Comme il pleut sur la ville...

Every grey day, of which I believe we've lately had more than our share, I feel like I've never seen the sun. 

It's been raining my entire life.

Intellectually, I understand this is not the case. I have photo documentation. It was sunny on Monday. Maybe even Tuesday. Whichever day India and I did this fun photoshoot with my in my pink supersuit.

And incidentally, there is a photo of my butt that India took either before I jumped or after I landed, and she thinks it's so funny she wants me to put it on her birthday card. No lie.

Anyway.

I can't exactly remember if there was sun on Tuesday, because as I said, it's been grey my entire life.

When the sun is out, it's the best day ever. I feel like this is a childish response, but it is mine. The world is full of hope and I have energy. I'm filled with joy.

I can smile and leap. I know that I radiate happiness, and in the moment, it is true. I beam and it is genuine.

And when there is no sun, it takes all my willpower to get out of bed. Willpower and Nick saying, "Lisa. I need you to. Get. Up."

He has a tone. Nick, who is never affected by the vicissitudes of weather, never pulled up or bogged down by light or lack thereof.

He strides steadily forward in life, accomplishing all he needs to accomplish, never pausing to lament the cloud cover.

Nick has said before that he doesn't envy my lows, but he also doesn't experience the joy of my highs.

So it's been rainy and grey for at least two days or my entire life.

Unless you're with me, you don't know. I still post funny memes and use exclamation points and laugh emojis. (I also wear skinny jeans and have a side part, but that's a whole nother things.)

Yesterday, I turned on the car in the garage before I opened the garage door. Because we live in a place where things disappear quickly if the door is left open, we have it close automatically on a one-minute timer.

And even though we have a sensor, I have this fear that the door will come down on the car if I don't get out in time. So I get in, turn it on, adjust the seat and other bits to my size, start Waze, and generally do all the whatevers necessary to get myself to where I need to go prior to pressing the open button.

As I sat there organizing, I wondered briefly if our garage could fill with carbon monoxide, even though there's a large opening where we come in from the deck.

Would it be possible to sit in there and fall asleep forever?

It wasn't a plan, or even a wish, just a brief wonder.

These are the "just quit" whispers that I know not everyone has. Nick doesn't have a line he needs to keep from crossing, a bridge he sometimes sees.

I thank god that he doesn't. And I know my kids are more likely to.

This isn't any kind of cry for help. I'm fine. I know I've shared this essay before, but I just think it's such a good way of explaining how things are for some of us.

On Wednesday my son said he was absolutely not going to school in the rain.

He's back in a classroom. They're still doing school online, but they have someone in the room to help keep them on track. They get to see friends. They go outside for lunch and recess.

It has changed the state of his mental health.

This is currently only available to the kids who were in the most difficult situations, or who were struggling most online--and still, many turned it down. But we got to a point where it seemed worth the risk with Jordan.  

But Wednesday, with more rain, he was all, "This is the worst day ever. I'm NOT going to school!"

And I understood, oh, I understood. Every rainy day is the worst day ever, unless the sun is also shining, which almost never happens.

We cajoled him out the door, teeth unbrushed, because we could only choose between him brushing his teeth and putting on his shoes, and shoes seemed more critical for walking to and attending school.

He voices the extremes in my head. THE WORST DAY EVER.

Obviously, it's not the worst day ever. Hell, I know my worst day ever, and a plain old rainy day will never come close. But in the moment, I get it, I really do.

I think Tuesday might in fact have been sunny, because I think Nick woke me up and said, "It's sunny!" And I said, "Oh, thank God." And Nick said, "I know you mean that."

Sometimes I think about the spring my dad killed himself. It was a relentlessly grey spring. There was no sun.

They went to Hawaii to visit a friend, and it was unseasonably grey there, as well. 

The day Dad disappeared was sunny and spectacular, but I think by then he'd hit his limit. I know medication, or lack thereof, was the main problem. But I can't help but think that if it had been a glorious spring, he'd have held on longer.

I don't know. What do I know?

I mean, here's what I know: sun lamps are helpful for me, and so is medication. Getting outside always helps, even if it seems like the stinkiest idea ever. Fish oil is good for your brain. 

Wine is a false friend. So is sugar.

I didn't set out to have tea and Cadbury eggs for breakfast this morning, but sometimes that's how it shakes out.

And apparently the sun will come out tomorrow.

I mean really. Not because I'm trying to be all Orphan Annie about it.

Practical footwear (it's always about the shoes)

Workers of America, Unite!

Oh, hey! It turns out I'm the proud owner of not one, but two neuromas (or neuromata--I looked it up) in my left foot. One is small and one is large.

Because I tend to take a "more is better" approach to life, though I do work regularly on moderation, then why have one when you can have two?

What is a neuroma, you might ask? It's a thickening of tissue around the nerves that lead to the toes. To these nerves get squozen and bugged and then the sensation can vary from mild electric shock in your toe to all out wanting to fall on the floor and scream. Which I do not do, I'll have you know.

My friend Jessica suggested that I have issue this because too many people get on my nerves.

I think this is kind of a perfect explanation.

I saw my podiatrist last week, and since three weeks in the boot had not fixed it, he suggested more boot time and an ultrasound. He said he thought it was a neuroma, which the scan confirmed.

