What are you looking at?

Next thing you know I'll be vaccuuming in stilettos and falling asleep with plastic rollers snapped to one-inch sections of my hair.

So, the whole Weight Watchers thing? Has not been going so well. As in, I've abandoned journaling and point-counting in favor of Bits-N-Pieces milkshakes and frozen cheesecake goodness, with only occasional trips to the gym. Lately I've been coming home from work hungrier than YOUR MOM (ba dum bum ching) (sorry, the cheap shots are out of my control now) and eating whatever I can get my grubby little hands on, usually pretzel ties and Fig Newtons, even though dinner's just forty-five minutes away. Each day I recommit myself to an attitude of self-control, and each day all efforts crumble the moment I pull into my parking spot, approximately the same time my brain starts taking inventory of what little nourishment remains in the fridge.

However, after sorting through all the literature I accumulated from my weight-watching days, I decided there was one dish I owed it to my budding cooking skills and my cholesterol to tackle: the program's famous garden vegetable soup, known for its tasty, made-from-scratch, zero-points-per-serving, guilt-free attributes. I made it for the first time last week and it went swimmingly, except I forgot to buy the zucchini, and my carrots remained hard as nails even after sautéing them in chopped-up pieces of garlic and onion. Tonight I used the remaining ingredients to make a second batch and strayed from the recipe a little in regards to serving size, opting instead to just start throwing random amounts of shit into the pot--extra carrots, extra cabbage, extra broth, resulting in a soup abundant in carrots, cabbage, and broth, but with slightly less zing, as I only minced the two garlic cloves and half-cup of onion originally called for. It still rocked harder than your mom, though (I really am sorry), and in between hurling vegetables at my stove I even managed to fit in a side of Pillsberry dinner rolls, thus creating the illusion of a thought-out, well-balanced meal. For someone whose idea of gourmet is microwaving the leftover chicken Parmesan pasta from last week's hurrah at TGI Friday's, this is revolutionary. Today, soup; tomorrow, the world.

Anyway, all that extra's about to come in handy, because Luke is abandoning me for a business trip that begins tomorrow morning and ends Friday night, which means I'm on my own in the kitchen for the next three days. I've already purchased the necessary components for my best spinach dip yet, which I promise to share with you, and made a list of the ways I plan to utilize my alone time:

1) Pass out in a bowl of spinach dip.

2) Recover from the gaseous side effects of said spinach dip.

3) Finally tear into the first season of Murder, She Wrote on DVD.

4) Sweat my tushie off for Pam the Vietnam Vet Aerobics Instructor, who actually seeks me out to make sure I'm attending the regular Wednesday step session, which I always totally do, even though last week I saw a beetle crawling in the vicinity of my floor mat.

5) Decide whether or not to continue watching the catastrophe that is Celebrity Duets, the latest reality train wreck slash American Idol knock-off to debut on FOX. On one hand, this program assumes the fuzzy memories you have of jamming to Michael Bolton in fifth grade because rap was forbidden in your house, thereby FORCING you to memorize all the lyrics to "Time, Love, and Tenderness" against your will, is enough to peak your interest in the awkward pairing of B-list personalities with has-been A-list performers without any backstory on the pop-culture significance and/or hopes and dreams of its participants.

On the other hand, "Time, Love, and Tenderness" was a damn catchy album, and Michael Bolton's golden tresses saw me through some tough times. Plus, Little Richard's on the judge's panel, and based on several of tonight's comments, I'm convinced he's channeling the spirit of an inebriated Paula Abdul:

"Boy, you got to pull out the mustard and catch up!"

"You just made my big toe shoot up in my boot!"

"He's got what it takes and it takes what he got!"

"Woo woo! Umm, ah. Oh!"

6) Catch up on phone calls.

7) Revel in the glory of saving fifteen percent on my car insurance. (I really did!)

8) Pine.

Before I go: I know I've done something like this before, but seeing as I'm about to have oodles of nothing on my hands and Silly Hily's results have been so much fun, I'm asking anyone with deep, burning, personal questions about me (not your mom) to bring 'em on. All I ask is to keep in mind my husband's parents read this blog, and if it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate being able to look them in the eye at my mother-in-law's family reunion this Saturday. That being said, I've touched on religion, birth control, and my fat ass with little to no embarassment, so really, anything goes. Also in my favor, I've got the whole Labor Day weekend before Luke can decide to divorce me.

