Family Pictures

Bria & Kylar Konrad, Halloween 2018

Cathy & Mary McDonald 1996

Catherine MacDonald, fall 2018

Bria, Catherine, Derek & Kylar Christmas 2018

Bria, Catherine, Kylar, Derek, Fall 2018

Derek & Catherine, fall 2018

Merry MacDonald, Britton Smith, Summer 2018

Guthrie Barrett, Halloween 2018. "Old Man" hahahaha!

Never Going Back to Texas

I texted my brother recently, asking for a photo of our mother's headstone. I will never see it otherwise, I said, because I am not going back to Texas ever.

I was overcome by sorrow at the thought of never being there again. Sorrow because there is no reason to go.

I remembered how after my mother's death, my daughter and I sat out on my mother's deck late at night. We talked some, heart to heart, but also just sat together quietly, listening to mysterious birds and watching the clouds and the moon. I wished I could have those moments again, the deck nestled in among the trees my mother loved, the balmy air, my daughter's soft voice. And I wish I could have had more time with my mother.

On a five minute walk I composed a little poem.

Can we go back to Texas, Mama,

and sit on the deck 

at midnight

and listen to the nightbirds' sleepy warbling,

and feel the sticky air turn soft

and balmy?

Can we go back to Texas, Mama,

and watch the clouds 

float over the face of the moon,

and sip our wine,

and rest in peaceful companionship

in the silent spaces

between our words?

Can we go back to Texas, Mama, 

when we are together again

both gone away,
gone away?

Over the Hill and frumpy, but comfy

I think I have reached the summit of The Hill. How do I know? It's the jeans.

Every night I come home from work and immediately strip off my jeans with their annoying zippers and buttons and seams and nagging waistbands. And I slip on slacks made of stretchy elastic stuff. No zipper. No button. Sometimes I go all out and just grab some sloppy, but oh-so-comfy sweatpants.

All my life I've noticed the little old ladies wearing their stretch slacks and thought, "that's when I'll know I'm old, when I start wearing stretchy, frumpy clothes rather than trendy clothes." Well, to be truthful, I've never been trendy, I'm always 3 or 4 steps behind fashion-wise, but there is a part of me that always believed I'd never give up my blue jeans - the rebellious flag of my youth.

Here's the truth about blue jeans. As much as I love them, as much as I feel they reflect who I am (child of the sixties and seventies, counter-culture, hippie-wannabe, even though everybody wears blue jeans, I'll bet even Rush Limbaugh wears blue jeans), blue jeans have those really uncomfortable thick seams that go up the legs, and down the center of the seat. And lately the waistbands always feel too tight (because my waist is getting too thick, I know, I know). They're just not comfortable. And in cold weather, blue jeans are cold, they absorb the chill and then slap my skin with it. And in hot weather they don't breathe. I, who love hot weather, cannot stand to wear blue jeans on a hot, sticky Iowa summer day. And I cannot take a nap in blue jeans, because of the tight waistband, thick, uncomfortable seam thing. And when you're at the summit of The Hill, you never know when you might need a nap, and you've got to be prepared in comfy pajama-like trousers.

So at the end of a work day, I peel the blue jeans off and slide my aging, thickening body into the bliss of stretch pants. So I am at the top of that proverbial hill, just at the top, not over it yet, not quite yet.

I'll know when I'm over the hill when I opt out of blue jeans for work wear, and start coming to work in stretch slacks.

Me too, Mom

I was talking to my mother on the phone last night, my mother who is 82 years old, a great-grandmother, brain-damaged and crippled from a devastating stroke in 2007.

"I'm a cougar," she informed me. "Do you know what a cougar is?"

"Umm, yeah," I said.

"I like young men in tight blue jeans," she said, "I don't have any use for old men in baggy pants."

Sometimes my mom just rocks.

A Rape by Any Other Name

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet..." Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
Recently my daughter overheard some junior high kids talking. One boy asked another, "If you have sex with a prostitute without her consent, is it rape, or is it shoplifting?"

Snicker snicker snicker.