Because I am not a doctor and do not play one on TV, I went immediately to Google to read as much as I could. I really enjoyed Googling myself into utter hysteria during pregnancy, so I figured, why not?

This is, however, an inconvenience and not a hysteria-provoking situation.

One of the things I learned about my friend the neuroma is that they happen to women more than to men. You're more likely to get one if you have high arches, a longer second toe, and wear heels and restrictive shoes.

High impact sports can traumatize the area. While I do lift weights, my favorite ways to work out involve jumping around like a lunatic. True fact.

Basically I'm attributing my neuromas to the patriarchy, genetics, and some unfortunate personal choices.

And in fact, I am pretty sure I have one (or more!) in my right foot, because I have similar symptoms, just not as dire, which is to say a toe that tingles or gets sore, and a spot on my foot that gets sore when I press it or wear squeezy shoes.

Which I am no longer doing. Which leads me to comfort footwear.

So, most comfort shoes are not comfortable on me because they're built for wider feet than mine. So then my feet slosh around and rub and the shoes are the opposite of comfortable.

If there's a blister to be had for miles around, I will have it.

So last weekend I took myself to DSW in search of comfortable footwear. Because I've gotten rid of my old sneakers--too old, not supportive enough, mostly too old, yikes! And I am down to wearing Keens every day and while I do love them, they are heavy.

And sometimes, as above, I think I look very Workers of America, Unite!

Also, now that it is getting hot, I am not sure what to do, because they are not adorable with dresses or capris.

Anyway, I went to DSW, and I saw these knitted sneakers that I thought looked cute and were insanely comfortable.

But are they weird or cute or weird cute?

(You know if they'd been fuchsia or orange I wouldn't have even stopped to ask that question.)

When I am on the fence I often turn to Facebook, because friends have stopped me from doing things like wearing elephant leg boots.

But in this case, there was this adorable young couple shoe shopping in the same aisle. The boyfriend was helping the girlfriend find sizes and giving his opinion and such.

They had opinions, both of them. Plus they seemed nice. So I asked if I could get their opinions on whether these sneakers were weird or cute.

They both paused.

So then I was all, "I've been having foot problems. And so I'm trying to find comfortable shoes that don't bug my feet."

I had on a kind of unfortunate outfit, with workout leggings for no actual good reason as apparently I am now someone who wears active wear when I'm not even particular active.

And the guy said, "Well, those are knock-offs of $700 Balenciaga sneakers."

I was all, "I'm not remotely concerned about that. I'm not in a $700 sneaker-wearing crowd. I'll be wearing these to pick up my kids from school. I think they'd look better with jeans."

And the young woman looked mildly horrified and was like, "Ooh, not with jeans. Maybe you'd like to look at the Doctor Scholls? I saw some cute ones over here." And she very sweetly showed me some comfortable-looking shoes.

But you know how sometimes you can't decide, so you toss a coin, but when it's in the air you know what you want?

I definitely wanted the superhero boots. I skulked up to the register, hoping I wouldn't run into the couple.

Why would I even care? I don't know.

Actually, I love them. They're very lightweight. They give my toes room.

I can't wear them with dresses or capris, so I haven't solved the hot weather foot issue.

But I can wear them with jeans. Considering also wearing them with black leotard leggings and a cape kind of getup.

Maybe I'll write Super Mom on them.

In rhinestones!

Mom jeans: a poll

Sometimes things feel difficult and overwhelming and like there are just too many things going on for me to wrap my brain and arms around.

In these times, I like to focus on truly, in the scheme of the world, inconsequential details. Like these jeans.

My mom ordered them for herself but then they were too small, so she asked me if I wanted them. I quite liked them, although I wondered if the length was a little funny on me. I dried them on hot and they did not shrink up, which doesn't mean I couldn't get them hemmed.

I put them on and asked Nick what he thought and he said, "Those are mom jeans."

And I said, "I'M A MOM."

Then I asked my fashionista daughter what she thought, and she just quietly looked at the floor. I told her it was OK if she didn't like them, because I like them, but I was wondering her opinion.

And still she looked away.

I wore them anyway. I think they're cute. Although the mom jean thing is weighing on me, even though I'm a mom.

Also! I am unsure about the length.

So, should I:

1. Get them hemmed
2. Wear them down
3. Wear them cuffed
4. Not wear them at all

?

I do realize that my work bathroom is not the ideal place to take flattering photos, and there is maybe a weird monitor thing going on with the stripes on my shirt, but life is life.

Also, I got these red clogs for Christmas and I am pretty fixated on all things clog right now.

They have been compared to Pope Benedict's red loafers—to which my friend Randy adds, "blood of the martyr!"—and Dorothy's ruby slippers.

I love them.

Priorities and such

Let me start by saying that we are in Cartagena, and it is spectacular and we have been speaking Spanish and eating delicious food and delighting in the culture and all around reveling in the Caribbean.

So you don't think I'm an utter Philistine.

Because what I really want to show you is this fabulous outfit I bought.

My super fashionable friend Leigh once told me, "I always feel that if I don’t have a touch of cartoon character in my daily wardrobe, I’m doing it wrong." She said this and I was all, yes, yes, and more yes.

