Cabbages and Kings

I grew up writing this asinine little stories and poems, and escaping into fantasy land. So when I started a blog, I thought it was going to be easy and I was going to rock blogland. It's not as easy as I thought. Sometimes I want to be too honest. Sometimes I just wanna talk about shoes. Sometimes I think my life is so fucking boring I just want to scream.

So, today I will try to talk about something other than shoes.

An interesting thing about retail is the artificial sense of closeness it creates between both the employees and the customers. At the store, it's important to create the "relationship" between the associate and the client in order to sell more effectively. The client sees you as a friend, she starts to value your opinion. One, she's going to buy more because it becomes fun and enjoyable. Two, she's going to come back and see her "buddy." This works out all right, different girls have different clients. I have a few in particular that are just a delight to see.

But the thing is, people cross lines. Or they mistake the artificial friendship for a real one. Or they see you as just a warm body to talk at. And talk they do. They tell you things they shouldn't, things about their families, their lives, their medical woes, their money problems... (Rhetorical question: If you have money problems, why are you in my very high-end store?)

Today, a client in my store dropped a bomb: Her son had just died. I was put off by her announcement--grief should be private. We don't live in the Victorian Era, or have mourning periods. But even still, I'm a sensitive person. Parents shouldn't outlive their children, it isn't the way things were meant to be. So I said the usual things, "I'm sorry to hear that, that's terrible," and she proceeded to tell me that he was only 29 and wasted away from cancer...I wanted to cry, but not really for her. I felt like she was milking it. It made my stomach turn over; I just hate public displays of emotion, but she didn't have any emotion. She was just reciting the facts and gaging our reactions. She mentioned that she was medicated, so that could have been it, but I don't know...even the offhand mention of medication seemed calculated.

It felt so wrong to me. So many people really do suffer, and live through horrible tragedies without feeling the need to inform everyone they come across, and certainly not the salesgirls at a shop they frequent. Maybe I'm not as compassionate as I thought I was. Maybe I think the worst of everyone. But it all rang so false and at the same time I felt so moved for the rest of her family.

I'm such a horrible person for doubting her grief.

I have things to tell you.

Ssh. I'll be back tomorrow.

Musings on the No. 5

Public transportation can feel almost companionable at times. You sit down gingerly, holding your knees together, arms in your lap...but often there comes a moment where you both relax, then your thighs are touching-- you feel the warmth of their upper arm against yours and it's nice to just be next to someone. You're ignoring each other, but together in some sense.

More fun in my house. Of the fun.

Most of the time, three girls live in my house. Amanda and I, of course, are here all the time. Leila is here three or four days a week.
Now, Amanda and I have a lot of Crazy. And our Crazies play off of each other, mine causing hers to spin out and vice versa. And we're enablers, encouraging each other to buy shoes, whining about the perfect, dream pair of shoes that will complete our lives. We also buy each other things.
It really is somewhat wrong. But it got me these:


Okay. I can't figure out what is going on with my toes here. Is it noticeable to other people? Because it's driving me crazy here. But--TEN DOLLARS!

And these. Okay, I own these shoes in two colors--Amanda owns them in THREE:


We've been bored lately. And I haven't had much of interest to say. But they tell me the eyes are the window to the soul, so here's something for your contemplation. Maybe you can divine what's been going through my head lately, since I'm unable to express it:

This is what we do in my house for fun.

So. Amanda and I like shoes.

Less than half of my shoes. In fact, about a quarter of them:


My favorites, scored for $14:


Amanda's coltish ankles, and pimp patent leather shoes:


Pointy makes me happy:


But in the end, we're both the ballet flat sort of girl:

MIA

Sorry for a lapse, but I'm trying out some new meds and am not exactly with it at the moment. Will return soon--

Cracked.

Amanda and I have been watching Veronica Mars every day for over a week now. We want to be Veronica, we want to bang Logan. (God, do we want to bang Logan. He's so pretty, so so pretty.) (And so is Veronica, for that matter. Cute like a little pixie!) It's a very addictive show, I recommend it if you're a nerd like me who loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
(Um, please don't ever mention that I said that. It is my not-so-secret shame.)
(I am rather parenthetical today.)
While I'm sharing, we have a mouse. Like, "eek, a mouse!" It scared the daylights out of Amanda, and we thought it had taken up residence in our shoe closet (which is filled with my shoes, and Leila's, so Amanda wasn't really too concerned.) but now, guess what? It appears to be living behind the damn stove. So now I don't want to cook or do the dishes, because I'm a-scared of it scampering across my toes and/or giving me hantavirus. (Rodent-borne disease WHICH YOU CAN DIE OF, STOP LAUGHING AT ME.)
I worked a twelve-hour day today, and am starting to feel a little strange. Now that I've shared (because I know that our mouse and Veronica Mars are crucially important to you) I'm going to shuffle off to bed like the old, old woman I am. (When it rains or is humid, my knee hurts like holy hell. What am I, like eighty?)