It's supposed to be funny, right? Maybe I just don't have a sense of humor, but as a person of the female persuasion, and the mother of three daughters, I rarely find jokes about rape funny. Particularly when they come out of the mouths of 14 year old boys and my 14 year old daughter seems to think the boys are being clever. Maybe I should lighten up, because in a way, the word play is clever.

But then I heard a segment on NPR about date rape. A young woman went drinking with some friends and during the evening, when she was fairly well drunk, another drunken friend, a young man, raped her. Troubled about this encounter, she confided in her female friends, and her friends, her friends!, laughed at her. For the next year she became the butt of their jokes. When they drank together, they warned her, "better watch out, if you get drunk you might assault yourself again." The meaning being that if you're drunk, you deserve whatever happens to you. If you're drunk, you can't really get raped, especially not by a friend who is also drunk. Right? But if it's not rape what is it? A mistake? A confusion of communication? So the guy gets his jollies, and the girl gets the pain, but that's okay, because she was drunk?
Unfortunately for this circle of friends, another young woman was raped under the same circumstances. This time it didn't seem so funny to any of them, and they reported it to the police. Let's hope the police officers were more enlightened.

We've come a long way baby - all the way back to the beginning of the struggle.

So let me say it now: Sex without consent is rape.

Doesn't matter if the woman is a prostitute (or the boy or the man is a prostitute). Even if you pay the prostitute first, if she changes her mind and says, "No" and you proceed anyway, it's rape.

Sex with a person who is too drunk, or drugged, to give consent is rape.

Sex without consent with a person who is your otherwise sexy, flirtatious girlfriend or wife is rape.

Sex with a child, even if the child gives consent, is rape.

If you are part of a culture that allows slavery, sex with your slave is rape, even if your slave gives consent.

Rape. It's an ugly word for an ugly act. Rape by any other name, a drunken mistake, a misunderstanding, a service paid for, a marital right, an owner's prerogative, an "I couldn't help myself," is still ugly, still traumatic, still painful, still heartbreaking and still rape.

I have three daughters, and I also have two sons. I hope, I hope, I hope that I have taught all my children about respect for themselves and for others. I hope I have educated all of them to understand when to say "no" and when to respect someone else's "no". I hope they know how to protect themselves and how to protect others. And I hope that none of them ever thinks that rape is something to laugh about.

The Feminine Mistake

Common mistakes that women make:

Mistaking romance for love.

Choosing romance over love.

Choosing current boyfriend over long time girlfriends.

Doing all the housework herself.

Hating her body, or certain parts of her body.

Letting a man manage her money.

Letting a man support her.

Not trying on clothes before buying them.

Especially not trying on bras before buying them.

Allowing herself to be guilted into situations (read: committees) for which she has no time, energy or enthusiasm.

Forgetting to remove tampon before intimate relations.

Wearing white pants during her fertile years.

Believing any claims about tampons or pads (or diapers!) being leak proof.

Not making sure that all of the sticky side of the pad is firmly secured to her panty and facing away from her tender nether regions.

Give me a head with hair

Okay, so I'm not quite finished with Twilight.There is just one more teeny hurtin' thing that bugs me. The hair. The big poufy hair.

I watched Twilight with my daughters, the 13 year old who loves it, and the 19 year old who calls it "Toilet". About a third of the way through the movie, I had to say it out loud: "I hate his hair." Nineteen year old daughter, said, " I know!"

Just what bright hair stylist decided that Edward's hair was supposed to look like Little Iodine??

Twilight

My thirteen year old daughter has become enthralled with Twilight, the novel by Stephenie Meyers. She adores the movie, too, and thinks Robert Pattinson in the character of Edward the hunky vampire, is a dish. (She wouldn't use or understand that word, but I like it).

So... in the interest of understanding my darling daughter's infatuation with the series of novels and the movie and the character, I read Twilight, and watched the movie with her. I recently finished the second book in the series, New Moon, and am on the waiting list at the library for the third book. So I didn't hate it, or think it was stupid or ridiculous.

(Please note that if I had hated the book, or was bored by it, I would not have finished it, and certainly wouldn't have read the sequel.) I did find it engaging. I understand why young girls find it so appealing. I would have loved it when I was a teenager. The writing is not great, but the story is rich with romance and danger and heroism and melodrama.