Edited to add: I now regret turning on the computer again at one o'clock in the morning to add the above disclaimer, as I'm afraid it'll scare you away from asking questions inappropriate for children under thirteen. What's a little thought-provoking discussion among friends, is my new attitude, and anyway, my in-laws are way cool, so now I'm begging you to send me to that reunion with a paper bag over my head. Really. I dare you.

In Which I Learn My Hairdresser Is A Racist And My Brain Isn't Worth The Paper My English Degree's Printed On

Or, I'm Not So Sure The Second One Comes Off As Well In Print

Scene 1. The Salon That Must Not Be Named Because I Don't Care to be Sued, Thursday.

After weeks of split ends, Frema chances a second visit to Magda for a simple trim. (There's also about two months and three inches' worth of outgrowth, but Frema will continue to ignorance its existence until her bank account is sufficiently funded to handle emergencies unrelated to car insurance.)

Magda: So, do you live around here?

Frema: Yes. My husband and I like this area so much we'd like to buy a house here. We've even started neighborhood-shopping.

Magda: Well, it's a great place to live, except one thing. The schools in this township are horrible.

Frema: Really? I hadn't heard that.

Magda: Oh, yes. The kids get good grades and all, but there's a lot of blacks.

Frema (eyes widening): Excuse me?

Magda: This area used to be primarily white until about fifteen or twenty years ago, when blacks and Mexicans started moving in.

Frema: Well, that doesn't sound like a good reason not to send my kids here. (Notices shears poised above her tender, Hispanic scalp and chuckles nervously). I'm from Chicago. I actually enjoy diversity.

Magda: Good for you, hon!

Frema: Head explodes.

Scene 2. Frema-Useless Clutter Apartment, Sunday.

After several hours of AMC recaps, the VCR is turned off to reveal a news report about this plane crash.

Broadcaster: Forty-nine people were killed, including a couple that was married only the night before.

Frema: Oh my God, that's horrible!

Broadcaster: Yes, isn't it? In other news, Indianapolis saw more rain than it would've liked this past weekend...

Frema: Well, that was a crappy sēgue.

Luke: What?

Frema: A sēgue. You know, a transition?

Luke: You mean segway.

Frema: No, sēgue, with a long "e" sound. People on the Internet use it when they're going from one topic to another.

Luke: The hell?

Frema: Do I need to spell it out for you? (Spells it out for him.) There is no "way" in that word.

Luke: Starts to laugh while he makes a run for the dictionary. Minutes later, Frema stares in disbelief at the pronounciation key.

Frema: Well, shit, what do you know.

Luke: You really thought there was a long "e"?

Frema: I even said it that way on the phone once. Just last week, in fact.

Luke: Clutches sides, gasps for breath.

Frema: I'm an asshole.

Wearing My Spaghetti Sauce With Pride

When I first told the Internet of my plans to revamp my online image, it was mainly due to Blogger's inability to consistently upload my photos. However, the idea of shying away from an domain with "blogspot" featured in the URL was planted almost two years ago, as I became more familiar with the blogosphere and discovered sites like Amalah and Dooce, sites whose authors stepped outside the boundaries of the written word in order to really own their designs. The seduction of personalized banners and categories and "About" pages have me primed to tear my clothes off while registering for a Typepad account.

I first started blogging in the winter of 2003 to fulfill a requirement for an autobiography class at DePaul, where I was in the midst of completing a master's degree in writing. I didn't really know what a blog was, but sharing stories and making a fool of myself on the Internet were two ideas I could totally get behind. When the class ended, a month passed before I created "Through the Looking Glass..." at this domain, composing entries of the Dear Diary, today I ate a ham sandwich variety because even though I didn't know what to write about, I knew I didn't want to stop writing. After a few months I changed it to "What're you lookin' at?" because Luke took this really fun picture of me at my sister's graduation party, so fun that I didn't feel comfortable attaching it to my profile until my title was equally spunky. Last July, after carrying on a fifteen-minute conversation with my boss wearing a glob of spaghetti sauce on my forehead, I was convinced that the name change was actually a warning from God Himself. Such a prankster, that God.

It was also around that time I began taking this genre more seriously as a means to improve my writing and attempted to produce more cohesive content. I gained a few readers in addition to the usual group of family and friends and relished in the extra teaspoon of attention. The first time I scored double digits in the comments section, I thought maybe it wasn't totally out of the question to hope I could do this for money, just like my blog idols.