I saw this outfit, and I had to try it on, because look at the tigers loitering in the jungle! It's by a Colombian designer called tr3s. I'd link to their site but all that comes up is it's under construction.

Now, I don't know if the top is a little too much for me, but I adore the stitching and the details. I also don't know quite where I can wear a dressy shorts outfit. You know?

But I would very much like to wear this with platform heels.

I love everything about it. Everything.

As Colombians say, "Divino!"

Also, this the only place in our Airbnb to take a photo into a mirror that doesn't involve standing on a toilet. So, here I am, chair standing. And please ignore the terrible humidity hair because it is possibly twice as humid as DC here which I think means approximately 7 million percent.

---

India saw this top in a children's boutique on our walk home from camp.

She peered in the window and asked if we could go in. And then she spotted this top, and she wanted it.

It was expensive for a kid's top, and I said we had to think about it.

She talked about it the next day, and the next. Could we go back? Could we buy it? Finally I said she could buy it if she were willing to spend her own money, saved from allowance, birthdays, etc.

The third day she said she was willing to spend her own money, and we bought it.

She couldn't be more delighted.

Nick likes to say she's her mother's daughter. I love her fashion sense, and I love that she gets in my closet and tries on boots she loves and cannot wait to fit them.

One day she's going to wear all my favorite things better than I do.

---

We arrived and Jordan immediately became obsessed with World Cup stickers.He has a pretty amazing backdrop for hanging out with his sticker book.

(Also, we rooted for Colombia on Tuesday, and we were crushed, crushed at the very last minute.)

Anyway, if you've not done this, you buy a book that has pages for all the teams, with spaces for each player. And then you buy packets of stickers with the players in them.

When Jordan is feeling generous, or wants to engage his sister, he offers for India to open packets for him. They can and do spend a good deal of time doing this.

These stickers are expensive, and he was willing to spend his own money on a box of stickers.

One morning last week he woke me up sobbing at 6:20 am. "Mama! Nigeria isn't stapled!"

I understand there are people in this world who are their best selves at 6:20 am. I am not among them.

I walked him out of the room and said, "Tt's OK to cry about this, but you need to cry somewhere else so you don't wake up India. Also, in the future, do not wake me up before 7:00 in the morning unless you're bleeding or the house is on fire."

The next morning he woke me up at 6:40 and said, "I know I'm not supposed to wake you up, but..."

We've been rising early is what I'm saying.

Turn around, bright eyes...

I have a mini high school reunion this weekend. This weekend!!!

If you know me then you know this means I'm going to spend the weekend laughing uproariously, chatting, dancing, laughing some more, and not sleeping. Next week I will have a tremendous emotional hangover.

And every minute will have been worth it.

So now let's talk about outfits. Because you know I love few things as much as I love to talk about clothing and footwear.

We know it truly doesn't matter what I wear, because these are people who love me. Who knew me when I was an angsty, insecure teenager with a Cyndi Lauper crisscross shaved into the side of my head sporting the best Mary Quant blue mascara and a neon green RELAX T-shirt that I wish I still had.

OK. So. There are two nights: a bar night and a dinner night. I could wear jeans or a dress to either. Mostly I need to be able to dance. It might be warm and it might be cold because Ned Stark is long dead and winter is here.

Here are options I pulled together over the weekend:

1. Embroidered mirrored jumpsuit 

This is, I think, the most fabulous. My mom made it in the 1960s for a friend. This friend kept it in storage for decades after she stopped wearing it, and then gave it to me.

The main downside for a party is that it is hard to get into and out of and I can't zip up the back by myself.

2. Jeans and a black top and platform boots. 

Maybe for Friday? I don't know how flattering this top is, though it is floaty and comfy. I could pair it with the jean jacket in the last option.

3. Black dress and booties

What about the booties, though? Too solid black with the screamily white legs above?

3. Black dress and superhero boots. Seriously--look at the backs.

4. Blue dress and boots (or booties? Or sandals?).

SAME DRESS just turned inside out! So tricky! And it has a secret pocket whether it's on the black or blue side! Could be with booties or boots.

5. Black sundress and sandals (in case it is warm) with chunky jewelry and jean jacket.

Elephant leg boots and other footwear

I recently took my daughter to a doctor's appointment, and because it was toward the end of the school day, I picked Jordan up at the same time. And because it was in Friendship Heights, which has Bloomingdale's, my mother wanted to join.

Which is how all four of us found ourselves, post-appointment, in the shoe department at Nordstrom Rack. This is, without sarcasm, my idea of fun.

So I spotted these shoes that looked like sneakers, but endless sneakers! They had big white bottoms! They were grey and soft, oh, so soft! And stretchy!

You pulled them on, and you just kept pulling them up and up and up, nearly up to your coochie-coo! (Yes, I know it's called a vulva, and we incorrectly continue to call it a vagina with our kids, except India still says GAGINA and I am OK with that as I know full well what she's talking about.)

Anyway, you pull those sneaker boots up really high.

I thought they were amazing. But they might be horrible. Amazing? Horrible? I couldn't tell.

So I asked Facebook.

My friend Tracy--and I love my friends forever for their honesty--said, "They make you look like you have elephant leg."

Wendy agreed. Then another person did. And another.

And actually, I'd be fine having elephant leg boots. I would happily refer to them as my "elephant leg boots."