The most interesting thing to me about the story, is the portrayal of Edward. Okay, so he's a vampire - this is not an new idea, there are plenty of novels featuring vampires. But Edward is a vampire with a romantic heart. (Huge sigh.)
He is immensely concerned about not hurting this fragile human girl, Bella. (Huge sigh.) He loves her, but he can't have his cake and eat her too. (If he eats her, he will kill her.) What to do , what to do....

So Edward is torn. He is a tender, loving, adoring, protective, beautiful (Meyer makes sure we understand how beautiful Edward is by having Bella point this out to the reader about a bazillion times), dangerous, mysterious, communicative, silent vampire. And the most believable part of that description is: vampire.

Girlfriends, I wasted a lot of my life and hurt a lot of people, including some perfectly nice men, with my foolish desires to fall in love with a man who was tender, loving, adoring, protective, beautiful, dangerous, mysterious, communicative, and silent all at the same time. And like, Bella, I wanted to be entirely consumed by the love of this man. Heck, why not expect him to be a bloodsucking Superman too?

I don't know at what point I got fantasy confused with reality in my little head.
It took me until the "twilight" of my own life, or late afternoon at least, to learn the difference. I want my daughter to enjoy her fantasy novels, but I hope she knows that they are just fantasies, and while fantasy is fun, it can't compare to the joy of real life and real love with a real person.

Here's a joke: Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring and good- looking?

They already have boyfriends.

What kind of god is that?

I must have blocked this from my mind at the time it happened. Some things are too horrific to think about, especially when there is nothing you can do about them. But today on the radio someone mentioned it again. I was driving at the time and nearly had to pull over to vomit. As it was, a huge wave of grief rose up inside me and poured out of me in violent sobs.

A 13 year old girl is raped. Gang-raped. Hurt. Terrified. Bullied. Beat up. Injured. Violated. Treated like meat.

Somebody's precious daughter, somebody's beloved child.

And instead of being helped, cared for, and comforted, she is accused of adultery, dragged out to an arena, buried up to her neck, then stoned to death by 50 MEN, while she begged for mercy.

"Please, please, don't kill me!"

Somebody's precious daughter, somebody's beloved child.

Who are these men? Why are they so vicious, so cowardly, so power-hungry? Didn't God create little girls? Doesn't God love what God created? What kind of God wants little girls to be brutally murdered by crowds of men? What kind of god is that? What kind of god needs to be protected from little girls by a gang of bloodthirsty thugs? What kind of god is that? That is a man-made god, created in man's image to excuse man's vile acts.

Tonight I am going home and taking my 13 year old daughter in my arms, and I'm never letting her go.

Somebody's precious daughter, somebody's beloved child.

Wrong Thong

This is the generation gap: my 13 year old comes to me and idly says, "I don't see why people say that thongs are uncomfortable."

I say, "oh, I don't think they're uncomfortable. I wore thongs everyday when I was a child."

Daughter stares at me. "You did?"

"Sure," I say, "remember I grew up in warm climates. We either wore thongs or nothing at all."

Daughter stares at me, eyes wide. "Wha-a-a-t?"

"Well, except for school," I say, "we had to wear good shoes for school. We couldn't wear our flip flops for school, only for play."

Daughter laughs with great, hilarious relief. "Flip flops! I was talking about thong underwear!"

If I were a lesbian

Sometimes I play a game with myself: If I were a lesbian..what would I find attractive in a woman?
(Not trying to offend anyone here, straight or gay, it's just a quirky mental exercise.)

The way this game came about is a little weird: I was attempting to write a romance novel and I just couldn't get the female characters down. The men were easy - I know what I like about men, I know what's attractive about men. But women - what do men like about women? What's attractive in a woman's style, attitude, face, figure, voice? I mean, I know what I see on TV shows and movies: big boobs, long legs, blonde hair, big eyes, pouty lips, voice maybe a little husky. But most women don't fit that description, and most of us find romance just the same. So no matter what Hollywood thinks is a man's ideal woman, it ain't necessarily accurate. And I didn't want all my female characters to be busty, long-legged, blonde sex sirens. I wanted them to be normal.