Now here it is, a year later, and my blogging is sporadic, at best. I have yet to achieve Doocedom, or even Amalahdom, whose readership encompasses thousands of individuals around the world every day. The average number of comments I get varies between ten and twenty, and I'm still here at Blogger, because really, what business do I have soliciting advertisers to peddle their wares on this site when I can't justify paying a hosting service for a couple of hundred words a week for an audience of eighty-five people?

A few weeks ago, Silly Hily wrote about these same sorts of feelings, about coming to terms with the fact that she may never achieve Amalah status, and it resonated in the part of me that yearns to follow the footsteps of the Online And Famous, the part of me who has found it so easy to envy the bloggers who've made a real name for themselves, whose writing has inspired paying gigs with companies like ClubMom and Alpha Mom and BlogHer, which will uproot from California and move east for 2007, in my old stomping grounds nonetheless. When you read popular blogs maintained by popular individuals who name drop and vaguely draw attention to inside jokes and Internet drama over who's being trashed and post about the pitfalls of being a public figure and so on and so forth, it's hard at times not to feel like you're in seventh grade again, and I don't know about you, but I was a nerd in seventh grade. I was crying in bathrooms and sticking an index finger down my throat in seventh grade. Reliving those days isn't on my list of things to do.

When you get right down to it, even though most established bloggers handle their success quite graciously, and even though the possibilities for online writing are available to everyone if you just work hard enough, sometimes the pool seems very, very small.

(Very Mom wrote a fantastic post about all of this, by the way, and I love her for it, even though she describes her two-thousand-plus daily hits as "measly." I'd relinquish parental rights to my firstborn child for measly.)

(Also, jealous much?)

In the first paragraph, I linked to the entry where I first began discussing the use of "Fremanitis" as a possible theme for a non-Blogger site, and in the comments, Number Twelve expressed her love for my Frema alias and suggested I use the name as a branding device, just like so many of the well-established bloggers do. She said, "I think you've had food on your face for long enough."

After careful consideration, I disagree. Part of the reason I love "What're you lookin' at?" so much is the attitude it conveys, one of curiosity and defensiveness, skepticism and embarrassment. One that, under the surface, seems to say, "I want to know what you're lookin' at because I wish you were looking at me." I can think of no better way to encapsulate my awkward, B-list, Internet self.

Plus, the Swiss woodworking industry's already called dibs on Frema.com.

So I'm saying to hell with all of it. I'll pursue a Typepad account in the next month or two for no other reason than I want to, and my current title will stay, and I will continue my illicit affair with the "Refresh" button in Window Explorer, and squeal when my comments tracker goes up, because I like sharing stupid pictures of myself with people I don't know. Maybe I'll experiment with ads and maybe I won't. I'll do my best to attend BlogHer next year, and I'll ooh and aah over Internet celebrities just like when Bruce Willis passed my pretzel cart at Navy Pier in 1997, but more importantly, I'll strive to learn as much as I can about this bizarre form of writing that's revolutionizing the publishing industry. And I'll be sure to share that knowledge with all of you, because my sole complaint about the entries following the event we read about for weeks in various corners of the Web is, after all that hype, how little discussion there was about the conference's theme: How are your blogs changing your world? There were countless "I consumed alcohol with these people" links swapped back and forth, but I noticed only a couple of bloggers sharing any personal insights whatsoever. For a medium so ripe for the picking in terms of thoughtful discussion, I was very disappointed.

Then again, I'm also crushed that Scrubs and 24 won't air season premieres until January. Every rose has its thorn.

When Graphics Amateurs And Photoshop Collide

No, I haven't been drinking, why do you ask?

 

Admittedly, two banners revolving around "Your Mom" is a bit much. Even if she is deliciously charming.

Mr. Wife

Exciting things are happening in the Frema-Useless Clutter household as Luke prepares to go back to work full time and we begin to contemplate a day-to-day schedule that accounts for the two of us plugging away for The Man from eight to five.

While I couldn't be happier about the benefits this will bring to Luke's confidence and our quality of life, I'm also a little nervous, because for the past eleven months, I've enjoyed immensely the benefits of a stay-at-home husband, whose duties have included but not been limited to packing my lunch, cooking my dinner, washing my clothes, and rubbing my feet while I'm sprawled on the couch, one wrist fastened to my forehead in an effort to acurately portray an individual trapped in the throes of corporate agony, the other balancing a bowl of ice cream on her belly while simultaneously grabbing at the VCR remote just out of reach on the coffee table, because forty-five minutes of soap opera folly is the only way to convince me to go towards the light.

