Results tagged "Footwear"

I keep my socks in a hat box.

And last week, when I had to buy new socks, I had to go through the great sock reorganization… You know, the tossing of the old into the scrap pile — the searching through for the elusive missing socks… always leaving you in wonder as to how or where they escaped to… It might just be me (most likely) playing out the Alcatraz-like break-out from the sock box scene in my head… as the deceivingly warm but thin black pant socks form a union in the planning stage but then realize that they might need a bright white sneaker sock, one that isn’t afraid to get it’s hands dirty in the execution phase… And the constant secrecy to keep the big fat winter sleep socks out of the loop — there’s no way they are getting through the tunnel that they were in the process of digging… with their teeth.

And I know — SO WHAT? Who cares? I’ve never been one for hats — not the kind of hat that would live in a box, anyway, and from one end of the body to the other, keeping my socks in a deep round box just seemed — RIGHT. But that’s not entirely it… Oh no. That isn’t what this is about.

It all started eons ago when I spent a few months living with my Grandma in her apartment on the the Hudson — Irvington on the Hudson, to be exact (not to be confused with my Nana, who was equally sock conscious but lived in a warmer climate…). My Grandma was the master organizer, and socks were one of her specialties. She kept some of hers in a hat box in the little room that I stayed in. She also kept some in her file cabinet, hallway closet, laundry basket, sewing box, AND a sock drawer — which I’m sure was only for the really really good socks. None of these socks had holes in them. None of them even had a thread out of place, and she would check in with them whenever she had a little free time… unrolling them, rolling them back-up. It was great if you were there for this — sitting next to her — something about the socks made her talk about her life… questions came up — like would I evah wear heels with jeans?… No.. Grandma, no I wouldn’t.

I’m not sure where the fascination with socks came from, or perhaps it was just the comfort of organizing that made it such a ritual. She also loved to empty out her pocket book for the same reason. She kept her make-up in the freezer next to the coffee, weeded the cracks in her patio with a silver spoon AND wouldn’t let me leave the house without a full screening for wrinkles. It was perhaps the most organized few months of my life — and when I left, I immediately bought a hat box.

“That lady… That lady over there… She blatantly rammed into me with her cart…”

I could hear the whining from two aisles away—I was by the lettuce and he was by the fruit. “She could have just said excuse me, but Nooooooo, she had to go through me instead”. I whispered, “Are you kidding me?” under my breathe as a passing stock boy giggled. “What, WHAT is the problem? I don’t see anything…” said his companion. “What do you mean… right there — that lady (pointing from me to his foot) hit me with her dirty cart and now my shoe is scuffed and my foot hurts.”

Am I on Candid Camera or being Punked?

I had entered the local produce market quite innocently. It was a beautiful day, the crowd had not yet arrived and we were just running in for a few items. The market is unassuming — small and organic, yet slightly overpriced for the summer visitors. Turning the corner, I grabbed a small bag of Veggie Fries for Will to snack on while we shopped when suddenly, the unthinkable occurred. As I made my way to the deli counter, I maneuvered around a couple when I gently nudged the heel of a man looking just like Harold Ramis. Immediately upon impact I apologized, “I’m so sorry”, as he turned to glare at me.. “YOU HIT ME WITH YOUR CART!” he exclaimed as I began to apologize profusely. “Really, you could have said ‘EXCUSE ME’ or even ‘MOVE’.” he said, now yelling. But honestly, it didn’t seem that there had been a reason to, I started to explain but he huffed away, slightly limping as his partner — who seemed totally oblivious to what had just happened, followed.

But it only continued, as I stood watching him tap the shoulders of every person in the store — shoppers and employees… “That lady over there hit me with her cart!” he repeated, lifting his foot up to show everyone… my jaw on the floor. I mean really – RAMIS. You have on boat shoes and I barely even touched you. People were starting to stare. Yes, it was me – I hit Harold with my cart, as the Ghostbusters theme started playing in my head…Bustin’ makes me feel good! He was making a scene out of himself, suggesting to others that they should watch out for me… that wild woman over there with the giant child eating Veggie Fries — clearly I was INSANE.

And as it continued, I kept my head down as I shopped–only looking up to catch the eyes of people amused by the entertainment. I was trying so hard not to explode with laughter that I was losing my sense of direction and started filling plastic bags with way more oranges than I needed.. “Are you finished shopping yet so that I can get to the car to take my shoe off, I think it’s filling up with blood”, I heard him say to the woman who I can only assume was his wife. The wife that is probably in line for canonization. “I think you’re fine… I doubt she did it on purpose.” she said, finally throwing out the obvious.. “I can’t believe this. You saw her do it, how can you think this isn’t serious…I can’t walk in the sand with an injured foot..” he complained, following her to the checkout muttering about possibly needing medical attention… In his tee shirt and bathing suit, walking just fine, with his hands extended as if he was trying to understand why no one was listening. “I think you’re fine”, she said.

Everyone in the store knew I was embarrassed as I hovered in the back by the bread, peeking through the shelves until they had exited the building. When I made it to the checkout, the Hispanic women that see me on an almost daily basis couldn’t keep it together as we all burst out laughing… the store owner, who had appeared to see what all the fuss was about, shook his head saying “incredible”, as I wiped away my tears.

And as we moved on — out into the sun, I spied the man sitting on his tailgate, rubbing his foot while his partner appeared to be taking out her frustrations by cleaning out the car. I hope they had a nice day.

In other news, I’m stuck in the 80′s with more than Ramis today — I’m over at Culture Brats getting Kevin Bacon off of my mind… Enjoy!

I am living a double life. It’s very taxing. One half of me is dying to buy up all the clearance winter cardies to keep warm in my house – it’s still winter after all. It’s Minnesota. But on the other, I think I must be dreaming of spring every night. Liberated toes. Open Windows. Cuffed jeans that show my ankles. So many live green things around that I might actually get sick of them. Shopping is a horrible push and pull between what’s affordable, and, alas, all the full price spring things I really want. I almost did an entire post on sandals. Instead Ry, this week’s green bits are in honor of your terrarium obsession. I’ll let you click through the link and see what’s really going on.

You can find me waxing poetic on kids spring obsessions over at Small for Big.

1. Dansko Sissy
   Sandals, Zappos.com $110
2. Moss for
   your wall, Ottoman  $35
3. Draped
   Sweater Cardigan, Textile Junkie at Target Red Hot Shop $59
4. Interchangeable
   Carpet Bag, Designs by Danna SALE $50
5. Kork-ease
   Colosseum Sandals, Sundance $128

It’s not easy being green… heck, I’d live in a terrarium if I could… And who wouldn’t? Kind of like being a goldfish.. or driving your car around at night with the interior lights on.  

Guest Bird #9 – Melissa

Melissa Taylor is a mom, teacher and freelance writer. Melissa loves writing about her passions — education and parenting. She blogs at Imagination Soup http://imaginationsoup.net , a fun and easy learning activities for inquisitive kids. Her writing portfolio is on her website http://melissatayloronline.com.

Another day and my kid has out styled me again.  And what a style.  We’re talking so many patterns it’s a knock you down dizzying effect.  But the topper is the pink cowgirl boots.  People all day long stop us to compliment the pink boots.  Really, it’s excessive.  Perhaps a bit ego inflating for my young impressionable child.  “Everyone likes my boots, mom,” she says to me happily.