Shoes

Maundy Thursday Miracle ³

This is the outfit I wore to work today.

Don’t you dare insult that bathmat. My grandma made it.

I knew from the start there was just bound to be a wardrobe malfunction.

Basically, I was fully anticipating ripping the seam out of my pencil skirt at some point during my eight-hour stint at the office.

Why? Because the fabric of the skirt could barely stretch across my recently expanded behind, of course. Gaining sixteen pounds will do that to you.

Which reminds me–I’m no longer referring to it as “gaining sixteen pounds”. I’ve simply transformed from Betty Draper to Joan Holloway…it sounds much more glamorous, that way.

Anyway…I was convinced there was a fifty-fifty chance of my lower half busting through the confines of my pencil skirt in an act of rebellion. (My hips haven’t had carbs in a few days and are starting to grow pissy.)

Little did I know, my shoes would turn out to be today’s problematic piece of fashion.

As I’ve grown older, my tolerance for the heels that are high has decreased significantly. Currently, I max out at 3.5 inches. This has been quite challenging as the latest trend is platforms in the 4 to 6 inches range. I double dog dare you to go to Nordstrom and find a nude pump that is under four inches, but above two inches. You won’t be able to do it.

I would know, as a few months ago, I was forced to settle for a pair of patent nude heels from the Promise Land that were exactly four inches. I figured, only being a half-inch taller than my normal limit, I’d be able to handle them. Plus, the two inchers looked like something Suri Cruise would wear and…well…no.

After a full day of wear, Scott dragged me to Best Buy to pick up something for the iPad. After growing weary of waiting for me to limp along behind him, he pointed out that I was hobbling like a ninety-year old woman with rheumatoid arthritis.

Ladies — this is a very important lesson. I don’t care how cute your shoes are…if you’re unable to walk in them, they are not cute.

Long story short, I’ve been buying my heels at Payless.

Not because they’re cheap.

Not because they have BOGO.

Not even because an old boyfriend I like to stalk happens to work there.

I frequent the shoe store whose very name goes against everything I stand for because they offer heels in the three-inch range that just happen to be comfortable. What a concept.

Unfortunately, as I learned the hard way today, they are not made of breathable materials.

I was sitting in a 2:00 meeting, and needed to stretch out my tootsies. As my feet were concealed under a massive conference table, I deemed it appropriate to carefully slip my heels out the back of the pumps, and wiggle my toes for a few seconds to get the blood flowing.

This was the point where I made the stink face.

It’s exactly like the stink eye, just with your entire face.

So, why did I make the stink face?

Because it quite literally smelled as if a giant panda bear made of blue cheese and vinegar had entered the room and started twirling.

I quickly slipped my feet back into my $19.99 specials and prayed no one had noticed. (I asked a friend later…they hadn’t.)

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: while I have many physical features that are less than appealing, stinky feet is not one of them. Even after a ninety- minute run, my little piggies smell fresh as a daisy. Sure, they’re often times covered in callouses, and I’ve been getting a little bit lazy with the pedicures, but all jokes aside my feet do not smell. Ever.

Unless they are trapped for hours in a cheap pair of kicks that may actually be the world’s only knock-off of a Mossimo for Target design.

Fast forward five hours, to a Maundy Thursday church service.

Maundy Thursday falls on the Thursday before Easter, and honors the Last Supper and Holy Communion.

Because the first ever communion took place at the Last Supper, Maundy Thursday places a great deal of emphasis on absolution and pardon from sin. I was delighted to return to my old church in Ballard and be reunited with my church family on such a special evening.

The pastor gave a beautiful homily on forgiveness.

And then it was time to wash each other’s feet.

At the Last Supper, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, then encouraged them to do the same for each other. It has since become a Christian tradition symbolizing sacrificial love.

Let’s just say washing my feet would have definitely involved sacrificial love.

This was extremely frustrating to me. The foot washing was optional, and at last year’s service I didn’t have the courage to walk up to the altar and take part. This was largely due to the fact that I had also chosen to wear lace up boots that were not worth untying…even for a free foot massage.

This year, I was bound and determined to walk up to the giant clay bowls, and give my feet a nice long Lutheran soak.