What? Isn't every husband's turn-on enabling his wife to watch AMC in her sweatpants while licking melted dairy off her chin?

On Wednesday, major changes to my Paris Hilton way of life are sure to take place. And I'm glad. Since starting my job last summer, I've been struggling with how to make the best use of my time. Working in Rensselaer, I lived a stone's throw from the college and stamped my proverbial time card at 4:30, which meant I could get home in enough time to savor the last twenty minutes of 90210 on SoapNet. Now I have an extra half-hour tacked on to my work day, and with it a half-hour commute involving highways and traffic and alternate routes, and if I leave at 5:00 on the dot, I can expect to walk through the door at 5:30, but sometimes I'll stick around to wrap up some e-mail or tweak the layout of our quarterly client newsletter and suddenly it's 6:15. Then I get home and it's time for bed. There simply aren't enough hours in the day to stimulate my brain, clean the grout in the bathtub, and make the world a better place to live in by explaining to Luke just how it came to be that Erica Kane's thirty-five-year-old abortion procedure produced a healthy baby boy.

Maybe the retiring of Luke's SAHH status is just the motivation I need to re-evaluate my time-management skills. For the first time since he moved here last September we'll have the "normal" schedule I've dreamed of, and I intend to make the most of it. First order of business? Adding some much-needed time to my afternoon. Because my responsibilities aren't directly related to or influenced by production, my boss couldn't care less about how I log my hours, so the plan is to start my work day at 7:30 and leave by 4:30, thus arriving home at 5:00 and having six hours of unadulterated leisure in which to occupy myself as I see fit. Seeing as I normally crawl out of bed at a quarter to seven and am pertetually fifteen minutes late to work, this will prove a bit of a challenge, but I made it on Friday without any problems, and even though this morning wasn't as successful, I was still turning on my computer by 7:45, which is close enough to 7:30, so there you go.

One pitfall I'm noticing already: Getting up an hour earlier means I'm hungry an hour earlier, so for the last two work days I've been eating lunch at 10:30. I'm assuming this is generally frowned upon.

Because Enough With The Damn Shoes Already

I don't know what why, but ever since the wedding, I've had a hard time maintaining any semblance of consistency with this blog. I went from hourly posts in the days leading up to Luke's and my nuptials to semi-weekly paragraphs about whether or not to converse with coworkers when I pee. I love to write here. I want to write here. For some reason, though, it's hard to sit in front of the computer screen and arrange words in a way that best represent what I'm feeling. Thanks for continuing to bear with me.

So it's been one week. A lot has happened in just one week. For example, last Friday the two of us embarked on a three-day, two-night camping trip to Indiana Dunes State Park, part of the state's national lakeshore, with Samantha and Dan, where we hiked, smored, swam, and slept. Well, they slept. That first night I spotted two Daddy Long Legs at the foot of our sleeping bag and thought I would pass out from the fear that one of them would crawl into my mouth if I dared to shut my eyes. The next morning, I woke to find a spider tangled in my blanket. I actually shouted "Eeek!" loud enough to pull a few chuckles from the campers next to our site.

That night, I was so paranoid about letting in more of God's creatures that I refused to leave the tent, even to use the Port-A-Potty twenty feet away. The pain in my bladder was so strong that it thankfully knocked me out into uncomfortable slumber.

(On a side note, while everyone ELSE was snoozing away, I did manage to devour eighty pages of Not Without My Daughter, a paperback my sister likes to make out with every couple of years or so and I'm assuming keeps stashed in her Buick Park Avenue in case she's ever stuck in traffic as a passenger in her own car. I ended up taking the book home and finishing it by Monday night.)

In other "me" happenings, I've been reading a lot again, as evidenced by my devouring a four-hundred-and-twenty page book in the span of two days. I've read all the Christopher Pike books I found at the half-priced bookstore, a Sweet Valley High Christmas special, and on a lighter note, some thoughtful religious debate. Two Mondays ago I delved into another nonfiction piece, Morgan Spurlock's Don't Eat This Book: Fast Food and the Supersizing of America, penned by the guy who digested one month's worth of "McFood" and lived to bring his tale to the big screen. The timing seemed about right, considering my latest attempts at healthy living, and when I checked out the book at the local library, I was feeling pretty confident about all things nuitritional.

