These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

I work next to a shoe store. I always walk past it but never go in. We were given discount cards for the store as long as we can provide a work ID, so I thought, "Ok, enough is enough." As much as I hate shopping, I love cheap stuff.

I found a great pair of heels. Here's the problem- Jessica Simpson makes them. I imagine she piles all her extensions onto the top of her head with a scrunchie and hunches over a pile of red patent pleather and leopard print material and somehow manages to cobble up a shoe design from the back of John Mayer's tour bus. Then she ships the mock up to a factory in Japan where John translates her order in Japanese. It's a hobby, but a very lucrative one I'm sure. Somebody's got to foot the bill for all those dinners at Koi and Mr. Chow's.

She's got collagen looks, bleached out real and fake hair, big boobies, never has been caught lip-synching, a cute boy band ex-husband, a tall grammy winning current boyfriend, a wig business, a shoe line, and a hot Dad who has highlights. If I buy those hooker shoes, can they guarantee me that much fabulousness? If so, I'll take two pairs.

Sleeping With The Fishes...

"He's not slow, he's just Southern."

That's what I would say whenever people stopped by to tell me that my Siamese Fighting Fish was not a "quick swimmer". He was a shade of magnificent blue and had gills that expanded with so much air that he looked like he could take on the world. He didn't need to move fast. He was a Prince, and royalty can take their time.

I bought him on Friday. That's right, Friday...and that little dude is D-E-A-D. DEAD. Don't judge me. I can keep plants alive for over a year so this can't be pinned on me. I am a nurturer. I don't even talk shit in front of my plants because I heard or read once that they are sensitive to what they hear, and that's hard for me because I am a shit- talker.

We had 24 hours together me and that little guy. You should have seen the way he lit up an office cube. People couldn't get enough of that guy. I have no idea what he must have gone through this weekend all alone. When I found him he was pinned between the glass on the side of the tank and the rock on the bottom of the tank. Anyone who tells you that you can't die between a rock and a hard place is a damn liar. He lived a solitary life, but he had to have it that way. Johnny at Petland told me so. I bought my little fishy the best tank. The best. He had a water purifier, gourmet Betta food, and a night light to keep him cozy. I spent 54 dollars on that little guy.

People have been kind. They keep me from wallowing in my sadness by filling the silence with small talk and munchies from Pax. They speak of my dear fishy in only the highest regard. People tell me that I did all that I could. Perhaps he missed his home back in...Siam? My boss has even stopped by to say sorry. I'm touched. There is a viewing until 1:00PM proceeded by a flushing/ "burial at sea" shortly after. Then I have to go back to the pet store to get my refund.

Good night, Raleigh "Woofy" McKutchin, my sweet Prince. You were not long for this world.

Miscellaneous...

I wish my Aunt would get a new portable phone for her house. It's so big and has one of those metal antennas you have to pull out to get reception. Every time I dial a number I feel like I am unknowingly typing in a code that will detonate a bomb in some far off place.

Keep Your Head Down and Your Heart Open...

Everything I need to know about love I learned from Renee Zellweger. She has taught me all types of things. The most important lesson being the classic "damsel" pose. Keep your head down but keep your eyes up...kind of like an expectant puppy waiting for a treat. Guys love that pose. She even used it in her wedding photo. So hence, proof that it works. Classic.

The first lesson I learned began with her character Dorothy Boyd in Jerry Maguire. Remember, if your man has a dream, believe in it. What? You want me to leave my job and work for your crackpot agency that may or may not have health insurance? Sure babe. It sounds like an amazing idea! You can do it. I believe. I will defend you to every cynic I know!

Dorothy Boyd: I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.

Cue: Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen

( Remember girls...head down!)

The second lesson I learned was that sometimes your man says some silly stuff when things get bad. If you find yourself in this situation and worry that what he says will have irreperable damage that will cause you to view him as pathetic cut him off and stroke his ego.

Jerry Maguire: I love you. You...complete me.

Dorothy Boyd: Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at "hello."

Cue: Secret Garden swelling to a heartbreaking crescendo.

The third lesson I learned was taught to me by Renee's character Mae Braddock in Cinderella Man. When your man is hurting, let him know that you hurt too.

Mae Braddock: Every time you get hit, feels like I'm getting hit too.

(Seriously, keep your head down or he won't believe a single word coming out of your mouth!)

In addition, Cinderella Man also taught me that even if I understand what my man does for a living, I should never really "get it". That way he always feels like he's a bit smarter. If at any point I feel like I'm getting too uppity I should remind him that he's the king.

Mae Braddock: Maybe I don't understand, some, about having to fight. So you just remember who you are...you're the Bulldog of Bergen and the Pride of New Jersey, you're everybody's hope, and the kids' hero, and you are the champion of my heart, James J. Braddock.

But probably the most important lesson ever instilled in me came from the animated film Shark Tale. Yes, even as a fish named Angie, Renee knows how to get her man. That's no small feat considering the rival fish was played by Angelina Jolie. But Renee did it with the classic, "I was here the whole time" bit. Well played Renee!

Angie: Are you that blind?

Oscar: At least she treats me like I'm somebody!

Angie: Yeah, well would she love you if you were a nobody?

Oscar: NOBODY loved me when I was a nobody!

Angie: I DID!

(See, even if you wind up as a fish suffering from unrequited love, keep your head down. Love will find you!)

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lies, Love, and Lipitor

My mother is big on secrets…sort of. There always seems to be some little piece of information that comes to light that she has been withholding for years that more often than not has little to no importance, but sooner or later I find out about. There was the time in college that I went out with a group of kids from Greece and spoke in Greek with them. When I asked for the bathroom I was asking for the “place”. When I made a joke about a penis (Yes, I have always been a class act) I kept calling it “the thing”. When the kids explained to me what I was really saying I was so embarrassed. I called my Mom to ask her why she taught my brother and I “Baby Greek”. She responded, “Who needs to learn bad words so they can talk like that, anyway?” Huh? Good plan, Mom.