And then I remembered the smell.

The whole point of the service was forgiveness. And while I’m sure Jesus would have forgiven me for the blue cheese panda feet, I’m not so sure our pastor would have.

So, for the second year in a row, I sat on the sidelines while everyone else received their holy pedicures.

Sometimes life just isn’t fair.

I returned to my sister’s apartment, dejected, and immediately kicked off my shoes. I wanted to be alone with my stench. To suffer the consequences of cheating on the Nordstrom shoe department. To wallow in my nastiness.

But there was no smell…?

Upon closer examination (read: holding my foot up to my nose like a chimpanzee) I realized my feet smelled like…baby powder?

The foot to nostril action was the last straw — my hips finally busted free from the rigid constraints of my size 6 pencil skirt, which means a trip to the seamstress is in order.

I’ve found comfort in believing that this is totally something that would happen to Joan Holloway. She probably would have done it while engaging in some monkey business with Roger Sterling as opposed to smelling her own feet…but it’s kind of the same, right?

Back to the matter at hand. What removed the mysterious odor from my cheaply dressed feet?

After two hours of analysis, I’ve realized there can only be one solution.

In a true Maundy Thursday miracle, Jesus washed my feet without me taking my shoes off.

I think it’s his way of telling me that he’ll forgive me, just this once, for shopping at Payless.

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The joke’s on me ¹⁵

Oh you know I wasn’t going to let April Fool’s Day pass by without attempting to play a joke on the husband.

But which joke to play?

I consulted my siblings about my dilemma over drinks the other night.

“Why don’t you tell him Jolie’s dead?”, my brother Janss suggested.

There are two problems with this scenario.

First, Jolie is back in Minnesota with Scott. This obviously means that convincing him of her untimely demise would be practically impossible.

Secondly, even if we were somehow able to get him to believe that Trudy had kicked the bucket, I’m concerned as to how he would handle such devastating news.

Translation: I suspect that in a rash act of dog grief, he may take his own life.

I, ridden with guilt and regret, would be forced to do the same.

It would be exactly like Romeo and Juliet, but instead of a deep-rooted family feud, the catalyst would be a seven-pound chihuahua.

Upon realizing just how bad Janss’ idea was, my sister Hayley offered herself us as the April Fool’s Day sacrificial lamb.

“Why don’t you just tell him I finally came out of the closet?”, she chirped.

It was genius. In the eight years Scott has known my younger sister, he’s sworn up and down she’s a lesbian in hiding. Despite the parade of boyfriends she’s marched through our lives and her affinity for going on dates with his male friends.

Take it from me, the person who knows her best — Hayley is not a lesbian.

Not that it would be a problem if she was. We love lesbians. But calling her a lesbian is like calling me a senator. Clearly false, and not something that will ever come to fruition in this lifetime.

At least the state of Minnesota should hope not, as my first act as senator would be to slap the Lacoste alligator on the state flag and get rid of taxes.

Scott suspects Hayley’s childhood best friend, we’ll call her “Sally”, is…well…more than just a childhood best friend. I decided to set up the prank two days in advance by texting the following:

“Ugh….Sally is totally crashing my weekend with Hayley. Boo.”

His response?

“You’re just mad that their love trumps having her take you shopping.”

He was buying it…hook line and lesbian.

Waiting two days to unleash our brilliant scheme was difficult, but wait I did.

And wait.

And wait.

And finally, at around noon on April Fool’s Day, I sent a frantic text explaining that I had walked in on an intimate moment between Hayley and Sally.

I waited for his response.

And waited.

And waited some more.

And ate a disgustingly large cinnamon french toast breakfast platter, and waited some more.

Eventually, Hayley and I decided we should just take a nap. (A non-lesbian nap.)

When we awoke ninety minutes later, this message was waiting on my phone.

He was trying to get back at me with his own little joke.

At least…it seemed like a joke.

But it’s really unusual for him to think of practical details like parking spots and car keys.

And he does love Portland.

And he did send me this text while shopping at Nordstrom Rack yesterday…

Followed by photos of way too many shoes for a straight man to send via MMS.