Except that they didn't look good with a single outfit.

I was thinking, "Oh, great! These are sneakers that are also boots that are warm and I can just pull them on with everything and walk for miles and they'll keep my legs cozy!"

NO.

They looked terrible with jeans. And leggings. I didn't try them on with a skirt because I am not going to have a pair of high-maintenance elephant boots that I can only wear with like one outfit that I own. I'm just not.

So I took them back and stumbled across a black pair of over-the-knee real boots that have an actual heel. India totally approves. So far I haven't worn them, because I can't quite decide.

Maybe I'll put them on with some outfits and show you.

And finally, this is my India modeling Leigh Shoes.

As in, "Mama! These are so cute! Leigh would love these shoes. Look at me in the Leigh Shoes!"

She is absolutely right. Leigh would rock those shoes. I commended India on her choice.

However. I'm willing to bet Leigh would wear them on the correct feet. 

Reunion dinner outfit! Need help choosing!

I know that it doesn't actually matter what I wear to my reunion.

In fact, it rarely matters what I wear ever. I'm actually rather vain, although it's not always evident. Sometimes I leave the house for hours looking like I was dressed in the dark by a mean-spirited chimpanzee.

You should see what I wore to volunteer at school yesterday, which was culottes, because it very warm out, and then my new Sanita clogs which currently feel better with socks on. So.

My son was all, "Uh, do you like those pants?" He did not. I told them they'd look better without the black socks.

You wouldn't know it by some of the things I am willing to be seen in in public, but I love clothes. And shoes. And boots. It's no secret I have a boot problem.

So. With all that said, which outfit do you like for my reunion dinner? It's at a bar/restaurant on Franklin Street. The weather is going to be maybe 50s-ish. Or 75. Or down to 32. Because who actually knows anymore.

The suggested dress for dinner is something along the lines of jeans and a cute top. So I pulled out a couple sweaters I like and was thinking of black pants in lieu of blue jeans. I don't know. I really really don't know.

I  haven't yet put on an outfit that feels perfect. Maybe because I loathe the cold and none of these are sundresses. I don't know. Can I say that again? They all feel so dark and not cheerful and I don't knooooooow.

Option 1. Reddish sweater, black pleather pants, high wedges. Downside: they're actually jeggings and my sweater isn't that long. But I do kind of love them.

 Option 2. Same, except black jeans, and you can see the wedges. Jeans are comfy. Huge bonus is that I'm about 5'7" in these booties. Ha!

Option 3. Black jeans, black sweater, cowgirl boots. I could wear blue jeans instead of black. Can't decide how I feel about black jeans with the boots.

Option 4. Dress with cowgirl boots. Bonus: these boots kick ass. Also, I could wear a cool necklace. Downside, it may be cold cold cold. And my legs are kind of screamingly pale.

 

What I think it comes down to is: pants or dress; if pants, then pleather/jeans; all black or not; high wedges or cowgirl boots.

Or something completely different?

And I am right now on the lookout for more critical decisions to make

I don't know if you remember all my emergency room shenanigans in June?

In any case, the surgeon I saw referred me to a gastroenterologist, who I finally saw last week, who suggested we do an endoscopy just to rule out an ulcer or polyps or some such.

And you guys, I have an ulcer!

Nick asked if it's because I fret so much and I said the doctor said it's most likely due to marital stress, but they're culturing it to see if they find H pylori, which is apparently this wretched little ulcer-causing bacteria.

She didn't actually say anything about marital stress. She said these ulcers are typically from NSAIDS, but I don't take a lot of those. So, yah.

The doctor, who I really like, said they would sedate me with Propofol, which was the same stuff that Michael Jackson used, but not to worry, that it was totally safe.

And I was all, if it's the same drug they knocked me out with when I did IVF, I'm all for it. That was awesome.

I am indifferent to drugs, but I tell you in all candor that I can totally understand the appeal of having a canister or whatever of that stuff at home. It is delightful.

One minute you're counting, taking deep breaths while oxygen is shooting up your nostril and you maybe get to three. And then suddenly they're waking you up and you are so comfortable you wish you never had to get out of that hospital cot with the curtain partitions all around you. I wanted to ask if I couldn't just sleep a little longer.

Post-C-section Vicodin? No, thank you. Propofal? Magical!

Oh, and this reminds me--we've started watching Breaking Bad and it makes me extra glad Nick is a lawyer and not a meth dealer. I don't think I can keep watching, though, because it's not like it's actually going to become less stressful, right, with all the cancer and meth?

Anyway, the way the doctor put it, endoscopies are totally routine, and not to worry. So I didn't think I was worrying.

I kid you not when I say that the night before I was trying to decide what to wear. Jeans? Long sleeves? Bring a sweater? What does one wear to an endoscopy?

I even realized it was ridiculous. But I was still a little fixated.

Friends suggested helpful things such as socks, Chanel, red lipstick, and conservative underwear.  This last suggestion was from my friend English, who said she always bears that in mind with the dermatologist and skin checks. Which makes sense to me, although thinking about it, I'm not sure why I care if my doctor thinks my underwear are too racy.

Fortunately I've gotten rid of all my really terrible underwear, because you know, I used to have a pair that was held together with a safety pin and whenever anyone saw it, it was really embarrassing. I had no explanation, and yet I kept it. I had them for years.

