Goin' Down to Mama's

Shoes I Have Loved

I spent yesterday afternoon with my friends Meredith and Kim. Naturally, with three women in the room, the topic of conversation eventually worked its way around to shoes. Meredith (who went to New York armed with socks and Band-Aids so she could break in her new boots without significant blood loss)  has a friend who believes that all women are obsessed with one of three things: shoes, purses, or lingerie. I proudly carry the banner of the shoe obsessed—or at least, I used to. Thanks to some cartilidge issues that I'll spare you, I now own a lot of Clarks. But there was a time when I could work in high heels all day long without the aid of pharmaceuticals or crutches, and my cousins called me Imelda. (Remember the former Philippine first lady whose ousters confiscated over 2,000 pairs of shoes?) When I was in high school, I had a Sunday School teacher named Sally who was also a shoe hound. We couldn't resist admiring each other's footwear every Sunday morning before turning our attention to the Scripture. As a single working girl with a credit card, I once waltzed into Parisian and bought three pairs of shoes at one time. And they weren't even on sale. I no longer possess department store credit cards, for the obvious reasons, but I still remember some of those shoes. I got a little misty telling Kim and Meredith about a pair of absolutely perfect taupe pumps I owned in the eighties. Alas, I wore them completely out before I met Teresa, a work friend who introduced me to the wonders of resoling. I had some killer red patent Kenneth Coles with a super-high heel—to die for. Rose-colored suede peep-toes that looked like something out of a Betty Grable movie. Lovely. Pearlized sling-backs and black evening shoes with a silver bow and . . . boots. Don't even get me started on boots. While I mourn the loss of my ability to wear five-inchers, Kim shared a shoe tragedy far more heartbreaking than my orthopedic issues. She owned the perfect black wedges—great fit, great height, went with everything—until one fateful morning when her preschooler said "Mommy, I don't feel good." And in a moment of moral weakness, she put her child's welfare before that of her shoes, raced to baby's aid . . . and got her favorite wedges covered in something we'll just call "projectile." They were done for. Yes, to ensure the safety and well-being of her child, Kim sacrificed an amazing pair of shoes. But I still think she's a good person.:)

[Image by Wixphoto.com @ Freerangestock.com] 

Don't Turn Sideways

Yesterday afternoon, I was catching up with one of my oldest and dearest friends. We don't get to see each other very much, but we manage to visit by phone pretty often. We were both bemoaning the middle-aged spread. (And please, do not point out to me that if 50 is middle-aged, I must be planning to live a very long time:) "You know, I don't think I look that bad when I'm standing straight in front of the mirror," I said. "It's when I turn sideways that things get scary." "Turn sideways?" said my friend,in disbelief. "I NEVER do that any more." And so I have a whole new worldview: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. In every cloud, seek out that silver lining. And by the way . . . don't EVER turn sideways.

Siri Ain't from Alabama

I have discovered a rare design flaw in an Apple product. Siri can't speak Southern. In case you are even later than I am in joining the iPhone Club, let me explain. Dave and I were on the way home from Illinois when my old smart phone, a Droid, passed away. We had it plugged into the charger as we cruised along, when suddenly it started saying "Droid," "Droid," "Droid," over and over again. We couldn't figure out how to make it stop, so we pulled over and put it in the trunk, where it apparently continued talking to itself till it developed laryngitis. The minute we got home, off to Verizon Wireless I went, armed with an AmEx and an excuse to buy an iPhone, which I had wanted for months. When the salesman explained to me that the more expensive model came with Siri, the talking iPhone assistant who could take dictation and free me from typing text messages, I whipped out my credit card faster than a gun slinger at the OK Corral. My good friend and freelance employer, Gary, who can text faster than I can talk, says he knows that if he sends me three texts in a row, he can expect a phone call because I just can't face typing that many messages. But dictating them? You betcha. Or so I thought. My first message to him went something like this: "Well, I finally got an iPhone!" At least that's what I said. What Siri HEARD was "Whale, I finally got an iPhone." Later I tried: "Just wanted to see how y'all are." Siri heard: "Just wanted to see how are you out there." I couldn't even give that woman the text address. "To whom shall I send it?" Siri asked. "Gary Wright," I replied. Pause. Pause. "I do not understand Ferierai," Siri said. And so I am penning a suggestion to the good folks at Apple, whose work I so admire:

Dear Apple,

Before your next upgrade to the iPhone, please send Siri for some intensive study in the Southern dialect. Send her to a mixer at Ole Miss. And a crawfish boil in Louisiana. Feed that girl some catfish and fried green tomatoes, for heaven's sake. Better yet, offer a Southern alternative to Siri. Her name could be Artis or Vernell or maybe something double like Lula Fay. And before she listens to what we want her to do, she would tell us how her mama's doing and why them new choir robes clash with that carpet down at the church and oughta be carried back and did you know prices keep a-goin' up even at the WALMART dear heaven what's the world comin' to . . .

