Size matters

What is up with shoe stores?

I mean, seriously. I know more women who wear size 9 and up shoes than I do women who wear under a 9.

Why do the shoe stores generally stop at size 10?

I am desperate for new black slides. Mine are gross and old and totally falling apart. While I'm at it, I need new leather sandals that don't kill my arches.

Not one single store at the mall had either of these things for me. Size 8? You can buy any pair of shoes you want. Size 9 and 10 are slim pickin', but there are a few pair for you to try. Size 11? Dream on, sucker.

I am used to doing the walk of shame to the back of the store to find my size in pants, shirts, underwear...I am used to the small selection, the fugliness, the high prices. And I realize that not being able to wear anything I want has everything to do with me and my fondness for cheesecake and corner brownies. If I wanted to (okay, I WANT to, I just need to find my long-misplaced motivation and willpower), I could eventually be a front-of-the-store shopper and have my pick of cute clothes.

But what am I supposed to do about my feet? There's no tootsie diet that I'm aware of. No surgical option--and even if there were, I'm clumsy enough WITH toes, I can only imagine how I'd stumble without them.

Shoe companies, I implore you--MAKE MORE SHOES FOR BIG FEET. Shoes that are available in stores so I don't have to go through the hassle of ordering online. Shoes that aren't sneakers or ugly flat dress shoes.

This post brought to you by the number eleven and the letter "my sore-ass bare feet."

Um, eww.

The only thing nastier than forgotten month-old strawberry yuckiness from the back of the fridge?

Pouring milk and tomato juice down the drain at the same time.

Blech.

My fridge is clean, though. I'm ready for vacation now!! Except for the packing, but that's just a technicality, really.

Wheeee!

Wordless Wednesday: I say Peek-A

She says "Boo."

And it is the cutest thing EVER.

I just finished packing...

Because this weekend I'm going to see my Molly. And my Stephanie. And my Kern (who has a blog, that I can't find, since I never put my blogroll here on the new one...but trust me, she's awesome).

And all the babies and big kids that come with.

And nothing is standing in our way this time. Take that, hand, foot, and mouth! My super baby kicked. your. BUTT.

Squee!!

Houston...

We have a walker.

A single day earlier than her big brother did it, my baby took real, undeniable, defnite, totally for sure steps. Several of them.

Then Mama cried. Just a little bit.

And she's already trying to run.

SLOW DOWN, LB!!!

You know what sucks?

Mondays.

Aunt Flo, four days early.

And taking your baby in for what you think is an ear infection, and finding out she's got effing Hand, Foot, and Mouth.

Argh.

How to spoil a mama...

You wouldn't think that a great night would begin with pleas of "Would you PLEASE go to sleep, child?" at 12:30 AM. Or that it would end after a mere 5 hours of completely disrupted sleep.

But when you're almost asleep, and you feel the pitty-patter of little hands and feet crawling blindly across the bed, and then feel those soft little fingers pat your face, discerning which big person she just found, hear that sweet, sleepy sigh, and your baby falls right to sleep in your arms like you're all she needed, after all? That's a great night.

As she gets bigger, I'm trying to relish those moments. I know too well how quickly it goes by. That I'm going to blink, and she'll be too big to snuggle up in my arms for a nap. That one day I won't be all she needs, or even wants for that matter.

It's sad to think about, but I guess I have to just make the most of it, and commit those little moments to memory, because I know I'm going to need them.

Dear people who use wallpaper border...

Please don't.

Or at least remove it before you sell your house to the poor sucker who has to spend hours on a ladder removing it.

Thanks.

It just isn't meant to be...

I am a clothes horse. I own probably somewhere around 250 shirts, fifty to seventy-five pairs of pants, and all of the other things that go with.

There, I admitted it.

I am also incredibly unorganized and, quite frankly, a slob. I don't mind doing the laundry--I hate putting it away. Therefore my bedroom, walk-in closet, and master bathroom (okay, and my living room, office, and kitchen table) all have stacks and stacks (and stacks and piles and baskets and boxes and bags) of clothes. They are EVERYWHERE.