Last night I received a call from my cousin who’s a doctor. My Mom called him because she’s worried about my migraines and cholesterol level. Apparently when it comes to my medical woes, she definitely can’t keep a secret. My cousin tells me that everyone in my family (including my Mom) has high cholesterol and I shouldn’t worry, I just need to get on meds. What? My Mom has high cholesterol? When was she going to tell me? I walk out of the doctor’s office in a panic because he informs me that I have the cholesterol level of a Grandpa who has been eating rare steak and eggs for breakfast for the past 80 years, and she can’t speak up to say, “Don’t worry hon, it runs in the family.” Instead she accuses me of gorging on a wine and cheese diet, and keeps mum on the fact that she’s been on meds for high cholesterol since God knows when.

I get off the phone with my cousin and call my Mom to ask her why she’s failed to mention that high cholesterol runs in the family and she responds with, “Why would I tell you about Uncle Tony, he’s not a blood relative. He married into the family.” Again, WHAT? I call to ask her about her cholesterol and she manages to continue withholding and hang another relative out to dry. Very sneaky. I try to end the conversation by saying that from now on, so that we don’t get sidetracked, we need to have a theme for our phone calls. Tonight’s theme is “You need to disclose immediate family medical history starting now”. I ask her to repeat the theme to confirm that she understands the gist of the call. She repeats, “So you want me to tell you stuff”. Ummmmm…close. It’s not exactly what I’m asking her for, but it’s a start. Later that night she texts me, “I think Zza Zza’s goofball husband just wants that baby’s inheritance and so he threw his hat in the ring just in case he has the magic DNA.” Ummmmm….once again, I see there has been some miscommunication. I requested her to disclose OUR immediate family’s medical history and she gives me pressing DNA information regarding Anna Nicole’s baby. Very, very, sneaky, Mom. I’m on to you.

My Gift To You...

I am a kind person. Some may go so far as to say I am one of the most generous people they know. A perfect example of my generosity would be my “Nick’s Valentine” pajamas that I have been trying to give away since about this time last year. Was it my smartest purchase ever? No. Was it my most inebriated purchase ever? Undoubtedly, Yes. By purchasing these PJ’s that I thought would be “oh so cute and funny” to wear on Valentine’s Day for “Nick the Dick” which trust me, was a definite step up from “Chuck the Fuck” I was in turn buying a one way ticket for chick-flick Friday’s and being set up on some of the worst dates ever. Back to my generosity…

Nick is a common name. A few of my friends have dated people named Nick and I always get excited because finally I can give these PJ’s away. A male co-worker had a friend named Nick and as a favor to me, tried to give the PJ’s to him, to give to the girl he was dating. It must be a curse, because these PJ’s have been given away three times and the relationships have yet to last to a single Valentine’s Day. The PJ’s keep coming back to me like a damn boomerang. They have never been worn, so this year I am trying something new…If you are dating someone named Nick who is a real jerk, or have a friend named Nick who is dating a girl he can do much better than…give them these PJ’s. The relationship will be over before you know it and everything in your life will be back to normal. Ladies, you will get your life back and gentleman, you will get your drinking buddy back and free from that chick who was killing his spirit. Consider it a gift from me...

They Say A Big Storm Is Coming to Florida This Weekend

Yay! Superbowl weekend is here and I couldn’t be more apathetic about the whole thing. Now before you go thinking “Wow! A girl who hates the Superbowl. How original.” Let me clarify…I love sports. If there is an office pool, I’m in it. If it’s March Madness, I’m probably in charge of brackets. My love of sports is two fold…I love teams from places I’ve lived, and I really love any team that happens to be playing any of my ex-boyfriends favorite teams. There is nothing better after a hard day than curling up on my couch with a glass of wine, turning on Sportscenter, and checking in to see which of my ex-boyfriend’s is having a bad night because their beloved (insert name of random sports team here) have gotten their asses kicked.

So here’s the problem with this year’s Superbowl. We have the Chicago Bears playing the Indianapolis Colts. A few years ago, I lived in Chicago so I should be loving the Bears. I remember at one point in my childhood, before I even understood what the song was about, I could sing every word to the “Superbowl Shuffle”. I remember my Mom being half-mortified when she saw me dancing around the house like Walter Payton in my PJ’s singing,

“Well, they call me Sweetness and I like to dance,
running the ball is like making romance”!

I say she was only half-mortified because nothing compared to the time I brought a boom box down to the dining room during a dinner party and began lip-synching to the soundtrack to “Purple Rain.” But I digress. The point is, I have a couple of ex’s lurking around Chicago and even a recent New Yorker who is probably still wearing the “Property of the Chicago Bears” sweatshirt that I bought him last Christmas, who are really rooting for the Bears. This does not sit well with me.

On the other side is the Indianapolis Colts. As someone who was born in Baltimore, I am morally opposed to any success the Colts may achieve. When the Colts knocked the Ravens out of the playoffs this year, I wrestled with quiet fury. It was as if Baltimore had knocked Baltimore out of the playoffs. Unacceptable. Even as a Greek, I continue to have a hard time sporting our traditional flag colors of blue and white because I don’t want to ever be mistaken for a Colts fan.

So here I am. Stuck in the middle. There will be no sweet victory for me. Unless of course I relish in the bloating of bingeing on 7 layer dip and drinking my weight in alcohol, or I win in the office pool. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can sure make the pain a bit easier.