Entries in Pop Culture (129)
So. I was going to tell you a story today about how I have longed for these shoes:
For many years. They’ve visited me in my dreams, that’s how badly I wanted them. And I was going to tell you a story about how I didn’t purchase them way back in 2007 because of the unreasonable-but-could-be-rationalized price that I was not—despite my best efforts—able to rationalize at the time. (And I can rationalize just about anything.) I was going to tell you about how, a few weeks ago, a similar version reappeared in the J. Crew catalogue with an even more unreasonable-but-could-be-rationalized price…
…and how, while I made a mental list of those rationalizations and palmed my credit card, I somehow managed to put a pair of these in my Zappos shopping cart instead:
In case you didn’t notice, these don’t remotely resemble either of the other pairs I’ve been ogling. The perimenopausal mind reels.
Thus, I was going to offer an analysis of my life that’s revealed in my having skipped the fierce (and fiercely petable) heels in favor of these meh, zzzzzzzzzzzz, Olive Oyl, definitely-not-sexy-but-godDAMNit-they’re-comfortable! Dasnko clogs that, just yesterday, my daughter’s 7th grade mentor referred to as “adorable.”
I was going to include an analysis of whether the solidarity I felt with a twelve year old was appropriate, and why her approval mattered anyway, but that it did, and that her excitement over my middle-aged-lady choice instantly made me feel simultaneously victorious and less (oh, Mrs. G., I’m so sorry in advance)…cat lady. I was going to tell you that, regardless of my descent into middle-age practicality, I was thankful for this child’s thumbs up. Because me and Harry Weathersby Stamps, rest his soul? We ain’t got time for no cats.
Funny that I should pine for shoes with cat print, something for future psychological investigation I'm sure.
Anyhow. That story I just mentioned has to be put on hold, because there was white smoke billowing from the Vatican yesterday in the church’s most dramatic, hocus-pocusy manner. The new leader has been revealed and he has me feeling a little bit frisky. A little bit rawr:
I think my wallet is about to be $350 lighter.
You can read more of Aaryn Belfer at Thematically Fickle.
1) It's God's will. Really? Did he leave one behind, because Mrs. G. would like a copy of it.
What do you wish no one would ever say to you again?
Last night Mrs. G. dreamed she was filming a love scene with Brad Pitt. Mrs. G. can't recall what the movie was about, but she is sure it was one you could watch in your neighborhood Cineplex. Also, if Mr. G. or her children are reading this, Mrs. G. was fully clothed from the waist down.
Also, if Mr. G. or Mrs. G's children are reading this, Brad was nuzzling her neck discussing String Theory and Schrodinger's Cat, and Mrs. G. sat up and asked him point blank if she was supposed to "act" for the cameras or just naturally let go. Just let go.
And just like that, poof, Brad was gone.
Mrs. G. supposes it was some kind of bullshit lesson on staying in the moment and keeping her counsel. Has she mentioned she hates bullshit lessons...and staying in the moment (there are so many other places to be) and keeping her counsel?
Learn from Mrs. G's mistakes. Please. Someone needs to.
"I don’t care. I’ll start my own group. Rejection from society is what created X-Men!”~Liz Lemon
So many of you bravely coughed up your shameful involvement in eighties fads yesterday, Mrs. G. decided to repost this equally embarrassing mini memoir of her own ad-driven enslavement.
"I'll have a tall skinny sugar free vanilla caramel macchiato with dry foam extra hot...and could you put that in a double cup?"
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