Platform shoes

To know me is to know I love shoes.

I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 75 pairs, stored in clear boxes with laminated photos of them taped to their outside. I love, love, love them. I want to hug them and pet them and call them my own.

Most of all, I like to wear them. I love how long and sinuous my gams become when I slip into a stiletto, or how badass I feel when I zip up a pair of calf-hugging sky-high leather boots. Shoes can make me feel like a Hitchcock heroine, a dominatrix, or a straight-up lady. I’m down with all of that.

What I’m not down with is hobbling around like a 19^th-century Chinese woman with bound feet. 

Which is what platform shoes turn women into. I don’t care if you’re Beyoncé, Dita Von Teese, an elfin Olson Twin, or the celebutard du jour, there’s no way you can walk easily, let along comfortably or safely, in these mobile diases. When I slip into a spendy designer platform pump or a cheap hooker shoe, I might as well be toiling away inside a Pearl S. Buck novel, what with my crippled feet. They turn your dogs into horse's hooves.

And why is it so important to be six foot four? I have a hard enough time dating. I don’t need to elevate out prospective men with my glamazonian ways. Kick off these torture devices and kick them to the curb before you become an actual fashion victim.

(photo: compulsivestyle.com)

Skin tags

I accept that that hard living, the environment, the passing of years, and, in my case, a certain lack of balance, can take its toll on the body. Sunburned skin, puffy eyes, scars, moles, a tattoo from a certain Tijuana blackout… You name it, our body is a unique constellation of oddities and quirks that make us, well, us.

I can live with that.

For the most part, anyway. When I can see a clear cause and effect, I can suck it up and bear the dairy-driven rosacea or escalator scar from a New Year’s Eve gone terribly wrong. But I can’t wrap my mind around skin tags.

These tiny growths create a flesh-colored necklace around my neck, or pop up in an armpit or under a boob. Skin tags are basically body barnacles. And I want them scraped off my hull lickety-split. I’m all for personal growth, but that doesn’t mean I want little bits and pieces of skin rubbing against pendants or chafing against an underwire. While punching doesn’t help much in this case, clipping, burning, and excising in my derm’s office will teach these outcroppings not to rear their ugly heads. Tag, you’re hit.

(photo: skintagsremove.com)

Holiday-themed clothing

We get it, Star-Spangled Dumbass, it’s the Fourth of July. With the pop-up fireworks stands, numerous picnic invitations, and my calendar, I had an inkling.

While I think a jaunty scarf or baseball cap in our nation’s colors can set off an outfit and proclaim your Independence beautifully, I take issue with clothing purchased solely for a holiday. Whether it’s an emerald-green outfit befitting a leprechaun, a Quacker Factory sweater adorned with jack-o-lanterns or Christmas trees, or a Valentine’s Day heart attack, seasonal clothing is as gauche as wearing a white gown to someone else's wedding.

And, American Idiot, tricking yourself out head to toe in red, white, and blue $5 Old Navy or Target clothing that was made by one-armed Asian toddlers isn’t the way to convey your national pride.

That’s what illegal fireworks are for, Thomas Feel-Some-Paine. That’s just common sense. 

(photo: flagclothes.com)

Passwords

Every since I was a wittle gurl, I liked security. In the form of my binkie, my mother's bedtime kiss, a sturdy deadbolt. And I thought passwords were the shit. They were currency into the cool kids' clubhouse, sometimes literally.

And then…the internet. In its infancy, I could use one password—a pet's name, some iteration of my birthdate, a word that always makes me giggle—for everything.

And then…now. With secure office servers, viruses, hackers, and just plain annoyingly efficient websites requiring frequent password resets, my mind and my secret codes are a jumble. Some are written down in various notebooks, some are trapped in my mind, hanging out on the trashheap of other lost memories like the last name of that nimrod boyfriend who always kept his gum tucked behind a molar when kissing me, and some are plopped God knows where on my laptop. 

