I. Heart. Shoes.

It's true.

I do.

I love them.

So, I used to have these brown heeled sandals that I looooved. ... But they started to break - oh, over two years ago - and I monkey glued them back together one too many times. (Notice that I did not super glue them. Some lessons may take me a while to learn, but eventually, I do learn them.)

The last time I monkey glued the sandals, I glued one of the straps in the wrong place. The glue set. The straps were uneven. My right shoe didn't fit my foot right. ... Oh, and the cover on the heels was buckling and the leather flower trim was starting to fray. ... Anyway, I retired the brown sandals. Right into the trash. After, like, six years.

It was a tragedy. I am telling you that I have felt a personal loss.

And now that it's springtime, I have been particularly missing them. (Which translates into: I am feeling the need for some new brown sandals.) So, I hit the shoe store on my way home from work tonight.

Please note that there's not a brown sandal amongst the bunch:

Sadly, there weren't any brown sandals for me to buy. (But there were some chocolate brown, croc-pattern patent heels. I'll take them!)

There, were, however, other springy sandals to be found. And purchased. (Aren't those little yellow wedges about the cutest thing you've ever seen?!)

To quote a line from one of my all-time favorite movies, when it comes to shoes: "I. Can't. Help. Myself."

What this means is that I will have to continue my search for the brown heeled sandal. The fact that I have brown canvas wedges, brown tweed slingbacks, brown Mary Janes, brown flats and nude peep-toes in my arsenal mean nothing to me. I need a brown heeled sandal. (And whatever I happen to run across between now and finding them, too, is my guess.)

I may need a support group. ... On the other hand, if buying shoes is wrong, I don't want to be right.

September 29

Do you see these shoes?

Do you SEE them? ... I wore them last night.

That's right. I'm 5'10" and I am the proud owner of more than one pair of four inch heels. Few things thrill me more than being one of the tallest people in a crowded room. (What does thrill me more than being one of the tallest people in a crowded room, you ask? When a man who is still a good 2-3 inches taller than me, even when I'm in heels, comes over to introduce himself. ... It doesn't happen very often, but it is thrilling when it does. Every time.)

The bank opened another branch while I was out for surgery, and last night was the Grand Opening Event. (Read: Fancy dress-up party with pretty little finger foods and hand-dipped chocolates.) Thus, the occasion for breaking out the high heels was born. *Gulp*

While I am a dress-wearing kind of girl, I have been rocking the ballet flats with my skirts for the last three+ months. One of the many things you don't know you use stomach muscles for - until you don't have them - is wearing heels. Or any shoe with an elevation, actually. There's an incredible balancing act that takes place when your feet aren't directly parallel with the ground. One of the many things I've learned in the last two years is, if you don't have the ab control  to keep yourself upright, it's best to keep your feet in flips or other flats.

But it's been over three months since surgery. Last night was special. It was a fancy party. I wore a dress that fit. I pinned my hair up (even its thinned state, it still takes almost 20 bobby pins to hold my hair up, fyi). I. Wore. Heels.

I walked into the courtyard and was met by two friends whose eyebrows shot right up as their eyes went directly to my feet. "You're wearing HEELS!", they said. They asked if I was gonna be okay. I assured them  that I was.

And then I promptly walked into the bank and found a wall to lean up against. When I had to move (in an effort to mingle), I found a table with a high-backed chair that I could keep one hand on (for balance, and to take some of the hit off my stomach) while I chatted it up. After an hour of standing, I called it quits, broke all social etiquette and plopped down in a chair in the lobby.

Read: While I did wear heels last night, for approximately three hours, I didn't actually move around in them all that much. In fact, I leaned against a wall, a chair, a friend ... anything I could find ... for much of the time, until my body literally caved and I had to sit down. But I wore them. And I rocked them, all 6'2" of me.

And then I woke up this morning and tried to roll over to get out of bed. Uhhhhh... Not happening. Holy MOLY, was wearing/standing/leaning in heels a core workout and a half!

I mean, I knew that wearing the heels would work my stomach. And work me, they did. I could feel it last night, but I had thought that finding something - anything - to lean against would help. (The sick thing is, it probably did help. A lot. And I'm still this sore.)