Why?

In any case, I was told I'd be in a gown and it didn't really matter what I wore, although definitely socks because my feet would get cold.

And then that night I had all these mega anxiety dreams. Like, sharks and rabies and Nick running off with some woman he met at a party. I was a little more stressed out than I thought.

I woke up late and barely managed to get dressed (with conservative underwear) and brush my teeth and get to my appointment on time.

They let you keep your bottoms on, as it turns out, so in the end the underwear didn't matter one bit. They just make you wear a gown on top to monitor your heart. They even let me keep my shoes on.  So my feet were toasty.

I mean, in case you are ever in this situation and wonder what you should wear.

When it was all done, they gave me paperwork with color pictures of my insides, including the wee ulcer. And a set of strict instructions.

The nurse said that for the remainder of the day I couldn't: drink alcohol; smoke alone; exercise; drive a vehicle or operate heavy machinery; or sign legal documents or make critical decisions.

Naturally, I've resumed all of those activities today.

Today I am 47

Today I am 47.

I am 47 and not 37 or 27 or 17, but I so fortunately keep seeing all these friends from when I was in high school, and somehow those 30 extra years seem impossible.

How am I suddenly 30 years older than 17? Math has never been my strong point, but I do grasp the basic march of time. It is how things seem to work, but still.

One day you wake up and you have this new number and you don't quite know how you got there.

Does this happen to other people?

It's not that I'm upset about my age. Not at all. I'm such a better, happier, kinder, more confident human at this age. I like myself most of the time. I like this life.

I spent my 37th birthday drinking wine and crying all day long. I was certain that nobody would ever marry me, because I didn't have the right resume for DC. I kid you not with this. And that I was destined to die alone.

On my 27th birthday I was in graduate school in DC, not knowing what I was doing with my life. It was a good summer, mostly, but I still cried a lot because I always used to cry regularly, and plus by August I was only a couple months from sliding into my annual winter depression, what with the shortening of the days and such.

When I was 17 I talked about how fat I was all the time. I thought about how fat I was all the time. I starved and exercised and still, how was I so fat? I said that as soon as I grew up and had enough money, I'd have the fat sucked out of my thighs. Seriously. I went on and on about it.

I was just talking about this with Kristin, who I saw in Denver. How obsessed and unhealthy we were.

I now like those previously hated thighs.

 I'd like to tell the 37-year-old that the whole DC resume thing is such bullshit, and she was never going to marry someone who bought into it, and that in just over a year she'd meet someone, and in two years she'd be immensely pregnant and wondering why her baby didn't magically appear on his due date.

I'd like to tell the 27-year-old that she should ask her doctor for some antidepressants, because it would make grad school, dating, and really general life a hell of a lot easier and more pleasant. It would make her more pleasant.

And I'd like to tell that 17-year-old that she was beautiful and smart and interesting. And that life is so much bigger than being skinny enough, whatever that means. And that whether or not someone wants to go out with you is not a measure of your self worth or attractiveness.

I'd also like to borrow her blue Mary Quant mascara. Because that stuff was awesome.

In any case, I'm not sure how much liposuction costs, but if I had that chunk of money to burn, I'd now hop a plan for a weekend in Paris. I'd happily take these thighs, the ones with which my ancestors walked across the prairie, along for the ride. They are strong, and fine with me.

Now, I must say that I miss my old boobs and stomach, but I wouldn't trade my children for them. I'd like many fewer wrinkles, and in fact, thanks to Botox, I do in fact have a few fewer wrinkles, and this delights me.

A friend said she wears her wrinkles proudly, as she's earned them. But for me those deep furrows between my brows were earned through too much stress, and I'm happy not to wear them.

My friend Kristin, who is one scant week older than I, keeps referring to herself as a middle-aged woman. When I saw her in Denver I was all, I don't understand why you keep captioning your photos things like, "Middle-aged woman setting up a tent!" and "Middle-aged woman making s'mores!"

She said, "WE ARE middle-aged." She pointed to her face. "This is the face of middle age."

And yes, yes, we are middle-aged, and I don't actually mind my age, but I hate the moniker. She and Maude said it's because traditionally it means old and frumpy. And we are not. So we should work to redefine what it means.

In theory, I like this idea.

I mean, first and foremost, I present myself as a family person with small children. A very tired, loving, occasionally locked in the bathroom with a glass of gin, family person.

I'm not trying to pawn myself off as some young hot thing. And yet I am not ready to embrace the concept of middle age.

Now, on the upside I realize that I'm truly lucky not to be an Olympian or an actress, because by this age I would be considered so over the hill.

Whereas as a plain old regular person, nobody is saying such things. So I feel pretty lucky, you know, to not be an Olympic athlete or Hollywood star.

Although on a side bar, don't you think if you won an Olympic medal you'd get naked as soon as you were home and dance around the house wearing nothing but the medal?

You know I treat my birthday like my own personal New Year's Eve, and I think about what I learned and accomplished in the past year.

In terms of accomplishments, I got an article published on The Mighty site. I took a storytelling class and got up in front of a big crowd and told my story. I mostly did a lot of procrastinating and not writing on my book...

I learned a lot, however. There have been some big learning years in this past decade.

