The TSA, also known as This Sucks Ass

I’ve had occasion to fly frequently of late. And here is one thing I’ve learned: there is no elegance to flying.

When I say elegance, it’s not so much in reference to beauty or craft but more into the humble human need to preserve some dignity.

There is no dignity in air travel.

Before you even set foot in a plane, your identity is called into question at least twice, your half-stripped of clothing, wandering barefoot on carpet that hasn’t seen a vacuum since 1982 and God forbid the x-ray finds something circumspect in that carry on.

“Why yes, semi-literate TSA agent, that’s three days-worth of already-worn panties in that pocket. Thongs. Not even big enough to tuck a bomb into, so how about you close that up now?

Oh that? It’s an EPI pen. So I don’t die from anaphylactic shock. Shall I stick in your neck and see if it works? No? Such a shame.”

Assuming you aren’t arrested, finger probed, boob patted or otherwise molested, you

move onto your next humiliation to stand in line next to your number like a good little girl.

Skinny aisle, tiny seat, overhead bins made for 6 foot tall people only. Leg room? Pshaw! Kindergarten-sized drinking cups but still pay $8 for a glass of wine (really??) and peanuts meant for small chimps. 

Dignity not included.

I am not naïve. I lived in this country before and after 9/11. I understand the emotional toll that placed on air travel. I expect reasonable security measures -- or even unreasonable ones -- if it prevents that from ever happening again. But I must question how my stiletto heels can be used to hide a hypodermic needle (yes, it’s been suggested) and how my travel-sized fingernail clippers -- which barely clip nails – represent a deadly weapon. Or maybe I should be flattered that my appearance obviously provokes fear and images of James Bondesque-techniques that turn a harmless pair of tweezers into an instrument of death.

Either way, I think, by way of compromise for the benefit of air safety measures, the booze should be free. At least then when my dignity is gone due to drunkenness, I can say it was absolutely my heels that made me do it. 

Influence

Stepped out of my Missouri safety and made the trek to Chicago this weekend.

I spent three days, neck craned, soaking in the vibrancy only a big city can offer. As with any destination, I ask myself one question: Could I live here?

I’m a small-town girl, but I so love the big city. I could make a live among the high rises, navigating the sidewalks in my Micheal Kors pumps.

But I wouldn’t. Once upon a time I would have traded my life in the sleepy pace of Kansas City for the rush of Chicago, New York or L.A.

Today I look to my right and see the tow-headed influence that has required me to vastly rearrange my priorities. Could I live there? Yes. Could I raise my son there? Not just yet.

When your life requires you to cross town on a bus to play in the yard, that’s not the life for me. I’d much rather sit on the back porch and watch him swing. Or play a lively game of bocce instead of surrounding myself with steel and glass.

Even if that means no Micheal Kors pumps to keep me warm in the winter.

Femme Fate-all

I've been thinking alot about fate lately. Blame it on Billy Joel, I have "Only the Good Die Young" on repeat, but it's always been a topic that I find interesting. (Come on Virgina, don't make me wait...)

Why does one person seem to do so well, while those around him struggle and flail? Why does one person fall in love and the other does not?

Of course, as a Christian I struggle with fate versus divine planning. I believe in divine planning but so many things seem to be fated.

Take for example my shoe fetish. I'm pretty sure I'm fated to get this pair... I won't be able to help myself!

I have been soo good since we bought the house. Spared every dime for curtains and pretty little knick knacks. I haven't bought a single pair. It's about time, don't you think?

The price of love

In a roundabout way, thanks to my friend Nona, I discovered Fluevog shoes.

I'm in love. And not like that one time, where I thought I was in love but really it was a deep-seated lust masquerading as love. Not this time. Love is coursing through my toes. Begging to be shod in the one-of-a-kind stitch witchery of John Fluevog.

Is $265 too much to pay for true love?

Color me in

I've never had one of those cartoons done. You know the ones where your head and teeth are five times larger than your tiny little arms and legs? They are usually done at some booth along the fairway of the carnival or fair.

If I did, I can't imagine it would rival this piece of mastery. This perfectly captures my illogical love of shoes. I pulled it out and framed it for a position of importance in my dressing area.

I call it "a pussy in love."