So I began looking at women in a different way: I tried to be a man, tried to make my straight female brain think like a straight male brain. It was really tricky. My brain got very tired. You know, boobs just don't turn me on. I can't figure out why men like boobs so much.
Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike boobs - I'm very friendly with my own pair, I like them just fine, but I don't get the big deal than men make over them (in general, not mine in particular).
So then I had to think like a woman again and figure out what it was about men that I like so much: the sound of a man's voice, the lower timbre, I like that very much; whiskers, kissing a face rough with whiskers; the angles of a man's face, neck, shoulders - subtly different than a woman; muscles. I guess I don't know why - the mystery is a part of the attraction, right?

So then I tried looking at women as if I was a woman attracted to women: and that was interesting to me. I - the imaginary I- am not attracted to famous Hollywood sex symbol starlet types. (Probably because I'm not a man.)

What I am discovering (because this is an ongoing game), is that the women who are appealing to my imaginary other self, are women with soft, gentle personalities, some of them are women that might be called "mousy" (in another time and another generation). They are not beautiful, according to modern standards, but they are pretty in their own way. They are modest, they are not overdone with stylish clothes, hairstyles or make up - although they dress neatly and nicely, and wear make up. I've only seen these women in public places and did not know them personally, so this is really an incomplete experiment. My very brief encounters with them include exchanges like "Paper or plastic?" and "Have a nice day," and "Here, let me get that door for you..."

Then there are my friends, the various women I've known throughout my life - and none of them are women I would be attracted to if I were a lesbian. They've been great friends, but I can't imagine a romantic attachment. My best friends in my life have been women who were gregarious, joyful, big-hearted, funny, world-embracing types, the opposite of my own shy, wallflower, vuja-de (see my other blog), shrinking from the world type personality.

Anyway, I have no idea where this post is going, just that it's always interesting trying to see things from a different perspective. I have to go rest my brain now and watch a Russell Crowe movie.

"What's wrong with you people??"

So my son now has his driver's license. Off he drives to run a personal errand, so I give him a list, "while you're out shopping....please buy some milk, bread, peanut butter and jam." How nice for me, that I won't have to go shopping after work.

Several hours later.....my son pulls the milk out of the fridge, "Whaaaaaat???" he exclaims to his sisters, "It's already half gone??? I just bought this milk at noon!!! What's wrong with you people?"

I can't help it - I smile. Oh, the satisfaction of hearing those words from someone else's mouth - someone else's mouth which was frequently drinking up all the milk I had just bought. I feel a wicked laugh coming on. Hahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahaha

The Uterus as Tracking Device

One of the funniest comedy routines Roseanne Barr does is about how husbands and kids think moms know where everything is. "Honey, have you seen my crescent wrench?" "Mom, where' s my backpack?" As if a uterus is also a tracking device.

Recently at work one of my coworkers received a frantic call from her 11 year old daughter, "Where are my swim goggles?" My friend tried to talk her daughter through the problem to help her find the goggles, finally hung up the phone. Then she told me her husband was home with her daughter.

I recounted my experience: when I was driving to Texas in a dense thunderstorm after learning that my mother had had a stroke, my 15-year-old son called me on my cell phone, "Where's my gameboy??" he demanded. For some reason he thought I had his gameboy with me, maybe he'd left it in the car, and seriously expected that I would turn around and come back to return it.

Meanwhile, while I'm telling my coworker about this incident, the phone rings again, and another coworker answers it and begins talking to her frantic young son, "I don't know where it is," she tells him, "where did you see it last?" Her husband, by the way, is also home with the child.

Apparently dads don't have tracking devices embedded in their bodies.

I made a dinner late this afternoon, before I left for work at 4:45 p.m. I was using a Rachel Ray cookbook, and was really hoping this would be a tasty meal. Before I could finish it, I had to leave. I left the beef simmering in its sauce and told my 18 year old to turn if off after ten minutes ( I also set a timer). I told her there was cauliflower already cooked and in a pot at the back of the stove. Then, feeling like a virtuous wife and mother who has provided quality sustenance for her husband and children, I went to work (to earn the money to buy the bacon which I then will cook up in a pan, blah, blah, blah).