Last fall I reconnected with a bunch of Peace Corps friends I hadn't seen in 20 years. And I learned, once again, that deep friendships endure through time and space and distance. And that I am lucky to have those people in my life.

I learned that damage and trauma from my past can resurface at the most unexpected moments. And until you see it and name it, you cannot understand it, but it sits inside you corrosively until you do.

In this past year, learned that while I believe myself to be so strong, I'm much more vulnerable than I think, and that I am lucky to have not only a very loving family, but a whole loving village.

Today I learned that while Thomas Wolfe may be correct, you can't go home again...you can, for your birthday, get the same Stan Smith sneakers that you wore in high school. The ones that were just like your dear friend Nicole's.

And this will make you incredibly happy.

Big hugs and love,

Lisa

Wearing shoes with no socks in cold weather I knew my heart was in the right place

OK, to assuage my guilt about another shoe post and potential shoe purchase, let me first say that I've given away a lot of shoes and boots lately.

I have this new policy of getting rid of one (or more) items if I buy a new one. One new top? Give away two.

Obviously, at a certain point this no longer works, but I am far from that point.

I started the Marie Kondo book but honestly, the idea of pulling out all my clothing at once and piling it up then sorting through it and getting it all put back or gotten rid of before we would need to sleep on our bed just overwhelmed me. And then we started construction and now our whole bedroom is like a closet with extra furniture shoved in.

However, I've taken the advice of touching things and seeing if they spark me, and if not, getting rid. But I haven't done the massive undertaking that she suggests.

Anyway, it is shoulder season once again, and it's been a wretchedly cold spring. Although I've been informed that really, Lisa, it's just spring. I think Nick enjoys telling me that it can legitimately snow until mid-April (which, yay, is now!).

The problem is that I take cold weather very personally.

We had a couple teasingly warm days and then cold cold cold and now it is sunny and glorious. But I have lost my trust.

And, as always I am on my quest for the perfect pair of comfortable shoes that are not sneakers because, well because. I can't wear sneaks every day of my life. I just can't.

You may recall that I ordered and returned approximately 70 kabillion pairs of shoes last year. I did wind up with a few, although none absolutely perfect. It was Internet dating with lower stakes.

Now, I do really enjoy my cowboy boots, and I know for Texans they can be the solution to everything, but for me they are not everything shoes and my particular pair do not go with my dresses plus I wear them with thick wool socks so for me they not my in-betweeny solution. I probably need a short, lighter colored pair. That naturally I would have to buy in Austin. With Nicole.

So I tried on those peep-toe booties the other day. They were totally comfortable and seemed like they might be a good in-between kind of shoe. I could wear them with jeans and, if it ever gets warm, dresses (no?) and they're sturdy enough for the bike.

But then I just wasn't sure. Am I a peep-toe bootie person? I don't know.

I didn't get them in the end because Nordstrom Rack had only one pair and they were kind of rubbed in some places and they were made of fake snakeskin sort of suedey stuff and so there was nothing to be done about it.

But now I'm on kind of a mission for the perfect and perfectly comfortable in-between shoes that I can wear in the cold but keep wearing when it warms up. A shoe that will cover a lot of my foot and give me some height but that will also be great to walk in.

I now have to be able to walk at least one quick mile in all shoes I purchase.

My friend English suggested these but they do not have them in my size in black on any of the sites I've searched on. But they look kind of fabulous.

Photo: Dansko site

Plus Dansko is generally comfy. Although I read a couple reviews saying they were wide, which won't work for me. (Which doesn't matter because of the not in my sizeness, but the lack of I can have it always makes me think it is probably perfect for me. Grass is greener, anyone?)

What's your happy footwear solution for this hard-to-dress-for coldy-warmy in-betweeny weather? (And are you impressed with how many hyphens I squoze in there?)

Boot porn

OK, I know this is a boot post right on the heels (heh) of a boot post, but as far as I can tell, a lot of you are shoe people, so this works out fine.

I mean, after I posted my cowGIRL boot post, I learned that many of my friends have cowboy/girl boots. And they shared pictures! I loved it!

Turns out I am all, "Show me your boots!"

I could pretty much look at boots all day. This is sad but true.

Anyway, on to the story!

I also got this fabulous pair of boots in Austin.

They are much more fabulous in person, and kind of hard to photograph, as they're shades of dark grey and silver patent leather. If you embiggen you will also see a wee bit of me lying on the floor taking the picture.

I haven't worn them yet—except around the house—because it's been raining and also, no matter how practical they may be, I'm not scuffing them up on my bike and on the playground.

As far as I can tell, they go with everything, including boxers and an old T-shirt.

(Also, it turns out that Maison Martin Margiela is a superspendy fancy brand. Also also, Nicole and I seem to be the only people who might call patent boots with Lucite heels practical.)

Nicole and I basically spent four hours and made it one block on South Congress Avenue. To be fair, some of that time was spent eating nachos and drinking beer with my friends. And then we took the women of the group to The Store.

Because here's what happened. The guy in the cute spendy boutique pointed us to UAL down the block, which has hugely discounted designer stuff.


Who could pass up a store like that? Nicole, who can spot a bargain the way the child catcher in Bednobs and Broomsticks could smell children, made a beeline for a wall of shoes at 40% off. She immediately began trying on shoes. And then I did. Because who wants to try on shoes alone?