Do straight men even wear Sperry’s?

I immediately texted him back.

When he didn’t respond after ten minutes, I called.

Six times.

It went straight to voicemail. Probably because he was on a flight to Portland that very moment.

Hours passed, and no calls or text. That was it. It wasn’t a joke.

I decided that we would still be friends. I love him as a spouse, but I could love him as just a friend if that’s what he needed. I would stay in Minnesota with Jolie. Start fresh. We’d split things down the middle. I’d still see his family. Maybe I’d even finally get to be a flower girl when he wed his new life partner. Out of respect, I’d wait at least a year before applying to be a contestant on The Bachelor. It would be the picture of amicable.

At this point, Hayley slapped me across the face, in a desperate attempt to get the crazy out.

But, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, my crazy runs deep.

I met up with my friend Ui for dinner in Seattle and told her what happened. She assured me I was being ridiculous.

I assured her Scott would never think to tell me a parking lot number unless he had actually abandoned our car there.

And then I figured out how to get him to respond to my messages, which were in the dozens at this point. I sent Scott a final text message, explaining there had been an emergency with a stolen credit card.

While he may not fear Hurricane Katrina, he’s absolutely terrified of bad credit.

And wouldn’t you know it…thirty seconds later, Mr. Portland had come out of the woodwork.

Touche.

And you know what? It was believable.

Not because Scott is fifteen percent gay, or sends me photos of shoes when he’s shopping.

Not because I truly have doubts about our marriage. (To tell you the truth, I may have exaggerated the above scenario a tad bit for the sake of a humorous blog post.)

And not even because he requested I pick up a pair of “extra short” board shorts for him from Nordstrom while I was in Seattle. (Although that might just bump him up to twenty percent.)

I found it believable because this type of thing happens to people all the time.

I know three separate couples who were married with children before one of them came forward with their true sexual orientation.

People are living their lives as a lie, because they fear what the rest of us straight people will think of them if we discover the truth.

Or, in certain extreme and tragic cases, what we would do to them. The thought that we have made people so afraid and ashamed makes my stomach turn. I mean, think about it. It is insane that our culture has made people this terrified to be openly gay.

I’ve been hesitant to blog candidly about this, because I don’t want to offend anyone I know who may happen to disagree.

But then it hit me.

If I ever experienced discrimination because of my gender, I would speak up.

If I saw a minority experiencing discrimination, I would speak up.

So why am I not speaking up for the homosexual community? A community that many of my friends are a part of?

I’ve been so busy worrying about offending others, I’ve forgotten that I too, have the right to be offended.

And when I see someone who is denied basic rights because of their sexual orientation, I am offended.

When I see hatred, I am offended.

And when I think of how far our nation has come in regards to civil rights, only to backtrack by judging and ridiculing a targeted group of people, I am offended.

This is not meant to reflect the opinions of my workplace, my church, my family, or anyone else at all. This is just me, typing words from the depths of my soul as my heart literally beats through my chest out of fear.

Fear that I will burn bridges and offend someone by writing this.

Fear that I will sincerely regret posting my honest opinion.

Yet I know there’s one thing I will regret more, and that is not writing anything at all.

My fear is nothing compared to the fear members of the homosexual community face every single day.

I’m not saying you have to understand being gay. But would it hurt to treat everyone with the same respect and dignity? Think about it…I bet it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve shown kindness and equality to someone who was different from you.

********

Whew! Bet you didn’t see the April Fool’s post going in this direction. I know I didn’t.

If this post got you thinking, please post a comment below. I’d love to hear from you whether you agree, disagree, or even just have a funny April Fool’s story to share. I genuinely want to know what you think. Let’s get the conversation started.

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Hammer Time

Dear Katrina

Meow!

Giveaway: Chanel Nail Polish! ⁵³

I’ve decided I’m now going to wear Chanel everyday.

Without going broke.

Remember this Facebook post from last week?

Actually, it was $52. I’m good at fashion, bad at math.

I haven’t painted my own nails in over a year…yet after reading Rachel Wilkerson’s rave review of Chanel Nail Vernis, I thought I might give it the old college try.