About 7:30 my youngest daughter called and I asked how she liked the dinner I had cooked. She said, "Huh? What dinner?" I reminded her that she had been in the kitchen while I was cooking. She denied knowledge of me cooking or her eating anything. I asked to speak to her father.
"Did you eat?" I asked brightly, hoping for compliments on a fine meal.
"Um, yeah." he mumbled. "
"How was it?" I asked eagerly. "Was it good?
"Huh?"
"The food I made! I cooked dinner, I left it simmering on the stove!"
"Oh. No I didn't get any of that."
"You didn't get to eat?" I asked, confused.
"Oh, don't worry about me," he said, obviously trying to reassure me that my hubby had not gone hungry. "I made myself a sandwich."

Another 2 hours in the kitchen wasted. I could have been taking a nap, or reading a book, or walking a dog in the bright autumn sunshine, instead of stuck inside my steaming kitchen, trying to read a recipe and chop vegetables and slice steak all at the same time. I could have saved the eleven dollars I spent on the steak and spent it on chocolate for myself. I could have taken a bubble bath and gone to work smelling sweet and flirty instead of greasy and meaty.

You know, I really wanted to be one of those very domestic women who cook fabulous meals, whose kitchen is always filled with the aroma of baking bread and hearty soup and brownies.
A woman whose family troops in, tired after a hard day, and is comforted and uplifted by the sight of Mom standing in the kitchen, ready to dispense hugs and plates of warm, wholesome, delicious food. But to fulfill that fantasy, and it is a lovely fantasy, I'm gonna need a new family.

PS - To be fair and honest - later that evening when I got home, I filled a plate with the meat and vegetables I had made from Rachel Ray's recipe, and I was not impressed. That was a lot of work to make, and it was boring. At least the dogs loved the gravy.

This is how my friends and I maintain our relationships:

Jodi comes into the library (where I work) to pick up her kids. Our conversation takes place in the foyer as her daughter is sulking and griping, "C'mon, you said we had to leave right away." Once we talked for 20 minutes standing outside the grocery store door, both of us heading (in opposite directions) for our cars.


Christi and I cross paths at the nursing home, where I am finishing up delivering library books to the residents and she is arriving to visit her mother. We shout our conversation toward each other as we each continue hurrying in different directions.


Carolyn comes into the library between clients and stops by the desk to see if I'm there. We carry on a quick conversation, hug included, before I have to return to the desk and help people, and she has to go to her next client.


Carol and I see each other at the school or scooting out of the post office or at the coffee house, where she and her husband have stopped off for a working break, usually with important people, who are often from another country. She talks rapidly and excitedly at me for a few minutes, throwing in ridiculous compliments before her husband's eyes drag her back to business.

Brenda ("the other Brenda") and I see each other when she comes in the library or when I stop in at the gift shop where she works, now lately we've been seeing each other at church, but church is such a social place, there's barely a chance for a close conversation.


Always, we are SO glad to see each other, always we say we wish we could actually get together.
Sadly I have already tried. I invited one of them to stop by my house in the mornings after we dropped our kids off at school - "just a half hour, coffee or tea." But she was too busy. It made me feel lousy. I tried to get a group to go to the movies with me, in the end there were just 2 of us. At least there were two of us.


Carolyn is better at it. She just grabs me in the moment and says, "Let's go!" And often I have found I can. She manages to catch me when there is nothing really required of me. Oh, I could stay home and clean the house, but I've learned in my "old" age that the house will wait, friends are rare, and an afternoon poking around in an antique shop, then going to a Chinese restaurant for lunch together is far more satisfying and memorable than a tidy living room that stays tidy for approximately 23 hours, if that.

I wish my friendships were like those of women friends on TV shows. Women characters who in spite of having jobs, husbands and kids, manage to meet friends for lunch on a daily basis, wear fabulous clothes, see their friends again in the evening at cocktail parties, and who are so close they even argue with each other. My friends and I have never managed to develop relationships so close and so strong that we could actually risk arguing with each other. Obviously, these TV characters are not real people, they are fictional, but I'll bet that there are many, many women in America who know these TV characters better than and feel closer to them than they do their own real women friends.