I first admitted this to Molly a while back. I took "before" pictures several months ago, and began a massive purge. At that time, I donated six 55 gallon bags and four Rubbermaid totes to Goodwill, plus threw away a ton more. Then I began the organization.

Until the racks in my closet collapsed.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started.

It took weeks to get the motivation to clean it up enough for Hubs to rehang the racks, this time, he assured me, on studs, as the people who built our house had apparently failed to do.

I've been continuing the purge here and there, the result of some weight loss and a desire to get rid of anything that will encourage me to not stop for donuts every morning as I have been known to do sometimes.

I got some sleep last night and had no plans for today, other than de-teddy-bearing and then monkifying the kids' bathroom, with some fabulous teal paint and all new accessories.

So I decided today? Would be my most. productive. day. EVER.

I started four hours ago with a box of trash bags and all the will in the world. I would conquer it this time. I would no longer have an addiction, I would have a wardrobe. That I could find. That I never had to wonder if it was clean or dirty because it was laying in the floor or under the bills on the dining room table. It was going to be FABULOUS, I imagined.

Then I was going to come here, post those shameful before pictures, and then show you how nice a job I did, getting rid of all the old, ugly, doesn't fit anyhow stuff, and then organizing it all back into categories that make sense, like "pants," "sweaters," "sleeveless shells."

For the first time since we moved in four years ago, you could see the floor of my closet. I began hanging things, in order: long sleeve, short sleeve, sleeveless, work pants, skirts, dresses, jeans, sweaters...more jeans...more sweaters...more sweaters.

I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started. Deja-freakin-vu.

Studs my ass, Hubs. STUDS MY ASS.

I'm trying not to be too dejected. I'm trying to look at this as the opportunity to indulge in another brand of retail therapy--the kind where you go to Lowe's and design yourself a closet system. That you will personally assemble (if you're handy, which I believe myself to be) and that you will personally attach to studs. You know, like your husband would if your husband wasn't MY husband.

My chin is up, my drill is charging, and I'm going to get those after pictures.

Beginnings and endings...

Ahhh, the beginning of summer.

Today was the last day of school, straight A's for my baby genius. Hard to believe he'll be in the third grade next year.

It was the last baseball game of the season, too--we beat an undefeated team, a team recognized as the best team in the district. It was the Boy's first year playing, and he finished up with a couple dozen RBI's and a batting average over .900. So very proud.

So now he begins what we call "Grandparent Camp." For the first time in his almost 8 years, his dad is actually planning on taking him for his two weeks. Then between his three sets of grandparents and us, he'll go to three Vacation Bible Schools, two amusement parks (at least, as Mama's a roller coaster junkie), a train ride through the prettiest parts of the state, and a vacation to a destination that is yet to be determined. He'll run and play and stay dirty, wet, or some combination of the two for the next three months.

I'll get visitation on weekends and start seriously paining for him somewhere around the end of July. I just remind myself that he's having more fun than he would in daycare, he's with his family, and he's creating memories that he will carry into his adulthood. He loves it, they love it, so I try to see the bright side.

Just a fair warning, so when I get mopey in a month or two, you know why.

Guess where I'm getting ready to go?

On my last formula run.

*Insert Happy Wallet Dance Here*

Tuesday let's be random, shall we?

Today I downloaded a new ringtone.

So if you call me, and I don't answer, don't feel neglected--I'm only jamming out to "The Right Stuff."

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.
___________________________________________
A question you never knew you didn't want to know the answer to:

Why does the bottom of my black diaper bag smell like spinach and vinegar?
____________________________________________
Dear Dick Cheney,

Whoever chose your nickname had you pegged, didn't they?

Apologizing through your spokeswoman? LAME-O. Something else you don't have to worry about when you aren't running for re-election? Hiding behind your spin doctors. Jackass.

Only 230 more days.

It's June first...

Which means I now say "Oh, LB? She'll be one next month."

One.
Next.
Month.

NEXT MONTH. ONE.

Gah.