Sincerely,

A Misunderstood Customer in Alabama

Hank's Book of Cat Philosophy: #9

You will find, in life, that anything worth having . . . 

is worth stalking.

[At least, that's true of your chipmunks, your lizards, and your feathered cuisines.]

Workouts Through the Ages

My Workout Routine, 1980s:

• Put on Size Small gym shorts and Size Small T-shirt, drive to free sort-of-like-Jane-Fonda aerobics class at Auburn's old Student Activities Building ("Student Act"), and wait for Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" to blast through the speakers (Crank it up!)

• Join 50 or 60 other girls with big hair in doing those really bouncy stretches that the orthopedic community has since advised against

• Make it through 20 minutes of a 45-minute routine, then depart for Wendy's to beat the supper rush (I'll take a single with cheese and a small fry—no, make that a large—I just worked out . . .)

 My Workout Routine, Early 90s

• Put on coordinating tights and leotard (Is it me, or are they making these smaller than they used to?)

• Drive to fitness club and hurry to assemble apparatus for step aerobics before Madonna or Janet Jackson blasts through the speakers (Should they maybe turn that down a little?) 

• Fight my way through everything the instructor can actually see me do; cheat on the closing ab work when she's looking the other way

• Better just have a barbecue salad for supper; those burgers are starting to add up.

My Workout Routine Last Week:

•    Take Advil

•    Apply Bengay to sore shoulder—must've strained it lifting my coffee cup

•    Look for knee brace

• Put on my fat shorts and the biggest T-shirt I own; drive to gym and board treadmill in the blissfully darkened "Cardio Cinema" theater, so I can watch Bruce Willis or Angelina Jolie engage in international (or was it interplanetary?) intrigue on the silver screen, thereby distracting myself from the shocking weight I entered when I programmed the aforementioned piece of equipment

• Make the mistake of driving past a McDonald's on my way to CVS to buy a new ice pack (Yee-ha! I heard they're on sale!) and automatically put on five pounds, just by looking in the general direction of those arches

• Fall asleep wondering if I should maybe do something to express my undying gratitude to the lovely people who invented Advil . . .  

 

'Don't He Look Natural'

I had never seen this picture until recently—pretty sure it came from my cousin Jimmy's collection. My mother is the little girl in front, just to the left of the bridesmaids. Uncle Ferrell and Aunt Slimp are the bride and groom. But I'd really like to direct your eye to the very tall guy toward the center in back, way up over everybody else. That's Uncle Leck. He wasn't a blood relation, but that never mattered. He was a beloved member of the family. His parents died when he was young, and for a while he lived with another family. But Granddaddy McCranie thought they weren't treating him well and said, "Why don't you come live with us?" Bear in mind that my grandparents had eight kids of their own and lived in a shotgun house with three bedrooms. I don't know if they even had indoor plumbing when Uncle Leck first came to live with them. But he brought with him a lot of love for everybody and a great sense of humor. My mother still remembers a beautiful doll that he bought for her. Uncle Bud—who is absolutely the best storyteller in the family—told us about a dance back in the day when some bigger guys tried to pick a fight with Uncle Leck. He ran. Fast. And when one of my uncles asked him, "Aren't you worried that folks'll call you a coward?" Uncle Leck had an answer: "Better for 'em to say 'couldn't he run' than 'don't he look natural.'"