Hmmm...reading this over it occurs to me, maybe they just don't like me. hmmmm

I told my daughter I'd be home 30 minutes ago, but I've been trying to get my post spaced properly

This is so damn irritating...trying to write that previous post about Helen Reddy's song - do you think I could space it the way I wanted to ? Nooooooooo. So it looks all crammed together and hard to read. I am TIRED of wasting time trying to figure out how to edit on this site. My previous posts were often typed into MS word, then copied and pasted here on blogger. But even doing that didn't work. On Word, my post appears spaced the way I want it, when I transfer it, it goes all bunchy.

I have tried to use the blogger help lines, but have you seen them? The advice may be useful, but you have to wade through so much verbiage and computeriage to find the piece of advice you need. Do any of the other bloggers have, like, JOBS? Who has time for this?

Besides, nobody's reading anyway.

I enjoy writing, all I've ever really wanted to do is write. Writing is fun, writing is energizing, writing is where I am most at home, but other than that, who cares?

When and if I get a computer at my house, I will probably blog again, I love writing, I really do. But without feedback, what's the point? A blog is not a private journal, it's public and it desires companionship and conversation, a drink and a dance, and right now my blogs are wallflowers. I can keep my thoughts in my head and connect with as many people that way as I do writing three blogs. Save me a lot of time, too.

And right now, my daughter is wondering why I'm blogging instead of coming home to her.

I am woman, hear me snore...zzzzzz

Remember how we wanted to have it all? The job, the man, the kids? I should have said "career", not job, but honestly, how many of us have actual careers? Aren't most of us just working to pay the bills?

A TV commercial from my teen years: sexy woman sauntering into the house, "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never let you forget you're a man - I'm a woman, w-o-m-a-n." I remember thinking that was a pretty cool commercial. I was, what, 16? I didn't notice back then, that the woman was doing everything - I mean, the man couldn't even remember he was male for heaven's sake, the woman had to remind him. So, she worked all day, rushed to the bank to cash her check, went to the grocery store to buy the bacon, came home, immediately got to work in the kitchen, probably cleaned up after dinner, started a load of laundry and put out the garbage, helped with homework (while folding clothes), settled an argument, bathed the kids, walked the dog, then she had to put the moves on her man, while he did....what? Watched football?

Another item from my teen years: I am woman, hear me roar. (Sung by the ever nasal Helen Reddy. You'd think the song would have been sung by someone with a strong voice, but no, Helen Reddy, I am woman hear me whine?). Although it embarrasses me to admit it now, I liked that song. I actually got tears in my eyes listening to it. (now I'm really embarrassed, I'm cringing)
Here is the first verse & chorus:

I am woman, hear me roar

In numbers too big to ignore

And I know too much to go back and pretend

'cause I've heard it all before

And I've been down there on the floor

No one's ever gonna keep me down again

CHORUS

Oh yes I am wise

But it's wisdom born of pain

Yes, I've paid the price

But look how much I gained

If I have to, I can do anything

I am strong (strong)

I am invincible (invincible)

I am woman

Back in the 70s these lyrics made me feel proud - women had been pushed around for a long time, now women were standing up for themselves and each other, not backing down, trying to be taken seriously in business, politics, relationships, education, money. Not that I actually knew anything about that - I was a kid, I hadn't experienced much of anything, but it was inspiring anyway.

I am no longer a kid, and I'm no longer inspired by these lyrics, in fact, I can't even figure out what they mean. Pretend what? Wise about what? I paid what price, and gained what? And who was roaring? The woman's movement was and is divisive, not that it wasn't important or necessary, but if we were roaring, we were roaring at each other, not at men or the powers that be (men).

New lyrics for a new age:

I am woman, hear me snore

in numbers too big to ignore

and I know too much to go back and pretend

'cause I've heard it all before

now I'm staying on the floor

no one's gonna interrupt my nap again!

Chorus:

Hey! I need help

I can't do this by myself

Hey! Off your rear,

get your engine into gear.

I shouldn't have to do everything

I am pissed off (pissed off)

I am cynical (cynical)

I am Tired.