Yes, spending $26 on a single bottle of nail polish could be considered a bit excessive.

But then I considered this: I’ve been getting a manicure every 2-3 weeks and a pedicure once a month. That’s roughly $75 a month for nail care, which adds up to $900 annually.

So yes, in 2011 I spent nearly $1,000.

On nails.

Oh snap.

Looking at it that way kind of lessened the blow of $23 nail polish.

Also? The nail salon isn’t always relaxing for me. I spend the entire time terrified of being cut by the tools that, in my whacked out mind, will infect me with HIV. I realize that sounds incredibly insensitive (not to mention illogical), but in 2007 I truly convinced myself I had contracted AIDS from a nail salon for a good three months. Only when the woman at the free clinic told me to go see a psychiatrist and never to come back for the rapid HIV test did I finally snap out of it.

I believe her exact words were, “Oh you’re sick. Just not with AIDS.”

Needless to say, the nail salon tends to bring out some of my “cray cray”. Plus, I’m getting sick of the ladies who work there trying to force pregnancy upon me. I do not want a baby, I just want my nails done without contracting a blood-borne illness, thank you.

What I’m trying to say is, the Chanel polish will saving my bank account and my sanity.

When these puppies arrived in the mail earlier a few days ago, I might have done a few celebratory somersaults. Jolie claims they looked more like someone having a seizure, but I was wearing super tight skinny jeans and did the best I could.

The fact that my jeans didn’t rip is truly a miracle. I swear, the ghost of Coco Chanel must have been watching over me, or something.

The two colors I selected were “Distraction” (I wanted something bright for Spring) and “Particuliere” (I have a total addiction to neutral grey shades).

The colors are, in a word, dreamy. Much better in person and just the right shade. Even the peachy pink “Distraction” is neutral enough to coordinate with just about any color.

Suddenly, this super expensive nail polish thing is starting to make sense.

I was itching to paint my nails with the pink color.

But there was a slight problem. I still had a month-old Gelac manicure on my digits.

31 days after my manicure

I’ve got to hand it to Da at Foxy Nails. While she may be the only person in the world who wants me to get pregnant more than my mother, she gives a pretty durable manicure.

My nails had been painted with Gelac–a lightweight gel polish that combines the long-lasting effects of a gel nail with the easy application of a regular varnish. It doesn’t chip, and stays shiny for up to one month.The process requires a UV lamp for “curing”, and takes around 10 minutes to remove.

Unless you try to remove it yourself.

Then it will take upwards of one hour and twenty minutes.

And your nails will look like this:

Better stick to my day job.

It was the best I could do. And quite frankly, after 80 minutes of battling the nail polish that’s almost as stubborn as I am, I was pretty much over it.

Although I have to say…the removal process wasn’t totally monotonous.

Gang signs. That’s right…I’m starting a manicure gang.

The initiation is spending $900 a year on getting your nails done.

After another half hour of chasing Jolie around the condo with my foil fingers, it was finally time to dress my hands in Chanel Les Vernis.

Let me preface this by explaining that I am terrible at painting my nails. The last time I tried to DIY my manicure (in bright red) it looked as if I had attempted to butcher a rabid squirrel with my bare hands.

I am not exaggerating.

Which is why I was shocked when my Chanel manicure turned out like this:

I dont’ know if it’s the high-end polish, the fancy brush, or the fact that I tried unusually hard not to screw things up…but they actually look kind of…nice. And, if the reviews are accurate, they won’t chip.

(Insert seizure-looking sommersaults here.)

I realize the texture is a little rough and bumpy. This is due to the fact that I didn’t have a nail file to buff my nails after removing the insanely cantankerous Gelac polish. I essentially painted directly over nail beds that had the texture of steel wool.

My toes (which did NOT have petrified gel polish that needed to be removed with a sledgehammer) provide a more accurate representation of the glorious polish that has pretty much changed my life.

Chanel + Target + Feet = Katrina in a nutshell

Oh…you like the shoes?

As promised, I stopped at Target to make sure I completed “part B” of my Epic Pinterest fail turned glorious shoe shopping success.