They only had one pair in each size. I found these boots and handed them to her. Lucite heels! Lucite heels!

After all, I had just bought cowboy boots. I hardly needed more boots.

We tried on so many things with such enthusiasm. We minced around in them. We giggled. We chatted with the store people. Nicole complimented random customers on their choices. She talks to everyone.

And finally, when it was time to decide, I was all, "You MUST get those boots. Must."

I'd already picked out a very practical pair of Robert Clergerie lace-up oxfords. And I'd sadly set aside a bargain pair of black patent Dior stilettos with silver tips at the front. Because, really? When in my life am I going to wear 5" stilettos? Chasing my kids around the sandbox?

So it was done. I thought. And then she said doesn't wear flats. Like, ever. Not even to the grocery store.

I suggested she make an exception. For these spectacular boots.

So I tried them on, to show her how nice they looked. And then I was all, "Look. If you don't get them, I will. One of us has to buy these."

(See how hard I tried not to buy another pair of boots?)

It went back and forth and back and forth and finally she said she just knew she wouldn't wear them. So I bought them. It would've been a crime not to, really.

And then the salesperson said I could avoid tax (and trying to figure out how to get the items in my carry on) if they shipped them. So I did.

And then we met up with my friends and told them about the boots! They immediately wanted to see them, and the store of magical bargains, which was maybe three doors down from the bar.

I was like, "Hey, we're back! I just wanted to show my friends my boots."

They were delighted. They pulled them right out.

One of them said, "I'm so glad you got them. I was going to cry if one of you didn't buy these."

That's right, I'm not from Texas. But Texas wants me anyway.

Sorry for not-great lighting (and, I just realized, dirty mirror).

Ooh, boy, did I love Austin. And my hell, do I love cowboy boots. Or rather, cowgirl, as India is constantly reminding me.

"CowGIRL boots, Mama! We're girls!"

Truth.

So I can't claim to know much of anything about Texas because let's be honest: I only spent like three days there--a Thursday afternoon to mid-day Sunday. But I didn't sleep very much, so it was a lot of  awake hours.

Also, it was Austin, which apparently Rick Perry called the "blueberry in the tomato soup" that is Texas.

But I digress. What I saw of Texas, I loved. Plus a number of people I love live there, so that ups the adoration. And I went there for a reunion with people so dear to me.

So for a multitude of reasons, despite terrible politics, I think Texas is awesome.

Now let's get back to boots.

If you live in Texas you can wear cowboy boots anywhere and everywhere and nobody blinks.

Did you know that cowboy/girl boots are works of art in themselves? They're beautiful, some exquisitely so. And if you find a pair that fits you right, they feel soooo good.

I didn't know how they were supposed to fit. The first pair I tried on was wide, and as such I clomped around with my legs kind of far apart in an effort to keep them on. Nicole and the boot-store woman were like, nope, not your pair.

And I tried on some more, and some more, and eventually found a pair I really liked that also felt great, and then Nicole looked across the store and said, "Hey, look! Those are a lot like yours AND they're on sale!"

They were on sale, but still similarly priced. And the design was very similar. But not exactly. I didn't like the sides quite as much, and they didn't have stitching on the front, which seemed more cowboy booty. If I were doing to get one pair, shouldn't they be, well, cowboy-y?

See? More cowboy booty. But admittedly not that different.

If you've ever seen me try to choose anything, you know it is a process.

So I tried one on and the other. And then Nicole put one on each foot so I could see. We went back and forth and back and forth. The store owner weighed in. As did our salesperson. I was still torn.

And then the saleswoman said, "If you're doing other shopping, why don't you walk around for a bit and come back?"

I took pictures and texted them to Nick and discussed pros and cons. There was a cute young guy working in a really cool boutique we went into, so I solicited his opinion. (He, too, liked both and was torn.)

Nicole enjoyed the taxidermy in the cool boutique.

And then Nick mentioned that the pro of the ones without the stitching is that with black pants, they could just look like dressy boots. And that was that. Sale pair, no stitching.

We walked back in after like half an hour and the saleswoman said, "I was sure it was going to take you a lot longer to come back."

It was like she knew me or something.

Anyway, I gave her my credit card and donned my new boots and she said, "Great choice. You could definitely wear those to a wedding."

People in Texas wear cowboy boots to weddings. Seriously. The dressy ones. Not the work ones. Apparently.

In fact, you see guys walking down the street wearing boots and cowboy hats and it is adorable. I mean, I doubt they put them on thinking, ooh, "I look adorable!" But they do.

So. Now I know that one can actually wear them with anything, I've taken it to heart. I wear them with everything I want. They feel great.

Yes, I get some weird looks in DC. But anyway. It's not like I'm trying to blend.

So here I will mention that my birthday friend Rhonda was also on a cowboy boot quest. And she seemed to find a lovely brown fringed pair without great agonizing and consternation. (And as it turns out, her daughter Charlee also admonishes her for saying cowboy.)

Embiggen photo for better look at boots.

I don't have a closeup, but look how natural she looks in her fringed boots. The fringes move really nicely when she dances.

She lives in Maine, so I need to ask how the cowGIRL boots have gone over up there. She's not one to try to blend, either.

And then, you know when I get into something, I get really into it.

