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I had my cake…
…and I ate it too.
I want cake.
It’s the same text message each month. I’ll send it to my friend, or she’ll send it to me. Out of the blue, usually in the evening. Cake. I want it.
Men don’t get these cravings, you know? For the life of him, Michael cannot understand why I will suddenly crave a specific food. It changes…sometimes it’s salty, sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cake. (Often, it’s cake.)
I combat these monthly cravings by eating something that is not cake. It’s quite depressing and all the while all I can think about is how great some CAKE would taste right now and if I only had some CAKE I would show it who was boss and eat that CAKE all over the place.
Sure, I could go get a slice of cake somewhere. But I don’t want a slice of cake.
I want the whole cake. And then a slice of cake.
This is not cake.
This is Special K. Special K is not cake.
We had a discussion, Special K and I. I told Special K it was going to cure my cravings and pretend to be cake and we would live happily ever after while losing 1 inch from my waist in 2 weeks. (See that claim? Right there on the bottom left corner of the box? That claim is only true if you eat only Special K and not cake.)
Special K tastes nothing like cake.
And craving cake.
Here’s a little shoe anecdote for you: I bought these fabulous suede ballet flats on mega-sale, but had only worn them once because the weather had been wet and then wetter and then wet some more. Yesterday was dry and I had places to go and people to see and figured the shoes would add nicely to the ensemble.
They did, and I was happy. And then I came home and Michael was mowing the grass. I was standing at the the top of deck holding a sandwich for him when he asked if I could hand it to him. Without thinking I took two — just two — steps into the yard, and immediately received grass stains on my shoes.
I panicked. And instead of laughing, Michael actually felt bad for me. Probably because I cried. Yeah, really. Not like, bawling, but I definitely cried. Over a grass stain. On shoes. I’m getting my period, I swear.
Anyway! I think this just means I really, really love my shoes.
Tootie wants to know:
My favorite dress shoes are falling apart, and I’m looking for a replacement pair. I’d like a black, comfortable (but still cute) pair of shoes that I can wear with dress pants. I’d like for them to have a heel (so my pants don’t drag on the ground), but I’d prefer a wider heel. And, it would be a bonus if they’re versatile enough that I could also wear them with dark jeans…and if they don’t cost a fortune🙂
Ah, the black shoe. Why do we love it so? Even though I am a huge fan of popping a basic wardrobe with color, at least a third of my shoes are black. Maybe even little more.
This one isn’t exactly in the “affordable” category, but they’re damn good shoes. Worth the investment if you’re willing to spend a little extra. Check out the wider heel and a little, but not too much peep toe, perfect for most work environments.
I have to admit, this shoe looks a little odd in the picture because that’s a HEEL, but I really think it would serve your purpose under dress pants and jeans. They’re high, but the heel is thick and there is a hidden platform under the ball of your foot. There is the illusion of a high arch, but your foot is actually pretty lifted. One of my most comfortable, yet sexy, pairs of heels has that exact makeup.
This one is your pretty basic black shoe with just a touch of detail. I can see this taking you through lots of different outfits.
Have you considered a wedge? What’s cuter than one in patent leather?
Hope this points you in the right direction, Toots!
All of today’s choices can be found on Zappos.com.
Got a question for the Shoeru? Email me at email@example.com
Every few days I’ve been working on a project that’s very near to my heart. In my family, we have a special cookbook. We call it the Hall of Fame Cookbook and it most certainly is.
The binding is cracked from years of being smoothed open. The cover is peeling from multiple pulls out off the shelf. The handwritten pages, complete with coordinating doodles made my mom (my favorite part), are stained from years of recipes. It’s no secret which are family favorites — some of the handwriting is almost not even legible anymore from the splatters.
This book is a strong representation of family for me. One of the heirlooms that I am priviliged to be in possession of. My job is to type each recipe to be made into a professionaly bound book. Not for sale, but for us, the family, to have always.
The original is an artifact. Pages of history and stories documenting the when and where each meal was initially created. The covers contain memories that belong to my parents. Stories written before my birth. Then there are recipes I remember — my first birthday cake, school party treats. Famous family dishes with our name built right in.
I cherish this book. More than a piece of jewelry or a handcrafted end table. This book holds my history — in recipes. I hope one day my children will turn each page and smile as they make their own memories from the pages in their grandmother’s handwriting, flanked by doodles of dancing, smiling shrimp and butter stains.
This is our history.
And I’m so proud of it.
Blog? I have one of these? Oh, yeah. I totally copped out with the birthday posts (although, not really, I suppose. I DID want to wish them a happy birthday), but it’s just been too nice out to blog. It’s been sunny! And warm! And sitting in front of the computer just seems wrong.
I don’t have much of a coherent post, so I’ll give you some tidbits.
– We bought a boat. Our maiden voyage was on Michael’s birthday and lo, it was glorious. Or at least, the first leg of the trip was. By the time we returned the wind had picked up and that last hour was cold. Really cold. But still, boat! On the water! With my boys!
You can tell the wind was starting to pick up based on the direction Kodiak’s hair is blowing.
Life vests for safety, people.
– I’m applying for a job that requires a typing certificate. In order to receive this certificate, I have to take a typing test at a government center 45 minutes away. I had an appointment to take that test at 9 a.m., however when I got there, they informed me the program wasn’t accessible because tech support changed the password and could I come back tomorrow?
Think they could have called me to tell me that?
– When I get a job, the thing I will miss the most is time home with Michael. He works different hours each week so often we are home together during the day. We’ve always been super close, but unemployment has given us the opportunity to be even closer during our first year of marriage. It’s been really nice, despite having one less paycheck.