Today I'm in the midst of chapter ten and pretty much want to throw up. A delightful excerpt follows:

Beef factories are models of waste-not want-not efficiency. Filthy, disgusting, and disease-ridden, maybe, but terribly efficient. Very little of one of these cows is discarded. Leftover bits and pieces are scooped up, ground together, and fed back to the cows. And then those cows are ground up and fed to you.

Other fun facts about the dangers of current American eating habits:

• By 1996, boys and girls consumed twice as much soda as milk. As of September 2004, nine million American kids between the ages of six and eighteen were obese.
• Obesity-related illnesses will kill around 400,000 Americans this year--almost the same as smoking.
• Diet and obesity have been linked to increased risk for breast, colon, endometrial, esophageal, and kidney cancer.

Read this book. It'll change your life. At the very least, you'll glean new insights into the case of the old woman who won a mega-bucks lawsuit against the Golden Arches by claiming her coffee was too hot. (Turns out it really was!)

Finally, I suppose there's one more piece of news you ought to know about. A piece of news that is about to change our lives. A piece of news that will eventually mean savings and houses and babies and maybe even a new Web site.

Luke has a new job. He starts next Wednesday.

He's not disclosing much detail on his own blog, so I'm going to respect his wishes and keep the jobspeak to a minimum. Know it's a very good job, full time, in his field, with room for advancement, and he actually had TWO positions to choose from because he's just that good. And this opportunity couldn't have come at a better time, as we were literally *thisclose* to charging next month's car insurance renewal to our Visa card.

It's been a long time coming, and he so deserves this. I'm so thankful God thinks we deserve this. Or maybe we don't. Maybe it's like what Lost A Sock said when revealing her own husband's new career move, "When your prayers begin to be answered you know that you must be damn lucky, because there are lots and lots of people with the same prayers and the same work ethic. And you have to keep yourself in check, and go above and beyond your norm to pay it forward, because experiencing good times comes with the responsibility of sharing."

Whether due to grace, grunt work, or chance, we're more than willing to share.

In Frema's Shoes, Part The Second

Good thing I broke up the whole shoe series with a little post about pee, because apparently I have shocked some of you with the quantity currently in my possession. Which, COME ON, people. Two pairs were flip-flops that barely meet the criteria of footwear, and a couple of others were ones I've owned for two years or more. Plus, I work in an office, which justifies--no, necessitates--the many pointed heels.

To ease you back into this, though, I present to you first The Only Respectable Product I've Ever Seen Sold From A Fashion Bug, as promised. Also, before you gasp in the superficial materialness of it all, they were three dollars. As in one two three. Anyone who passes on buying shoes that get you change back on a fin should be taken out back and poked in the belly button.

The year was 2004, and I was desperate for a neutral wedge to compliment this red seashell-print skirt I found at New York and Company for eight bucks. (Another sale. Am occasionally shopping genius!) I heart them because they give the illusion that my legs start directly below my breasts and carry on straight to the center of the earth, and yet I loathe them with an equal passion, because the cork has no problem maiming my ankles with deep red gashes. I wear them about three times a summer, and seeing as this is our third summer together, all three of us, I believe I've more than made my money's worth. So what if I cry out in pain when I walk to the printer?

Another old friend, also from 2004. Out of my whole shoe collection, these bad boys are my most expensive pair at a whopping seventy bucks, purchased online at the Simple Shoe Web site. They have also become Frema's Most Worn Shoe Of All Time because of their versatility. You can wear them with any color except black and almost every pant style. Capris. Shorts. Khakis. Jeans of the pant and skirt variety. The leather has held up surprisingly well despite the many hiking trips they've taken through state parks all over Indiana. I'm guessing leather isn't meant to be saturated with water and sweat, but I, I am a rule breaker, and the sandals are powerless to protest.

Your basic black boots, purchased at Bakers last September so I could wear my comfortable, just-like-sweatpants gauchos from NY&C. The heel is thick enough that I don't trip over cracks in the sidewalk, and the toe is square enough that my toes don't throb from lack of circulation. Everybody wins!

Pair three of four from my Nine West spree, which I wear all. The. Time, as evidenced by the fraying straps. I have stripped my entire apartment in a frantic search for pair number four, which makes me think I passed them on to the folks at Goodwill. I must've reasoned that the heel was too high and the toe too pointy to wear them for more than twenty minutes without limping and using complete strangers as a human crutch and thus had no real purpose sitting in my closet. Like that's any excuse to part with a sexy stiletto.