Visions of Marlo

I look at this picture now and don't find it entirely hideous. But the first time I saw it—in 3rd or 4th grade—I was completely disgusted. I had expected to look like Marlo Thomas on That Girl. But as you can see, my hair is noticeably flatter than Marlo's. Of course, I didn't realize at the time that she likely had a whole hairdo team to roll, tease, and cement her hair into that poofy flip that I so admired. This wasn't the only school picture to disappoint me. Picture day was always stressful because I knew that image was going to be plastered into the yearbook for all to see, for all eternity. There would be the packet of prints Mama would buy—one 8x10 to frame and smaller ones to clip apart and distribute to the grandparents and aunts and uncles. For days, I would ponder my outfit and hair. But then when picture day came, we all stood in that line, hopped up on a stool with classmates watching, and BOOM—in seconds, it was over. That picture was MADE. Done. Headed for a frame in the living room for the next year. Fast-forward to my magazine days. Several times, I had my picture taken by Southern Living photographers who knew how to make ANYBODY look good. And I can't help wondering how much happier I would've been with my school portraits if those school photographers could've taken the time to work with me the way my friends on the magazine did : Okay now, let's adjust the lights and try a different angle. Is it me or is that plaid a little busy? Let's get some wardrobe options in here. And fluff her hair. Or maybe a wig. Do we need props? Maybe she wouldn't look so terrified if she were holding a puppy. Hand me that beagle. On second thought, you know what would be great? Coastal light. Load up, everybody, we're moving this shoot to Florida . . .

Pharmaceuticals on My Food Pyramid

When, I ask you, did Advil become a food group? It's just part of my morning routine now: wake up, take blood pressure medicine, brush teeth, start coffee pot, feed cat, take Advil, watch 10 minutes of news, go to Story Shack. About a month ago, I was on a photo shoot and sat down in the floor of the house where we were working so I could send a quick email on my laptop. All was well till I tried to get back up. "You know what?" I told the photographer. "I can remember a time when getting up required absolutely no forethought or pre-planning on my part. I could just do it—whenever I felt like it." Not any more. There's the trick knee to think about and the ankle that's always a little achy and you sure don't want to strain that lower back again and you REALLY don't want to lose your balance and fall—that could take you straight to a hip replacement. When did this happen to me? When I whine about my ailments to my friend Dianne, she says, "You're how old again?" Merciless. I've decided on a two-pronged approach to middle-aged aches and pains: I will manage them with medication and I will lie about their origins. That trick knee? Gotta lay off the mountain climbing one of these days, or at least stay out of the Rockies. The ankle? Nothing like a figure skating injury to make you break out the ice packs (that triple toe loop is killer on the landing). My back? Don't you hate it when you're THIS close to yet another diving championship and an old injury costs you the freestyle? I'm sure I can make those stories stick. It's all about attitude. And the older I get, the more of THAT I get, too. (Or as a friend of mine recently put it: "You know you were sweeter before you hit 40.") Yeah, yeah. Take it to the complaint department, buddy.

Daddy Says: "Stuff About Bears You Don't Know"

It's time, once again, for the post-Sunday lunch wrap-up. Alas, cousin Grey didn't show, so we had to carry the discussion without him:

Daddy: Hey, I'll bet there's some stuff about bears you don't know.

Me: Bears? 

Daddy: Yeah, bears.

Me: Like what?

Daddy: Well, there's some stuff they really hate. For example, they hate signs that say "Do Not Feed the Bears."  And signs that say "Keep All Food Out of Reach of Bears."

Me: I guess that's understandable . . .

Daddy: And you know how people say that if you're ever attacked by a bear, you should roll up into a ball?

Me: Okay . . . 

Daddy: Well, you shouldn't do that. Unless you're a porcupine. 

[Grey, where are you when we need you?]  

Daddy Says: "Thinking About Van Gogh"

Daddy called me this morning with a burning question:

Daddy: Hey, do you ever wake up in the morning thinking about Vincent Van Gogh?

Me: Uh . . .

Daddy: You know—do you ever wake up wondering about the kind of stuff he and his wife might've said to each other? [I'm not at all sure the tormented painter ever married, but we'll skip that for now.]

Me: I can't say that I have, Daddy. What exactly did you decide the Van Goghs said to each other?

Daddy: Well, for starters, she might've said something like, "YOU'VE CUT YOUR EAR OFF!!"

Me: I can see that.

Daddy: Or let's say she's trying to talk to him and tell him something. He might say something like, "Would you mind sitting on my other side?"

Me: That would be because of the ear situation?

Daddy: Exactly! I've got more—you wanna hear them?

Me: Maybe you could just jot them all down . . .