Strap one on

It was 76 degrees in this part of nowhere on Sunday. Sun-filled skies, lazy white clouds and a warm breeze that reeked of Spring. It was fantastic.

Today it's 26.

Is it just me or has this been the longest winter in the history of winter? Every time it gets above 40, I get that tingly feeling that warmer weather is just around the corner. I start counting my strappy sandals -- 12 pair. That's right, 12. Last week, I put on one of my favorite pair and wore it around the house while I dusted, put together dinosaur puzzles and cleaned the bathrooms. Surprisingly, it didn't help usher the Spring season any faster.

Before you start, I know that Spring officially starts March 20. Knowing that it's at least three more weeks away doesn't help my anxiety lessen. In fact, I'm starting to get a little frantic for warmer weather and I've started making totally baseless and idle threats about taking the ball of fire and running away to Corpus Christi where I will earn my living by helping shoot "Girls Gone Wild" videos.

Most likely, I'll just buy some new strappy sandals. I happen to have a pair already picked out!

Doctor, doctor

My mom is staying with us this week to help around the house, as I cannot lift anything over 15 pounds. Currently, my cat weighs 17, the ball of fire is 45, and the hubby tags in at 175, so basically I'm screwed.

Apparently the mommy guilt never really ends because she saw my scars and immediately bought me a new pair of shoes. I have lusted after this particular pair before, so imagine my joy when they showed up at the house today!

Yes, I am a mama's girl. Do you feel the need to get in my face about it?

Alright, so I'm still in kind of a bad mood. Hopefully tomorrow will be better, especially in my new shoes.

Irascible

I feel irritable today. Out of sorts. Testy. Tempermental.

I went back to work at my lovely part-time writing gig to escape the dismal state of affairs known as "daytime television." But as I sit here -- with edits on my left hand and a 1,500 word article on collaboration at my right -- I am pinched by stitches, sore muscles and chaffing pants.

What I need (which is something I can't have for another week...) is obviously a new pair of shoes. Luckily I work near a discount shoe bonanza, which yeilded a funky pair of ankle boots that will be perfect for trekking through the cobblestone streets of Rome.

My friend JAC who is spearheading this trip, believes in the pointy-toe shoe philosopy. Pointy-toed shoes make your legs look longer. She's 5'7. I'm not. Her legs will always look longer than mine.

She's also much more of a shiny dresser with lots of bling, while I'm much more black clothes, Dr. Martens and black fingernails. So I bought the rounded toe boots that will look great with my jeans and serve me well if I'm cornered in a back alley and need to kick some guy in the nuts to get away.

Ok, now I'm hoping that happens just so I can try out these new black beauties.

Man, I am in a bad mood!

Funny how I find myself in love with you...

A few months ago, a blogger I follow posted a link to a funny little blog called, "My Wardrobe Today." At first, I was a little put off by the concept. How much vanity must one person possess to post a photo of her outfit and a detailed description of her make-up, every day? Of course, after reading her blog and loving EVERYTHING this woman puts on her body, I just adore her site. She has some of the best hair and these round apple cheeks are to die for!

Now, I've never considered myself a shoe hound, despite other comments to the fact, but I am crazy about these peep-toe pumps that she's always wearing.

They remind me of those 1920s classic movie star shoes worn by Lauren Bacall, Grace Kelly or even Gwen Stefani in the "It's My Life" video.

This week, during a foray into the mall (which I hate) I was in Macy's and spotted these little black and white beauties. My heart swelled, the music crescendoed and I fell in love...

And then I checked the price tag. 100 smackers for toe-peeping love.

Oh. Good. God.

It's difficult for a person who is already tight-fisted (me) to purchase anything at full price (shoes) let alone something that is certainly going to cause me pain (high heels). But I did stop and ponder it for just a moment.

I have to be honest with myself. If I'm going to spend that much money on shoes, it will be to buy the twin strap Mary Janes by Dr. Marten, which I will wear forever because that's how long those things last! Kathy Griffin is always wearing them on "My Life on the D-List," which just adds to my need to have them.

And when I'm feeling really frisky, maybe ... just maybe ... these patent-leather wedges from BCBGirls.

Now, if anyone were to say, offer to purchase these for me, in exchange for "favors," ... well, who knows what you might find in my closet next ...