Yeah. Rockin’ these mama’s is way better than sewing a giant bean bag or painting an octopus on canvas. (No offense, Sherry and Katie.)

As if the new shoes, designer nails and 70 degree weather wasn’t enough, I finally made my debut at the brand new Stargetbucks of Small Town.

No matter how warm the weather, I prefer my lattes hot.

You can take the girl out of Seattle, but you can’t take the Seattle out of the girl.

Basically, that’s the “clever” way of saying that after guzzling this bad boy, I ate a pound of smoked salmon before slipping into a pair of Birkenstocks.

With socks.

Just kidding. Do you really think I’d slip on hippie shoes instead of prancing around the house in my new Pinterest heels? I’m not that Seattle.

Jolie thinks my attempt at walking in the heels made me look like an uncoordinated giraffe going through puberty.

I think she’s just jealous that I can actually wear shoes. And go through puberty.

“Who needs shoes when you look this sexy?”

Despite her cheap shots at my gracefulness, today was pretty much the best day ever.

And it can be just as fabulous for you — because I’m giving away a bottle of Chanel Polish to one lucky reader! You’ll be able to pick from these 37 adorable colors that Nordstrom has to offer:

And you have five, yes, five chances to enter! Leave a comment on this post for each one of the following:

1. Follow this blog in your reader or via email subscription. (1 comment…you can still comment if you’ve already followed!)

2. Like ‘Sota is Sexy on Facebook (1 comment…you can still comment if you’ve already “liked”!)

3. Share your favorite post (can’t be this one) on Facebook (1 comment)

4. Share your favorite post (can’t be this one) on Twitter (1 comment)

5. Pin your favorite post (can’t be this one) or the blog homepage on Pinterest (1 comment)

Each comment you leave on this post will counts as one entry. You must leave a comment on this page for your entry (or entries) to count. The giveaway closes at 8PM EST on Thursday, March 22.

*******

Here’s to Stargetbucks, buying things you found on Pinterest, and spending way too much money on nail polish!

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Epic Pinterest Fail ¹⁷

Today is a big day.

It’s reveal day for the Pinterest Challenge!

What’s the Pinterest Challenge, you ask? It’s a little something the girls at Bower Power and Young House Love cooked up earlier this year. Basically, the idea is to stop pinning and start doing. You pick a project from one of your Pinterest boards, complete the selected project, and then blog about it.

I had grandiose plans of creating a custom-made chalkboard to hang in our kitchen. You know, so I could scrawl cute things on it like “Tonight’s menu: Leftovers!” or “Happy National Ice Cream Day!!”

(I made that last holiday up.)

(But if it’s on a chalkboard, that makes it real.)

Right?

The chalkboard was a great idea, in theory.

Unless you just moved halfway across the country, and your place still looks like this.

Please don’t pin this photo.

Ugh. Now Sherry and Katie are never going to be my BFFs. I just hate it when that happens.

In one final attempt at Pinterest glory, I’m creating my own challenge. Which is actually inspired by something I found on, you guessed it, Pinterest! Please feel free to join in my efforts if you feel so inspired.

Here’s part one:

Image source

Now that’s a challenge where I’m bound to succeed.

Part B (also from Pinterest) is every bit as wonderful.

Magnet image via Anne Taintor

To fulfill this part of my Pinterest venture , I’ll be bopping on over to Target to pick up a pair of these lovelies later this evening.

I have one empty slot in my new high heel organizer (from my new favorite store, of course), and it’s being reserved for these turquoise show-stoppers that I spotted over the weekend.

I actually had to buy two of the shoe organizers…which I’m totally proud of.

So pretty and organized! My closet has come a long way since this post, don’t you think?

At the very least, I haven’t peed my pants in it, yet.

Although, my vow to drink more wine could quickly change that.

To be perfectly honest…I’m actually kind of glad I failed the Pinterest challenge. I mean…while the rest of the bloggers will be hanging out at JoAnn Fabrics and getting hot glue and craft paint all over their hands, I’ll be drinking wine and shoe shopping.

So really, this is an epic Pinterest win.

Psst! Are we friends on Pinterest? Click here to follow all of the awesome craft projects I’m never going to do!