Yep. Back in the seventies we wanted it all, we were strong and invincible, whatever that means. Now, we're just tired. I just want to rest, okay? Take a nap, or have some peace and quiet to read a book. No interruptions for say, 60 minutes. Or three days, or a week. Now that would be empowering.

postscript:

And guess what else - on the website where I found the lyrics for Helen Reddy's anthem to women’s power...there is a link to videos showing Carmen Electra stripping. “I am woman hear men roar, while I grind down to the floor....”

Tripping over the light fantastic shoe

I tripped over my shoes this morning. No, I hadn't left them tumbled in the middle of the floor - I was wearing them at the time, and one of them slipped off my foot. Damn clogs. How do other women walk in these things? I've never been able to master the art of walking in backless shoes. So why did I buy them? Because everyone else was wearing them! Because my friends say, "oh, they're so comfortable!"

Actually, I bought them because I'm extremely lazy. Who wants to have to bend over or squat down and tie or buckle anything? I once heard of a young woman who complained that her shoes were tripping her up. When her friends looked at her feet, they started laughing. She had her shoes on the wrong feet, with the buckles facing each other from her inner ankles. Everytime she took a step, the buckles clashed and caught on each other. I can relate to that. Do they still make buckle shoes? Or are they all fake buckles with velcro underneath? Never mind. I don't even like velcro - you still have to bend over and press it in place. Nope. I like slip on shoes. Slip on, slip off, slip on, slip off. (I'd also love to have a clapper - clap on, clap off, clap on, clap off.)

Unfortunately, I just may be clumsier than I am lazy. I walk into walls. I am forever bumping my head on the cupboard door I left open (does anything hurt more than that? A paper cut maybe). I slip down the stairs, I bang my hips against counters, my knees on coffee tables, my ankles knock together when I try to jog. I don't try to jog anymore.

Back to shoes. Clogs. So what do other women know about clogs that I don't? It can't possibly be just about grace or lack thereof. Can it? Do other women buy them a half size too small, so that one's feet are wedged so tightly into the shoe that it cannot possibly fall off and trip one? Is there a glue strip one wears on the sole of one's foot? I just don't get it. I was attending a conference with two of my coworkers, and we were all wearing clogs. Walking from the car to the entrance of the hotel, my 2 friends were striding masterfully, fifty yards or more ahead, while I was mincing across the parking lot like an 19th century Chinese woman with bound feet. Tell me! Tell me now!! How do you keep clogs on your feet??? I have to squinch up my toes and attempt to grip the slick insole with each step, and they still fall off, or fly ahead, or just dangle off my toes as I lift my foot to take a step. And wham! Whumpity, whumpity, there I am, arms windmilling, nose headed for a smashing, clogs tangled up under my feet.

Perhaps I could blame my lack of shoe grace on growing up in warm climates - I went barefoot an awful lot as a child. Shoes were for school and church, any other time, I was shoe-free. My toes just aren't used to being confined. Nearly the first thing I do when I get home for the night, is kick my shoes off.


But I do love shoes. Some years ago when I was still young and attempting to pass myself off as sexy, I wore high heels. I loved my shoes, my sexy, strappy little 3 inch pumps. I loved my gorgeous black leather spiky heeled boots. I dreamed about red f-me heels. But the truth was - I couldn't walk in these things, at least not far. I could get from the car door to the cocktail table or bar, but once I reached a chair or stool, I was in place, legs crossed prettily, dainty foot swinging. If asked to dance, I kicked the damn shoes off and hoped the guy thought it was sexy.

I once tried to walk four blocks in my beautiful, beloved boots. I had made it to my destination and was gamely attempting the walk back to my house. My feet were screaming at me as I staggered from tree to fence post to fire hydrant, hobbling, swaying, falling toward the next vertical object. People driving by stared as they passed me - if cell phones had existed then, I'm sure they would have been tapping out 9-1-1, "there's a disgraceful drunk woman falling down on respectable neighborhood lawns".

