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Was it something I said?

You guys know I love you. You know how much I appreciate it when you read and share my stuff, follow my links, enter my stupid contests, and leave your stupid comments in my stupid comment box. And I hope you know that I try, I really try hard, to provide content that will titillate your senses and set your brain pans vibrating.

So is it too much to expect my own hate site? Matt Walsh has one. Mark Shea gets a support group for people he’s banned on Facebook and a petition for his removal. Even that nutty lady from Florida who knows how to get around IP blockers has a hate site. The nutty lady from Florida! And yet here I am, tapping away, and I can’t even remember the last time someone complained to my editor.

Oh, except for last week, but that was just one guy, and all he did was write two stinking emails titled “your wrong.”  This is penny ante stuff.  Folks, I can’t do this on my own. As much as I loathe everything about my personality, my character, my history, my likely future, my grooming habits, my political views, real and implied, and my stupid stupid face, I simply cannot supply my own anti Simcha Fisher website. My plate is too full. I know you guys are generous. Look into your heart, can you not? And if you find some hatred there, even just the smallest, lukewarm hatred . . . won’t you give?

PIC angry heart

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32 authors and one banana

. . . read excerpts from Jen Fulwiler’s new book. I fought through my horrible Skype connection and provided a few seconds (no, I am not the banana one):

You have to watch this, if only to see Dwija mostly unruffled by a wandering lion. And of course Bonnie just had to let it go.  I’m delighted to be in such august company, delighted to see that Hallie Lord’s husband Dan is secure enough in his masculinity to wear what is surely a vest conceived in Hell. Never mind a hate site, I have a new goal: I want to someday write something that will cause Patrick Madrid to rear back in his seat and feign disgust. Jen has arrived!

 

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Why don’t you like my shoes?

Okay, this is stupid, but so many people (3) had nice things to say about the shoes that just barely appeared in my Why I Don’t Do WIWS post that I thought it would be fun to rerun this post from 2010, in which I debut my extremely cute white shoes, which I  bought on clearance at Target, and which I just wore this morning for this morning’s well dog excursion to the poop part of the yard. 

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I am not great with clothes shopping.  As I have mentioned before, shopping bundles together being fat and being old and being cheap into a tense, ugly ball of being miserable, effectively blotting out the pleasure of getting new stuff.

You’d think shoe shopping would be different–easier, simpler, less emotionally fraught.   You don’t even have to look in the mirror.  But somehow, I make it difficult.  I don’t know how it is, but all the shoes I come home with are just so dang stupid.

The one exception is what I was wearing today, when I took three kids for their well-child check ups.  I then drove three kids right back home again when seemingly-well child #3 threw up on previously-well children numbers 1 and 2 in the doctor’s parking lot.  Then I went to the supermarket to pick up something nice and bland for supper.  So here’s those shoes:

Moderately cute, aren’t they?  They’re fairly comfortable, they go click-click-click, which makes me feel brisk and capable, and they were only $3 at Target.  Believe it or not, these are my dressiest dress shoes, as well as my go-to footwear when dragging nauseated children around town.

Next, I present the shoes I actually squealed about (in my head) when I found that they were my size. They cost ten whole dollars.  For someone who generally shops at stores called things like “Ye Kingdom of Consign-a-lot,” these were a downright frivolous purchase.

Especially when I got home and remembered that I recently made another frivolous purchase:  a bright green purse.  To go with my bright red shoes.  Fa la la la la!

Next:  my comfortable, expensive sandals which do a good shoe’s job of making me forget that I’m wearing them:  my trusty old non-deluxe Tevas.

Or Teva, because I can only find one.

These next ones are the shoes I wore on my recent one-day hiking spree, because I couldn’t find my other Teva:

Can’t you see how malevolent they are?  I don’t know how they got into my house, but when I put them on, it looks like someone was angry at my feet.  “Take that!   Grrrrrrr, here’s some webbing with big, ugly stictching, and arrrrrr, here’s some rigid hunks of rubber.  I’ll teach you to have ten little toes and flexible skin!”  Worst blisters ever.  Seriously, they even made my eight-year-old son avert his eyes, and he really, really likes gross stuff.

Here is another shoe of mine.  I think you can see why it’s single:

I bet her partner never even took the time to see if she has a great personality.  Poor dear.  Now she’ll have to go join the shoe convent on the porch, where spinsters spend their lives praying for the soles of others.

And finally:

I guess these are shoes?  I don’t know.  Where did they come from, and how did they get so dirty?

My husband thinks I should also talk about my boots.  He doesn’t mean the black Gloria Vanderbilt shoe-boots I bought with a gift certificate 12 years ago. They look something like this:

except they have crescent-shaped toenail holes in the tops, because I can never find socks, and they are shaped less like footware and more like a pair of venerable potholders.  I like them because they are black.  Also, there are two of them, which matches my feet.

But it turns out my husband meant something he laughingly referred to as my “work boots.”  I don’t know what’s so damn funny about that.  I can’t take a picture of them, because I put them in a bag marked “Salv Army,” and I have to leave them in the back of the car for a few years before I can take them out and wear them again.

But you know what?  I have a problem here.  I bought a pair of shoes.  They are SO CUTE.  They are the cutiest, wootiest shoes you ever saw.  I wear them a lot, and they fit, they’re in season . . . I don’t know.  For some reason, I guess I halfway expect people to burst into applause whenever I walk up in them.  I mean, they have silver wingtip-style toe caps!  But, at the same time, they’re heelless for that carefree spring in your step in the happy, happy springtime!  But they have a nice big elastic band so they don’t fall off!  They are the perfect shoe.  Actually, they slide around a bit, but that is totally my fault, not the shoes’ fault.  My fault.

Just look at these shoes!

 

No?

Aw hell,  you wouldn’t understand.

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At the Register: Something Other than God: Jennifer Fulwiler’s New Memoir

. . . is great! Of course it is. But it’s even better than I expected.

Don’t you love the cover? It’s finally ready for just plain buying, rather than pre-ordering. And check out Jennifer’s site for the launch party including a HUGE contest with LOTS of excellent prizes. Dammit, it’s no fair that someone who write so well should also be such an excellent promoter! Well, I hear she has big feet, so there’s some comfort.

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Why I don’t do “What I Wore Sunday”

So we get to the First Communion preparation workshop, which is *sigh* somewhat earlier than I’m used to getting up on Sundays. But I did all the things, I went on my treadmill, I took a shower, I even put mascara on. The kid is wearing underwear under her dress and shoes that match (each other, I mean. Not the underwear). We are a little groggy, but definitely pulling this off.

We settle into our seats and wait patiently for our felt and our glue and our wheat templates. While I’m thinking wistfully about the second cup of coffee I never had, I notice there’s something wrong with my shirt cuff. One sleeve is much higher than the other, and I can’t figure out why. I try to fix it, and discover that I have put  my hand not through the end of the sleeve, but through a hole in the elbow.

I surreptitiously try to scoot my hand up out of the hole and where it belongs, and it makes a loud r-r-r-r-r-r-rip! Which probably nobody else noticed, but still I can’t help feeling like I’m wearing a huge sign that says “DURRRR, HOW DO I SHIRT?”

So I decide to fold it over and hope no one notices. At which point I realize that the buttonhole part is rapidly separating itself from the rest of the shirt.

Apparently I’m a hobo. And there is a dead dog on my kitchen floor, which is clean.  This is what it looks like when it’s clean.  As far as this morning goes, I only hope that the other parents had an edifying day as they beheld the generosity of the Church, who offers her sacraments to all peoples, be they black, or be they white, or be they whatever. And that includes people who do not know how to shirt.