunch, filling a snack bag with fishy crackers, trying desperately to think through the cloud of exhaustion rising up in my brain to come up with a poem and drawings to decorate the daily note I tuck in his "Attack of the Clones" lunchbox.

I couldn't do it. I was too tired and the note would have to wait until morning.

Ahhh, morning. Six short hours away. Five, by the time I straightened up, washed up, crawled into bed. It was not the restful sleep I needed, and it was my own fault for staying up to do more work and talking than I really needed to. Rather than dwell on what I could've/should've/blahblahblah, I put on a dress and red lipstick. My 4-inch heels didn't hide my tired eyes, but they helped me walk -- or run -- through my morning.

I sped through breakfast, coffee, traffic, preschool drop-off. From there, I headed downtown for a blogging event. I hunted for parking while on the phone with my mom, devising a list of party supplies for Lil E's birthday. I rushed into the event, drank more coffee, caught up with mama bloggers I haven't seen in a long time.

Although I had lovely mini-massage and a de-stressing cool stone eye treatment, I couldn't shake the tired-hyped feeling. I listened carefully during the presentation, asked questions, tried only to peek under the table a few times to survey the shoes of the women sitting around me. But my attempts to be quiet and still were disrupted when I knocked over my champagne glass, slashed my thumb, made everyone turn and look, and a few run for tissues, a bandage, a trash basket.

As the event wound down, my parting conversations took on a happy but high energy. I pulled myself away, rushed out the door, rounded the corner, and looked up to see the meter maid placing a ticket under the windshield wipers on my car. I was hurrying. I was too late.

The rest of the day had this pace. I felt pulled to get away from my laptop, turn off the noise, go for a long walk to stretch my legs and quiet my thoughts. But there was too much to do, and pretty soon, there was preschool pick-up and a trip to the park, dinner, laundry, a bath for the boy, and bedtime.

I only stopped when I had to.

Then, the stillness came as it often does, curled up with my boy in a single bed, with a book and kisses on damp hair, prayers of thanks for whatever kind of day it was, the same songs I sing every single night. Wrapped in each other, time unwinds, worries ease, everything seems to float out of the room. Nothing is left but the shallow breath of this child against my chest, the darkness, hours ahead to let everything else go.

There are some nights when I wish I had a partner to turn to, to ask to please go in and see why the kid is still not asleep. There are early morning hours when I have cursed the world that I am cleaning up wet sheets or tending to a sick child all alone. There are times when I wish there was someone listening adoringly on the other side of the wall while I am singing lullabies. 

Most nights, though -- this Monday night -- I wanted that bedtime all to myself. I wanted to soothe my son to sleep with the safe, happy routine that share nearly every night. I also wanted it to soothe me. Just for me. I wanted it to make the $50 parking ticket and big Band-Aid on my bloody thumb and blogging mania all disappear while we read about Henry and Ribsy, while I pulled him close to me, while I drifted off for a little while.

The work would wait another ten minutes. All of my choices aren't exactly right and I know I don't control very much anyway. No matter the mayhem, I can choose to end the first day of my work week in exactly the way I wanted to begin it. I can do that.

Some people write strongly worded letters: My own little way of flipping off Mother Nature

I had a thought this morning at 8:17 when the thermometer on my porch read 57-degrees: I hope that I haven't jinxed away the last drops of summer by ordering cold-weather boots.

As tempting as it is to think that my shoes have the power to bend the meteorological happenings of the planet, I really do recognize that I only react to the weather.

Even after those boots arrive on my doorstep, I will be reacting by wearing my sandals and peep toes until snow makes my little toes numb (as opposed to the normal numbness that comes with the height of the heel and squeezey point of the toe). My feet need to feel the breeze, even if it is frigid. Look at them today. My feet think it is Fourth of July and I'm out scrambling for back-to-school supplies and fleece jackets.

Taking the stance that I will be wearing my summer shoe wardrobe absolutely as long as possible also means I can procrastinate hunting around in my basement for my winter wardrobe. I adore every one of the sweaters and wool dresses and pairs of closed-toes in the big box marked "COLD WEATHER HELL GEAR" but the thought of just makes me feel whiny and stifled now.

Of course, it is only the first of September. And, who knows? It could be 90-degrees tomorrow. We could have a heat index of a gazillion after Labor Day. Sure, it's a tad too hopeful, but it has happened before. There could also be a blizzard (knock wood platforms). Either way, I won't be hunting around for my clicky-clicky summer shoes. Oh no. Regardless, they will already be on.