Wedges I bought in April during my honeymoon shopping spree, which I happen to be wearing right now, and which I happen to be madly in love with. Jeans, skirts, capris--they're so darned adventurous!

Working for the institutional advancement and marketing office of a private college means you work a lot of fund-raising events, and during my three-year tenure as publications director for Saint Joe, I was obligated to attend the college's annual scholarship dinner, a fancy schmancy black-tie affair for potential donors hosted at the Sheraton in downtown Chicago. For dinner number two (according to these shoe posts, 2004 was a VERY good shoe year for me), I purchased a fiesty black cocktail dress that needed a fiesty black heel. So I bought these.

...And these, because even though the bow pair is cuter and better matched the sheen of my dress, this ankle-strap pair was easier to walk in. That night I ended up going with the bows, but these have also gotten their fair share of the night life. When I HAVE a night life, that is.

Another Payless find from That Fateful Year, which I usually pair with capris during the summer, but seeing as the soles of the shoe stick to my foot sweat, creating the Sole Bunch dreaded by women everywhere, I don't wear them that often.

My gym shoes, which have definitely seen better days. I have a hard time selecting an athletic shoe because they're either Too Wide or Too Narrow or Too Tight Around The Toes, but these Sauconys are perfect in every way. They've been especially patient with me as I experiment with aerobics classes at the Y. Last Thursday I finally took the plunge and attended hip-hop aerobics, only to find that the hip-hop aerobics instructor was out due to a Family Emergency, so the substitute taught us basic step instead. And not just Richard Simmons, twenty-minutes-of-sweatin'-to-some-oldies stuff. Pam is a Vietnam vet and has the muscle mass of a pre-governor Arnold Schwarzenegger with the body size of Nicole Kidman. It was a great class, and when Luke and I were in the weight room last night, she approached me on the treadmill, saying she was subbing for another instructor again and would be teaching basic step two and would I be interested in joining?

Turns out I was interested; however, completing forty-five minutes' worth of routines with no sign of matt time in sight was my first clue in figuring out "basic step two" actually meant "intermediate." Plus, I heard her use the word "intermediate" when describing the session to another member. Another big tip-off. I almost passed out from the sweating and puffing and moaning and medicine-balling (am I the first one to realize that the rhythms of vigorous exercise and sexual intercourse are exactly the same?). Damn sneaky vets who want me to work up to my potential. I hope to see Pam again tonight, for the real basic step, during her regularly scheduled time.

Finally, I leave you with the flops that died a quick but painful death outside of Don Pablo's last month. Even gobs of medical tape weren't enough to keep them from passing into The Great Beyond.

My mom is an Avon fanatic and saw these babies advertised as two for three dollars and calls them Zsa Zsas because they glitter just like Zsa Zsa Gabor. She offered to buy me a set, and I accepted, only Luke hates the shoes and their name and probably isn't as sorry as he says he is for stepping on my heel and breaking the strap. The black pair is still going strong, though, so we'll see who has the last laugh in the end.

Questions Regarding Corporate John Etiquette

Say you're on day two of your recommitment to the Weight Watchers bandwagon, and you've consumed an amount of water identical in volume to what park supervisors use to replenish the community pool because it's all you can do not to "accidentally" remove a bite-sized Snickers from Betty's candy bowl. Say you've just taken care of business when another employee makes her way to the adjoining stall and strikes up a conversation to learn if the new business polos have made a positive impression on the masses. Say she continues to talk as you hear the sound of her urine splashing into the commode.

Do you keep talking? If the billing specialist doesn't mind chatting it up mid-pee, should you? What about when the situation's reversed? Is it considered rude to zip your lip once your arse hits the porcelain throne? At what point is bodily function allowed to trump witty banter?

For me, it's after the locking of the stall door, the equivalent to shutting the door to my office; if I was up for a dialogue, I'd leave the damn thing open and invite you to pull up a chair. Otherwise? Let me one and two in peace.

What say you, Internet?

In Frema's Shoes, Part The First

Before Luke moved in with me last year, I knew I had to make some changes to my then-current state of living. Using both sides of the closet to divide my clothes by season and function. Filling all four shelving units with my boxes and boxes of shoes. Not only did I donate about thirty percent of my wardrobe to needy family members and the folks at Goodwill, I also bid a sad farewell to almost half of my shoe collection. Back then, I thought I had a lot of shoes. Today, while photographing the "leftovers" for this exercise (yeah, I'm a little late, wanna make somethin' of it?), I realized something.

