Buying shoes on line

How insane is it to buy shoes on line. Think about it, you look at a picture of a shoe, can’t touch it, feel how flexible it is, can’t smell the leather, if it’s even made of leather but you buy it anyway, without trying it on and walking in it. That’s crazy.

So the shoes come and you put them on. What are the odds you will like them, they fit, they are comfortable and you can walk in them without feeling like you have cinderblocks strapped to your feet? Buying shoes on line is as stupid as buying a car without taking a test drive, as idiotic as serving chowder without taste testing and as dangerous as marrying a blind date before the sun comes up.

Okay, so the shoes don’t fit, feel like shit, and you have to ship them back. So what do you do? Do you learn…don’t buy shoes on line, always test drive before you buy, taste before you serve and get to know the guy your mother set you up with before you commit to a lifelong relationship between the sheets. Or do you take the first offer to come along and sign with the agent you found on line?

I’d sign.

I'm a little bit...what?

I queried an editor once, ‘…if Andy Rooney and Erma Bombeck had a love-child, I would be the writer which emerged from their illegitimate tryst’. It didn’t get results, I didn’t want to write for that editor anyway, but it did get me to thinking…when I get older will I have bushy eyebrows, oh wait, I am already older and I haven’t had to tweeze in years.

With apologies to both  families of the dear-departed I am beginning to hum the old tune by Donny and Marie, I’m a little bit housewife, I’m a little bit pain in the ass.

Now that I’m writing a weekly column for a great local paper I’m beginning to realize that my writing is indeed morphing into a kind of mix of down-home Bombeck witticism (updated) and Rooney’s darted-wit (I smile more). When I read my columns out loud before I send them I hear the lilt, the rhythm of Rooney’s voice. It’s oddly comforting, I miss the old guy on Sunday nights.
I can see myself behind a desk speaking into a camera, ‘so when did pregnant women start calling their big bellies, bumps and when did we start to wear scarves, inside the house in June, instead of outside when the weather goes arctic? Stuff like that.

Not much more to say on the subject…the phone is ringing…maybe it’s 60 minutes...nope, it's a Republican neighbor.

I love caller ID?  I remember when phones were big black hunks of plastic with a dial and a cord and no way of knowing who was calling. It was kind of like not knowing whether you were having a boy or a girl. Whose calling, which bill collector, which kid asking to send money? Oh, it's the Republican neighbor, complaining. Some things are still the same.

HAppy, HAppy, HAppy

You know it’s not like painting, hang it on a wall, like it or not like it, eye of the beholder and all that.
It’s not like singing, nice voice, magnificent, funny sounding, or shrill. I hear, everybody that can hear hears and has an opinion.
It’s not like playing an instrument, practice, practice, practice and you might be good enough to perform on the stage of Carnegie Hall.
It’s not like sculpture, or quilt making, or knitting or whatever is considered an art.
Of what am I writing, you may ask.
Because of how this works I cannot tell you.
I love tricks with words.
It is something we can all do. So, to keep you quessing I will now shut up.

Imagine

IMAGINE, the post I recently removed is now part of a larger piece published today on Divine Caroline, LHJ's on line componet. Thank you to those who commented. This simple essay from the heart was inspired by a friend's dicovery of her mother's talent long after she was gone.

It is within each person's heart to dream, within each dream to imagine.

http://www.divinecaroline.com/24133/130035-imagine-when-regret-passed-generation

It's dark in here but hopeful

I have come to the decision that I am nothing more than a bobbysoxer waiting for the phone to ring.

Sitting on pile of dad’s shoes in hall closet, phone on lap waiting… “Oh mom, I just know the captain of the football team is going to call and ask me out.”

Sitting on stairs, staring at phone, “I’m not hungry mom. I’ll just wait here by the phone because I know he’s going to call soon.”

Running in from outside, “Moooooom, did he call?”

Pick up phone, listen for dial-tone. No it’s not dead. Maybe he tried to call when I picked it up to see if it was working and he got a busy signal. Pick up phone again and listen.

In bed, pillow wet, “why doesn’t he call?”

Fuck him. Who the hell does he think he is anyway; to toy with my heart this way? I knew I shouldn’t have gone all the way but, well…

Sitting on floor in hall closet, phone on lap waiting… “Oh mom, dad’s shoes are upstairs, they were way to lumpy. I’m more comfortable now…waiting…

Actually I'm not comfortable at all in the dark, waiting or otherwise.

I am holding my breath

I have removed my latest post, thank you all for your comments, because it's on to bigger and better. I won't know the outcome for a few days but if this were years ago I'd be tackling the mailman or breaking the hinge on mailbox, opening, closing, opening, closing... you get the picture.
I will be checking my email like...well...you know.
Well...I'm off to email, maybe just maybe...