Just about the only thing that's going to make me OK with it being fall during summer

It's the end of August and for days, it has been the middle of October. I'm not OK with it. I want sticky, hot humidity that outwits hair straighteners and car air conditioners. I want sunburns and mid-day clothing changes. I want blissful, blissful sunshine blazing at a heat index of 412-degrees.

Instead, it is raining. A lot. We are freezing in our central air and I refuse to give up my sunglasses, even if it there is a 10 p.m. overcast darkness at noon. 

So what is keeping me going when the last before-back-to-school hoorahs of hours at the park and walks by the lake and trips to the nearly closed Kiddieland are foiled and we just end up watching a lot of crap "Phinneas & Pherb" or playing endless games of Clone Troopers vs. whatever lady Star Wars character I plead with Lil E gets to use a light saber just this once? I'm not going to lie -- it's shoes.

Specifically, it is a pair of boots. This pair of boots. A pair of boots I tried on in Portland, walked around in at a cute little store while wearing a sundress and heat rash. In the moment, I was too lazy to carry one more thing on the plane ride home with me and too frugal to give a commission to the eager sales woman who hastily scraped the hell out of my calf insisting on zipping them up for me, and so I didn't buy them. But when a gorgeous 84-degree day in Chicago suddenly turned into a thunderstorm, I got online and finally tracked them down here.

Sweet relief.

Oh, friends. Look at these the lovely, lovely leather beauts. Not only are they tall, sleek, and bad ass, they are waterproof -- perfect for my rigorous commutes from my front door to the car across the preschool playground and back again. Won't those 4- and 5-year-olds think I am something? OK, no. But it will make me feel better about not having a proper summer after a winter that hellishly lasted until June 17th.

Just don't judge me if I am wearing them with a sundress and some aviators. Or if I still am carrying my flip-flops around in my bag, just in case.

A word to the shoe whore wise: These boots are not for the full of calf. And according to the fascists who design boots these days, anyone with calves bigger than their wrists are considered full of calf. I detest this. Not enough to stop buying leather boots, but I detest it. These do adjust a bit at the top and the sales lady who ripped up my legs assured me that she has a pair and they stretched to accommodate jeans. I have absolutely no information about the thickness of her jeans, but I am going to give that 22-year old stylista the benefit of the doubt.

Just one sister trying to save our soles

Do you remember the advice I doled out so confidently about how to make sure your tootsies survive BlogHer? Not only did I give it out, I actually followed it (this time).

To prove it, I've posted the here. The proof, which was burny and blistery and properly and immediately bandaged by the 400 Band-Aids in my bag, and then cushioned by the sweet relief of flip-flops-in-waiting, came from a delightful night spent blissfully wearing whore shoes to party after party packed in the hotel.

Sure, some of you giggled at my feet swathed in plastic strips, but the pain in my soles subsided long before the pain in my temples (damn hotel conference room air).

How about you, BlogHerz? How are your feet feeling a few days later? And for those of you walking around in sassy shoes in your life, what are your best sole-saving tips? Share, share!

7 ways to make sure your feet survive BlogHer (or any other big event). Especially if you insist upon wearing sassy shoes

You are all on your way to BlogHer, if you are not already here. My own BlogHer began last night, sitting around a table with some of the women who inspire me, support me, and make me laugh, think, and tear up the most. These are my friends. Seeing them was like finding my way back to the circle with my tribe.

One of them, the illustrious and lovely CityMama, challenged me to do a post of shoe recommendations for BlogHer. That was weeks ago. It has yet to be written. But I will tell you that I was shocked to see that the Crocs sandals she swore up and down to me really were cute but that I skeptically had to see in person actually (God love you, honey) really were cute. They are red and strappy and very sassy. She also swears they are comfortable, but only two days tromping through a giant hotel and around the city to an endless string of parties will reveal that (usually counted in number of gummy blister bandages).

Since your shoes are already on your feet, packed tight in your bag or lost at O'Hare somewhere, I will offer you these  7 tips for gracefully sashaying through the BlogHer weekend. Remember, kittens, hangovers subside but callouses are forever.

Do break in your shoes. I know you don't want to hear this and I know you will probably ignore me. But do know that even one night of clomping around your hotel room can help break in your shoes. Even more importantly, it is enough time to develop some red flags streaked across your toes and heels that will tell you exactly where to strategically place Band-Aids when you put them on to actually leave the room.