So what is this infatuation that women have with shoes? I've been reading a lot of chick lit lately, and half the books seem to be about shoes, designer shoes, designer shoes for babies, shoe cupboards and closets, credit cards maxed out on 1 pair of shoes, shoe sale frenzies. And the reason women find this entertaining and funny, is because we can relate to it!

When I was nine, I insisted that my mother buy me a certain pair of dark red shoes. I loved those shoes - they didn't fit right, they pinched and hurt my feet, but I wore them anyway. I didn't understand then why I had to have those shoes, and I don't understand now, why certain shoes just tickle something in our brain - it's erotic and primitive and undeniable. Is there a shoe lobe in the brain?

I have reached the age where all I really look for in a shoe is comfort, but I can be stopped dead in my tracks in front of a shoe shop window featuring a beautiful and usually high-heeled shoe. I will daydream in front of that window, and maybe even enter the store and try the shoe on (if my socks are clean and my toe nails clipped). What is it about shoes and women? What do shoes represent?
Why are shoes "sexy"? How can feet be considered sexy? I don't think feet are sexy, I think feet are damned funny looking. If you stare at a foot long enough, you just have to wonder. Except for baby feet, baby feet are excruciatingly adorable.
And feet can be really ugly and stinky too. Well, I guess that's true of other body parts, too. Clean is sexy. But then, why do we call something sexy, "dirty" ?
Now I'm confused. Feet should definitely be clean, though, I'm not confused about that.

But while I'm mulling over all this sexy feet/sexy shoe stuff, take a look at this really cool book - I love it, my kids love it (though I have to censor some pages for them!) Some of the shoes are real shoes, some are artifacts, some are designers' fanciful creations, and some are just art:

Shoes: A Celebration of Pumps, Sandals, Slippers & More by Linda O'Keeffe (Paperback - Jan 12, 1996)

Postscript: Years after I stopped going dancing and stopped wearing high heels (I almost typed high hells - ha ha Freudian slip!) - I still kept my high heels in my closet - through several moves, one half way across the country - I still kept those spiky little heels. Every once in a while I would take my strappy little pumps out of hiding and just look at them, remembering. They weren't comfortable, but I felt great wearing them, feminine, sexy, and even powerful. I will never feel that way about clogs.

See ya later, alligator! (and hey, those aren't alligator pumps you're wearing, are they?) Here's another fun book:

Alligator Shoes (Reading Rainbow) by Arthur Dorros (Paperback - April 1, 1992)

Tell me about it...

My daughter stomped into my bathroom a few days ago while I was using the toilet.

"I hate this house!" she cried, "I have no privacy!"

Who are you?

My mother called and left a message on my voice mail.
My sister and I called her back.
Mother is home, but she isn't.
Where did my mother go?
Who is this woman who whines and complains and
begs and accuses and throws tantrums?
It is hard to find her voice amid all that.
I recognize her, sort of, but then, not.

A few years ago I had a conversation with my eldest daughter, Sarah,
about the power of hormones. Are our personalities so entwined with
hormones that hormones are part of our personality - does that make
sense? I denied it - I wasn't just hormones - but after reviewing some of
my behavior I had to conclude that my personality was definitely
hugely influenced by hormones. It was a scary thought. Is a person just a brain
swirling with chemicals? Are you your brain? When the hormone levels change,
or the brain tissue is damaged, where do you go? What's the real you?


Now I have to re-form my relationship with my mother - whose brain
is so damaged I can hardly recognize her. There is a person there, a
woman, and she sort of sounds like my mother, but not quite...
She has memories that are familiar, and likes and dislikes...but still...
she's a changeling


I remember when Sarah was a girl and I told her to wear her bike helmet,
because I loved her brain and wanted her to protect it. I had no idea, then, just how much I truly love her brain.

PS 10/07/07 I just came across this quote by Craig Matteson, in a review of the book This is your brain on music, by Daniel Levitin :

...my father was taken by a brain tumor and I tried
to find material on the subject. I read "Phantoms
in the Brain" by V. S. Ramachandran and then
some articles by others in the field who claimed
the mind is simply an illusion created by brain
function, that our sense of consciousness and
choosing is simply false.

This has always seemed wrong to me, no matter
how much of our brain function occurs without our
"mind" or "consciousness" being involved in any way.