The thing is, we’ve become pretty co-dependant. Not in a hold my hand while I go to the bathroom type of co-dependant, but more like a where are you going can I come with you type of co-dependant. Don’t get me wrong, we can survive alone, but we don’t like to. I’ll definitely miss him when I go back to work.
– Baby? Still want one. Like, yesterday. Trying? Not yet. But soon? Maybe?
– Idol — I was Adam all the way. Don’t get me wrong, Kris is good, but too John Mayer for my taste. Adam is just really unique and maybe it’s better he didn’t win so he can move forward without being under the Idol thumb. I’ll definitely be buying his CD.
– Um, it’s sunny. And warm. I have to get off the computer immediately.
Happy birthday to my amazing mom! I would post her picture, but she doesn’t want to be featured on the blog.
I love you so incredibly much, mom. Have a wonderful day!
Happy birthday, handsome! I love you more than you could ever know. Look out for me today, I’ll be attacking you with movie kisses.
All my love,
Warning (again): I have finished the series and now plan to discuss it. If you are still reading and/or do not want to know how it ends, come back tomorrow. It will be a Shoeru day. Read the rest of this entry »
A trip to the DMV is never enjoyable, but it does make for some good people watching. And it always makes me wonder, where do these people come from?
I think the answer is 1983.
The DMV was pretty crowded yesterday, and as Michael and I waited for our turn, I couldn’t help but notice at least four 80’s hairstyles surrounding me. Including a banana clip. A big, white, plastic banana clip. Awesome. My inner eight year old was jealous of her curly poof. My fine hair never poofed out quite as nicely from my banana clip.
Michael and I were sitting on a bench, and eventually a man took the seat to my right, placing me in the middle. Before he even opened his mouth, I was hit by the overwhelming stench of booze. I scooted a little more towards Michael to avoid the smell, but that did not deter the man from speaking to me.
“Been here long?” he asked.
“Yup, almost 40 minutes.”
He started rambling something about a notary and his cousin’s lawyer. I nodded and turned back towards Michael.
“The other day there were a ton of deer in the road,” I heard him say next to me. I chose to ignore him, acting really interested in the documents in my lap and hoping that was enough to make him stop talking to me.
It was not.
He scooted a little towards me and said it again. “The other day there were a lot of deer in the road.”
I looked into his glazed over eyes, leaned a little further away from the shield of beer, and nodded. OK. You saw deer.
But then it took a turn for the weird.
He started rambling on about how cool it was that you can drink beer on the beach now without getting arrested because it was legal now. (It’s not.) I assumed he was telling me this because maybe that’s how he spent his morning.
Because ignoring him wasn’t working, I remarked that it was too bad it wasn’t that warm out yet.
And that’s when he pulled up his sleeve, shoved his arm in my direction and started stroking his peeling arm.
“I got burnt a few weeks ago and now my arm is peeling like crazy. Skin all over the place. SEE?”
My gag reflex kicked into high gear and I swear he was about to start dusting his skin on me. EWWWWW. I turned to Michael with a mix of shock and horror and was about to shove him out of the bench and get as far away as possible from this man, when he started yelling across the room to a man he apparently tagged along with. He got up and stumbled out the door.
And ew. I’m still remembering all that dry skin waiting to be dusted on me. Ew.
Just a nice stranger-wanted-to-put-their-skin-on-me story to start your weekend. It’s been a little quiet around these parts lately. What have you all be up to this week? I know, share your best creepy stranger story. It will be funny and something fun to read on a Friday. Happy weekend!
Y’all (I never say “Y’all”, by the way. I don’t know why I said it now. Ignore.), I’ve climbed out of hiding and have reemerged into the world. Yesterday? Was a bad day. Well, another bad day in the week and it was only Wednesday.
As far as bad days go, each individual day wasn’t all that bad. I mean, there were lunches with friends. And freelance assignments. And cupcakes. Beautiful, delicious cupcakes. But when you added up the bad stuff that happened at the same time, I just got overwhelmed.
There were fights. One with a good friend and another with a family member. Both which stung on impact and left bruises. For those of you who don’t know me in real life (and those of you who haven’t been reading for that long), it’s important that you understand that I’m very sensitive and emotional. Maybe more so than I should be. But it’s a fact. The bad stuff has never rolled over my shoulders. It sticks around and burrows into my brain, sets up a recliner and cracks a beer. Bad stuff kicks off its shoes and gets comfortable.
I was just really sad.
While the emotional stuff was doing what it does, my phone decided to stop working. But not in any normal way. No, it stopped working in a way that meant I had bars indicating service, yet could not make or receive any calls or texts.
But only in my town.
Not in the neighboring town.
We don’t have a land line so in order to call tech support, I had to drive to my friend’s parent’s house and use theirs. Their house is four minutes from me. My phone worked at their house.
I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to “Chris”, the nice Indian man who met my wrath when I called tech support. I probably didn’t have to be quite so forceful when I told him no, I could not give him the last four digits of my husband’s social security number because I WAS NOT AT HOME BECAUSE MY PHONE WILL NOT WORK IN MY TOWN AHHHHHH.
I was thisclose to telling poor “Chris” why I went from zero to bitch in the time in took him to read his intro, but something tells me he would not be interested.
The solution? There was none. No tower was down. No updates needed to be done to my phone. It was just a big old head scratcher.
Four hours later, my phone decided to work again, pummeling me with an onslaught of text messages and voicemails that came all at the same time, effectively freezing my screen.
I turned it off and took a nap.
When I woke up, everything was normal. The phone worked. My feelings, while still tender, weren’t quite so sore.
And so the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week hopefully came to an end.
I think it’s time to go sit in the sunshine.