Don't worry if someone stops by for a libation or some pre-conf goss. If they've been to BlogHer before it won't even faze them why you are wearing clicky shoes with your yoga pants and last year's swag t-shirt.

Do fill your toiletry bag with Band-Aids and blister bandages. And not the generic kind that are way cheaper. Trust me. You will regret it. Instead, opt for the good kind. Band-Aids that are plastic-y (not the fibery ones or clear ones) that match no one's skin color stay put the best. When you are choosing blister gear, get the bandages that are gummy and protect existing boo-boos as well as prevent rubbing. You feet's pain and misery is well worth the eight or ten bucks you throw down for them, trust me.

Do buy a package of cushy inserts to take with you. I wear heels a lot, so I have a stock of these at the ready in my shoe organizer. If you don't pick up a package of three when you are buying Band-Aids. I recommend the pre-shaped ones you don't have to cut (recognizable as the cheap kinds, once again) that have adhesive tape to easily fit (and stay) in your shoes. If you do not use them, do stash them in your bag. If the balls of your feet start burning or your shoes unexpectedly start slipping off your heels mid-day, you will thank the goddesses of all things shoe whoreish that you have inserts handy.

Do carry a pair of flip-flops in your bag. I will not do the sensible thing and wear flats or tennies, so I will be sure I have relief in the form of flip-flops with me at all times.

Do wear wedges if you must wear heels. Wedges have a wider area to distribute the stress placed on the foot from being cranked up in high heels (as opposed to two tiny pressure points of the center of the heel and the ball of the foot). I find that I can wear wedges comfortably for hours beyond the adorable jobbies that look fabulous but are not meant for standing more than ten minutes. I bought a cute pair of satin and cork wedge sandals that I am hoping look and work just as fine with my jeans as with my party dresses.

Don't have any shame about skipping out on a session or meet-up to go up to your room and soak your feet in the tub. Fill the tub with just enough warm water,and bubbles or gel soap, and relax for ten or fifteen while you and your tootsies take a much-needed break. Consider it self-care from the very bottom up. Don't fret about what you are missing since you will re-emerge refreshed, re-energized and ready to stomp it out.

Behind my own scene: Getting ready for the Gabbys

Yes, this is out of order. And yes, I know I am backtracking a bit, and I am sure you will forgive me since I've been all kinds of codeined and ZPac-ed in bronchitis hell. Before I headed off for a fun night of honoring Greek Americans, shaking it a little bit to the "voice of Greece" Glykeria (whatever this woman is doing in the motherland is working...she's 54, looks amazing and clearly has fireball energy), and wishing I could have squeezed my camera into my overstuffed clutch so I could bring you all pics of the phenomenal shoes I observed on lovely Greek lady feet, I turned my bathroom into a salon while Lil E documented Mommy "getting so so fancy."

Here's the scene, from his vantage point. [After the jump as not to overload the old blog with bathroom pics.]

Why yes, this is the gift I got myself for Mother's Day

If you haven't seen it already, I've probably whacked you with it trying to make my way to ginormous boxes of Kleenex at Jewel or doing a quick-step through the aisles to see if the too-high shoes are still in stock. Sorry about that.

It really is a bit too big, but the lovely little zipper pockets and pretty print lining make all that room and "So sorry, so sorry"-ing I've been doing in public since I started carrying. I bought it with the intention of having it on hand as a little overnight or carry-on bag, but then I got to excited to stash it in the closet. Plus, there's one whole side that is, as I type, holding:

* 3 Transformers

* 1 bag of cheesey pretzels

* 1 camouflage-print junior baseball glove

* 1 medium-sized cosmetic bag filled with restaurant crayons, some of the hundreds of pencils acquired at birthday parties and preschool class functions, Wet Wipes, stickers, old business cards perfect for scribble defacing, and hand sanitizer

* 6,000 announcement sheets and Scholastic order forms stuffed in Lil E's preschoool cubbie

* 5 miniature Star Wars figures -- Young Obi-Wan , Captain Jag and Paycune(could that possibly be right? I spend so much time talking about this stuff, I just do not have the energy to Wikipedia it...again), Anakin and R2D2

That doesn't even count the many shades of lip gloss, receipts, BlackBerry, cell phone, water bottle, wine opener (not normally in my purse, but as a just-in-case for a BYOB trip last week), CD mixes to try to remember to play in the car, and too many fuzzy, bent up, barely legible Post-Its -- all over on my side of the bag.