I still have a lot of shoes.

This entry is labeled Part the First because Blogger crapped out on me after uploading pair seven. There are still at least ten more, including a pair of "f- me" heels (trademark Number Twelve from this post) that were discovered to be missing just minutes ago thanks to this here project. They're in a Nine West box. You know, in case there happens to be an extra pair of Nine West shoes lying around your house.

And on with the show.

These shoes were purchased last summer and are one of four obtained at Nine West before I started work at the lab, in an attempt to adorn my feet with pretties that radiated Adulthood. The shoes were on sale for half off, so each pair cost me thirty-five bucks. Honestly, it's like I was ripping off the damn store. My mother thinks they're ugly. She calls them my Wicked Witch of the West shoes, which I wore straight through to October. This year? Not once.

Pair number two from previously mentioned shopping spree (number three is sitting on my home desktop waiting patiently for Blogger to pop a Midol and get back on the wagon; number four is somewhere with the missing Nine West box). These shoes look fantabulous with skirts and capris, but the heels of my feet have a bad habit of falling out of them when I walk, so I end up taking near-spills onto the ground. They're worth it, though, because they make my size-nine monsters look like wee, dainty things.

 

I first saw these in Bakers last July for forty-five bucks and cried my heart out, because I couldn't justify spending the money on a pair of shoes I had no outfit for. In September they were on the clearance rack for twenty dollars. I took it as a sign from God, hauled @$$ to the register, and didn't look back. They look great with jeans, when I feel sassy enough to wear them. Having a hard time pairing them with skirts, though. What material would appropriately balance out the darlingness of the darling little broach?

One of several finds from Payless that I'm surprised I've held on to this long. These guys are probably four years old and fit like a glove. Another great Jean Shoe. I've also matched them with a brown skirt and tights. I get compliments on these babies every time I wear them. I can't figure out why, because while I like them very much, I'll be the first to admit they look horribly out of style. Rounded toe! Chunky heel! Questionable stitching! But they're mine, all mine, and I will have them nailed to my chest when I'm eighty-nine years old and lying dead in my coffin and you can't stop me.

Well, maybe you could. Cuz I'll be dead.

Moving on.

Another pair that makes me scratch my head in wonder. When I first saw them in Bakers (aka The Poor Man's Nordstrom), I was looking for a casual brown shoe with no heel that I could comfortably wear with khakis and a collar shirt or sporty tee. The tops of these shoes fit my description perfectly. But WTF is with that sole, man? Are they heels or not? And all that rubber padding? The hell? Apparently, these issues weren't dealbreakers, though, as I bought them anyway, and I love them just as much as my other footy children, so there.

Flip-flops from JC Penney that I bought because I had a twenty-one dollar credit and I'm not the type of person who can walk into a store with free money and not spend at least a little bit of it. That was last year. I think there's still eight dollars left. I'm not a big fan of JC Penney, and you're probably not a fan of seeing my sweat stains, so let's keep going.

We're all big fans of Payless, though, aren't we? How could it be othewise when you know you have a fifty/fifty chance of unearthing the find of the century for a measly ten bucks? These things--they barely qualify as shoes, I know--these things went for nine dollars on clearance, and like a bad car accident, I could not turn away. Don't they just scream "Beachy Sherpa Gap"? No? Then maybe "Toss Me In The Garbage Already Because Your Big Toes Are Gonna Make Love To The Pavement Any Freakin' Day Now." Definitely that one.

I'm almost embarassed to say I wear these to work at least once a week, with khakis. I should be totally embarassed, now that you've seen I have more appropriate attire in my possession. Last year was all about making a good impression; I donned eighty-dollar slacks from The Limited and made my face up with foundation, blush, and eye shadow every single day. This year I'll wear the aforementioned khakis three days in a row and barely remember to take the shine off my nose. What do you think? Progression because I'm brave enough to brake the ties that bind me to the corporate world or regression because I don't value my feet enough to wear shoes with an actual shape? You be the judge.

Stay tuned, as Part the Second includes boots, a sandal that might be the only respectable product I've ever seen sold from a Fashion Bug, and approximately one zillion variations of The Little Black Heel. You're about to wet yourself with anticipation, I can tell.