Don't get me wrong. They are beautiful, glorious shoes and they were worth it. ... But I'll tell you right now that I am NOT wearing heels to church tomorrow. For sure.

Ye Olde Granny Walker, Revisited.

As some of you may recall, I had surgery for removal of a malignant liposarcoma last year. (Also, last month. But right now, we're talking about last year.) My friend Jenni came in July to take care of me (and also to sing in a choir, but I like to think she came just for me).

Jen's a trooper and a half. She brought me water, she did my laundry, she walked me around the block. We shopped. We talked, we laughed, we cried. It was a great weekend.



While she was here, she and Captain Forearms put this fabulous basket on my walker.



The basket is a blessing, the likes of which very few people are lucky enough to know. Behold, it can hold not only a water bottle, but kleenex, lotion, keys, a replacement tennis ball (just in case you have a blow-out mid-walk) and non-meltable candy. (Also, it usually holds my phone. The only reason you can't see the phone is that I was using it to take this picture.) The basket is fan-freaking-tastic, and I can't recommend it highly enough to any of you who may be wondering what to get your 86 year old grandmother for Christmas. A walker basket. That's what you should buy your granny. Trust me, she'll love you forever. (I mean, I'm sure she already will. But the walker basket would ensure such a thing. I promise.)


Here's a true life representation of the smile your grandmother would smile if she had a walker basket. Trust me, I know. She would love it.



And if you're wondering exactly how to install such a walker basket, let me know and I'll put you in touch with Dr. and Mrs. Captain Forearms. I'm sure, for a nominal fee, they'd be more than happy to provide some instruction in the matter. (Look, between them, they have 8 children to feed and clothe. Don't judge. Every little bit counts.)



(Aren't the shoes fantastic? I love them! I love her. I love my walker basket.)

Amen.

Because every lady needs to accessorize

My friend Jenni's here for the weekend (which is SO FLIPPING FUN, btw), taking care of my needs. She's filled my ice water many times, held my bag of Munchies so I could just reach in and grab a snack (she's even eaten the pretzels that I've thrown back into said bag of Munchies, because I am not a pretzel loving fool unless they're covered in chocolate). She's a Class A servant folks, I tell you.

But the most impressive thing she's done since she's been here has been to add a little something to Ye Olde Granny Walker. Yesterday, while I was taking my daily 4 hour nap, she and her friend (I shall him Captain Forearms) hit the Home Depot and came up with the makings of this fabulous little basket.

Behold, the new and improved walker. Ooh-la-la, yes?



You may notice the handy-dandy tennis balls on the back legs. They're pretty hot, right? The thing is, they're funny and functional. In the first week that I was home from the hospital, I walked right through the original plastic coating and was sending metal shavings through the parking lot as I toddled on my morning and night walks. At the time, my mom and I thought it was cheap/thin plastic that had coated the walker feet. We were a little horrified that the manufacturer of the walker didn't put more into protecting their product. So we (by which I mean: she) went and bought some tennis balls to see if that would make a difference.

This is what we found: after 3-4 times up and down the street, I'd walk a hole right though the tennis balls. (Which translates into: it was not, in fact, substandard plastic that the manufacturer had used in production. I'm just really rough on walkers.) Check it.



In the last 10 days, this is how many times I've had to have new feet (tennis balls) added to the walker:

Monday July 5th - Spencer put tennis balls on
Wednesday July 7th - Jason put rubber feet on
Thursday July 8th - Dean put more tennis balls on
Saturday July 10th - Kirk added yet more tennis balls
Monday July 12th - Mom switched out two more tennis balls
Wednesday July 14th - Mom put yet another set of tennis balls on the walker
Friday July 16th - she doesn't know it yet, but Jen's replacing the balls AGAIN

So, what I'm saying here is that a) tennis balls last longer than rubber feet (did you notice that the rubber feet that JP put on on a Wed night had to be replaced on Thursday - they lasted for one walk - awesome), also, b) if you were ever thinking about buying stock in tennis balls, this would be the time. Seriously.