It has that funky and fabulously out-of-budget Orla Kiely vibe (and might actually inspire me to hunt down some of the Target wares that I swear were taken out of the kitchen cabinets of my family's one-step-up-from-camping hippie farm weekend house we shared with four other families in the 70s and 80s...and speaking of, where is that set of happy face tumblers?). My bag is by Franco Sarto (also a brand to love). Although it retails for $79, far less spendy than Orla Kiely handbags, I got it for (eeee!) 40 bucks on clearance at Marshall's. FORTY BUCKS!

So yes, I am happy to haul little boy gear and cheesy whatnots in it with my lip gloss set that cost almost as much as the whole mama purse. And I am very happy I bought it for myself to celebrate working hard, loving big, having fun, and the damn Potocin that was force-pumped into my veins in this journey through motherhood.

If you like, it will be my pleasure to show you how thrilled the bargain and bag by accidentally knocking you out of my way or carrying any Star Wars crap you have shoved in your pockets.

This is not a shoe blog: I can't believe I am going to say this

I saw these red (red!) Jessica Simpson heels marked $29 ($29!) and I am pretty sure I fell back a few steps. A flash of images (OK, outfits) raced through my mind.These shoes with my good ass jeans, these shoes with my favorite little black summer wear-to-weddings dress, tthese shoes with...oh hell, who are we kidding here? Yoga pants, pajamas, that little velcro-ey towel thing you must have when you want to emulate the Real Housewives of anywhere.

Even better, they were my size (no layers of inserts!) and they fit like a glove and felt like butter oozing around my foot. They were perfect.

Except for one thing. They were too high (too high!).

Killer price, killer fabric, killer style, killer size, killer heel. No, really. My chances of dying while simply walking from my front door to the car in these shoes is extremely high.

I say this as a person who is more uncomfortable in kitten heels than gigantic Frankenstein-height whore heels. As a person whose arches ache when I wear flats too many days in a row. As a person who will gut out a stiletto without flinching.

But these babies were just too high for me.

I think I shed a tear as I placed them tenderly back on the shelf, knowing they'd be oozing their buttery goodness on someone else's foot within minutes.

Jessica Simpson, with your heels so fatal and beautiful, why do you hate me so? Why?

And shoes, if you happen to still be waiting out there for me on that desperate clearance shelf, can you please come with an invitation to some kind of sit-down dinner? Please?

And then there was the big, bedazzled divorceabration

There was a lot to celebrate, well beyond the binder full of paper signed off by a stern judge in January and followed by the paragraph of auctioneer-paced legal jargon and ended with, "The marital union is dissolved. Ms. Ashley, good luck."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. It has taken years for the divorce to take place. It has taken a lifetime to get here. What my mom had in mind when she planned this event all came from a silly conversation we had somewhere in all of the muck and the mire. We needed to laugh and so we started talking about all of the sassy, evil, fun, raw, overdone ways we could get together a bunch women to be happy that I was free of everything that made me (and us) cry, rant, unable to sleep or eat for months, lash out, and eventually leave for good.

Maybe a dance-around bonfire to burn the bouquet? Possibly a dinner party to finally crack open the wedding china? A swanky something? A silly soiree? Whatever it was, it was going to be packed full of grrrl power.

It was a good plan, it was the same reason we were laughing so hard when the pain was the greatest. It would be something to look forward to, it would be a break from the binder, it would be a reminder that life would (eventually) go on. That there would be happy dancing somewhere in the great beyond.

 

The only thing I knew for sure was that I'd be wearing my wedding tiara. Mostly as a sparkly "Goodbye, lovahhh, you so pretty and shiny on my head."

We didn't know how fucking long it would take to arrive in that great beyond, but last Friday, it finally arrived. (It hasn't actually taken me this long to recover...I'm just lazy.) If this all sounds a bit too lovely, do know that the name of the whole shebang was nothing but. 

It started with buttons labeled Vamp, Feisty, Lucky and other great tags. My mom said everyone could pick their own. Except me. Since there wasn't Shoe Whore, I was Too Hot. (Thanks, Mama)

 

Yes, my mother insisted we serve this appetizer she enjoyed calling "Cut Your Own Sausage."