Technology is supposed to make life easier, not remind me at every turn of how old and infirm my mind is becoming. 

macdaddy18

MacDaddy2000

TIWTPITF2012

TrueLove1

Haircut100

LakersRule86

IH8Scrabble

FUpassword

Butterfield8 

maisoui123

No, they're not vanity plates. These are my desperate attempts to find the right combination to unlock my iTunes/Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest/LinkedIn/Microsoft/GoogleYouTubeFlickr/bank/investment/online retailer account. Maybe I should just reset everything right now to Amnesiac4ever.

Don't talk to me about security questions. I'm too busy trying to remember my family's first phone number.

(art: sync-blog.com)

Social media spoilers

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I'm pathetic.

Yep. I'm one of those people who sit on my increasingly fat ass, watching the latest realobotomy TV or awards shows while simultaneously writing on a laptop. Being extremely Caucasian, not to mention cliché, I have an unhealthy relationship with Mad Men, Downton Abbey, and now Girls and The Newsroom. I take these shows seriously, often discussing characters as if they're real people, perhaps even my friends or coworkers.

"Can you believe what Pete said to Joan? And did you get a load of his leisure jacket? 

"Lady Mary and I have so much in common, not the least of which is our ability to bungle every romantic situation that presents itself."

Yes, I really do talk like that. Out loud.

So I'm rather put out (i.e., en-fucking-raged) when some Facebook or Twitter premature e-proclaimator decides to discuss an episode or plot point while it's still airing. In a different time zone! You're not an early adopter; you're a co-opting snot. I can't even imagine how the poor kahunas in Hawaii cope with the likes of loose-lipped or trigger-fingered mainlanders hashtagging #jaguarfail or #phillipphillips while a show is airing on the East Coast. Show some discretion and stop giving away the gasp-worthy moments. If you don't, let me clue you into a spoiler of my own: #iwanttopunchyouintheface.

(This post was inspired by blogger Ryan McRae, who writes Geek in Afghanistan.)

(photo: brandwang.wordpress.com)

Potpourri

Whether I'm walking into a gift shoppe or someone's guest bathroom, the reaction is the same. When I get a whiff of a dusty bowl of potpourri, I immediately am transported to a land of abandoned Beanie Babies, nicotine-stained gingham curtains, and frosted tips on both fingernails and hair.

And not, let me be clear, in a good way.

I adore things that smell good. Hand-poured candles, fresh lavender, clean skin…  The smell of the great outdoors makes me swoon, but I don't want a nest of pinecones, leaves, orange peel, and dried rose petals artfully arranged in a Longaberger basket on the back of my toliet. That doesn't smell like the outside; it smells like a Bed Bath & Beyond managed by a chain smoker who just came off break and spritzed herself with a celebrity fragrance. Or maybe that's just me. Potpourri doesn't mask smells or freshen the room. It just smells like a big bowl of sad.

Like a mullet, I can't quite believe I haven't punched potpourri in its dessicated face. 

(photo: sanaakosirickylee.wordpress.com)

Nose hair

Aging blows.

I’ve always been a gal who wants to own her age. I haven’t had any work done, but I stay out of the sun and use spendy lotions and potions to look as great for my age as possible.

I’ve done a fine job of preventing turkey neck and crow’s feet, but even I couldn’t stave off the nose hair (or chin whiskers, for that matter). Now, look, I’m not looking a genetic gift horse in the mouth (or nostril). My Western European ethnic makeup has resulted in very light to no body hair. For that, I’m thankful (and a bit super-cilia-ous since I have the highly waxed, lasered, and bleached Armenian Sisters Kardashian beat in this arena).

However, time marches on and up my nose, apparently, because as of late, small little dark hairs have the nerve to show their follicles at the entrance to my schnoz.

I turn up my nose at this turn of events, but only to better tweeze the random hair apparent. Aging blows, just like my nose.

(photo: flickrhivemind.net)