Thanks my friend Viola who I met in drama club in high school (go The Crucible senior play!), we called our night of spa-liciousness and drinks...

...wait for it...

[it's after the jump, swearsy]

Because I'm about 12% sure you still care

And because I am working like a madwoman to catch up on work, personal business and time with my boy, here are some photos from Las Vegas that tell a little bit more (but not all, you know how it goes) of the story and that I imagine you've been dying to see. Admit it, your mind went right there as soon as poor Adam's standing O American Idol performance was cut short on your TiVO. Tears for Fears, y'all! Maybe even better than Tears for Fears. So how about this? You push play on YouTube while you peruse my pics. Trust me, it works.

We played skeeball and got these snazzy rings with the tickets we won. As if just playing a few rounds of skeeball wasn't reward enough, we actually got bling for hurling balls. Life in Vegas is good, y'all.

More pics and rambling commentary after the jump.

Yes, I was in Vegas. No, I wasn't blogging.

I meant to. No, really. Seriously. Stop laughing. I honestly intended to pay the twenty bucks a day to keep you updated on all my hijinks in the first real vacation I've had on this side of single living and only the second I've had since *cough*fiveyears*cough*. But then I went to Vegas and inhaled all that second-hand smoke and got all relaxed by $8 bottles of beer and all overstimulated on the ding of slot machines and the lovely shh-shh of vinyl rubbing 22-year old ass just barely contained by said vinyl, and then...well, clearly it was ovahhh.

Not ovahhh as much as a fun and funny and sparkly and spendy long weekend with one of my best grrrls, Mack, for the wedding of one of my favorite guys (and by guys, I mean boyyyz, which is what I hear all the vinyl-assed kids in Vegas are saying these days).

We hit a show, had a great dinner, got some sun, and did more walking than one should on vacation.

I am sure this will lead you to ask: What is the appropriate number of pairs of shoes a respectable shoe whore should take to Vegas?

The answer's after the jump. More hijinks to follow. As soon as I find the pics of Mack in her brand new vinyl skirt.

This is not a shoe blog: I love knock-offs. Even if they're completely crappy knock-offs.

Remember these lovelies, with just a hint of rhinestones set regally atop red velvet that looks as smooth as butter spread across your sweet little foot?

Yeah, well someone won them. And not only was it not me, it wasn't even someone I know and can buy pomtinis for until they acquiesce and let me wear them out or even around the apartment for a while.

No no no, it's fine. Really, it is. The winner is probably used to lacing up some Rocs and power walking laps around the mall with the girls, so think how much sassier she's going to look passing by the 14-year old onlookers at Claire's and Aunt Annie's.

Come to think of it, the winner would have to receive email alerts from Salvatore Ferragamo, so I'm going to make the big leap and assume she isn't truly a Rocs wearer. Probably more like Naturalizer or Aerosoles. (Allow me to let down the judgy front for just a moment to admit that both these brands do have some way-cute styles that I would  totally wear and even some I wear all the time...cross my most sensible kitten heels).

So if I can't have those red velvet cinematic wonders, why not have some that come close? That's what I thought as I trolled my favorite online pump pimps for knock-offs. Happily, there are many beautiful red velvet shoes out there, some of which I might be able to pay off over the next year or two. Sadly, the more budget-friendly the shoes I found were, the more I felt my stomach sink in the same disappointment I feel whenever I see similar spreads in magazines. Let's face it, the designer ones always look a gajillion times better/fancier/more fun to put on for a night out. Why is that? Someone call Jessica Simpson('s shoe people) and get them a bolt of scarlet crushed STAT!

In the meantime, here are the knock-offs I found, counting up to what I think is the best option for those of us unwilling to hunt down that contest winner and rip the ankle straps right off of her. What do you think? Passable or just pass?

Je suis fameuse. Or at least my shoes are.

Rachel from Single Mom Seeking is talking about opting out of Valentine's Day over on MomLogic. And somehow, me and my pretty little pumps made it into the post. Thanks for the (shoe) love, sweets.

And here's to a very clicky, very happy day no matter how all you single (or otherwise) mamas (and papas) are celebrating (or not)!

(I know, I know...the heels pictured here are totally janky. That's not helped by the fact that they're made by "Promiscuous." But if you can't have a bit of foot whoreyness -- whoriness? whore-iness? -- on Valentine's Day, when the hell can you?)