Like the rabies. Dear Lord, you all know about The Rabies. And like the tiles. I bought some dragons, and some more dragons. And some bird tiles for the fireplace, for when we do it. And then I started talking about maybe tiling our sofa...

So.

I've been looking online at cowboy/girl/person boots. Not to order now, but just, you know, for the next time I save up a pot of cash and go back to Austin to visit friends. I've gotten a little obsessed interested.

I told my friend Meg how I'd identified a couple really beautiful pairs, and she was all, "I knew it! I knew those cowboy boots were going to be a gateway drug!"

There are worse things, right? (And I really, really want a fuchsia pair...)

I think we can all agree that I should never open a phone sex business

Well, that’s one way to lose these walking blues

For me, searching for comfort sandals has been like Internet dating.

Perhaps you have never really had to search for comfort sandals. Maybe you found your comfort sandals in college or grad school, or in your neighborhood, and stuck with them and they still work for you.

Me, not so much. I had some and eventually got tired of them and moved on and now sometimes I look back fondly.

It didn't used to be this hard. When I was younger I bought all kinds of adorable shoes with pointy toes and spiky heels and what-have-you and tromped all over cities around the globe. I tried shoes on and purchased them with nary a thought of compatibility.

No longer. Now my feet are particular. One friend suggested that my expectations are too high. I cannot expect to do the kind of walking that I do in sandals.

But I figured, eventually I met Nick on Match.com. I could find myself some sandals.

I've ordered and returned a ridiculous number of shoes. And these comfort sandals? They are not cheap. At some point Nick got a call from our credit card company saying that there had just been an uncharacteristically big charge at Zappos, and was he aware of this?

Heh.

He now gets an alert every time our card is used in a not-in-person transaction.

I ended up sending them all back. I thanked them and I boxed them up, and then I stuck them back in their boxes and that was that.

Nick is sick of talking about this. The other day I was all, yes, OK, I will have some sexytime with you. But only if we can talk about shoes afterwards.

The romance, it flourishes.

Anyway, because some of you like to talk shoes and aren't asking for sex, here's the story.

I loved these gladiators, but they were not my shoe. Perhaps they are yours?

The gladiators are made by Naot, and I love how they look. The soles feel magical. They are soft leather and inviting and delightful. But the front is too wide for me, and as such, rubbed the sides of my toes.

The ugly-cute fuchsia shoes are made by Wolky, a Dutch company. I love the look of these shoes, and they have a really thick sole and this comfortable liner.

Shockingly, the fuchsia didn't feel like it would go with enough things. I know, I know.

But I found a turquoise pair on super sale at Sierra Trading, so I ordered them. They felt good all around, so I boldly/foolishly wore them on a Kindergarten field trip, and they rubbed the top of my big toe and the side of my little toe. I was surprised because you can adjust them in three places.

Betty decided she wanted them. So they are now hers.

I also ordered another pair of Naots (also too loose) and these Born shoes, which I loved but which also had way too much room around the front of my foot.

It was getting demoralizing, you know, because I was thinking that I was just too picky. I was asking for too much. Other people could find their pair, and walk around totally happy.

What was my problem? Just like in dating, friends had begun to suggest that my standards were too high.

I really was starting to wonder what was wrong with me and my princess and the pea feet.

And then I went to Comfort One. And they measured my feet on this infrared scanner thing. Here's what turns out to be my problem: I have very high arches. I have very small feet. There are specific and actual reasons this is difficult! (Also, I have this weirdly small little toe, which makes it hard to buy strappy sandals because it likes to poke out all, hello! Which is uncomfortable.)

So even if Nick and I get divorced and I desperately need money, clearly I cannot count on foot prostitution as my fallback career.

Anyway, here's what it's come to. I got these Dansko sandals, and I love how they look and they feel great, although they do bug a little if I walk a lot. I will have to put moleskin in them.

But the soles are soft and squishy and the  bottoms are light. I think someone (Laura?) recommended this exact pair! I didn't really like this year's colors but found these from last year (and much cheaper!) at 6pm.com. They also have a lovely blue. So it all worked out!

I may also have gotten a little carried away with Tevas. I got two pairs.

Shockingly, the higher ones, which I think you need to see with an outfit to get the fabulousness, are more comfortable.They have leather straps that don't rub.

So many inches taller! So great!

Really, it's so nice to know it's not me. I mean, it is me.

But it's also them.

Thursday poll for those who enjoy dresses and proffering opinions and can ignore my general dishevelment and bad photography

On Saturday we are having family photos done for the first time ever every and I am beyond excited about this. I want to capture this time when Betty is such a part of our family and the kids are young.

We met the photographers and they are delightful and funny. I will have much more to say about them, and why I chose them, but that's a whole nother post.

They imagine us in a field, with muted colors. They showed samples of their work and the look and feel they are going for, and they were gorgeous.

The look, they said, starts with Mama and cascades down. They suggested pastel sundresses for India and me, maybe linen shirt or vintage tee for Jordan. I loved them from the moment they said I was the most important and then joked about skinny jeans for Nick.

Yah, so I couldn't think of anything pastel when we were talking, and then I actually looked in my closet and pretty much the only thing I have that is muted or subtle is underwear. Then I looked in India's drawers. Riot of color. Jordan's a boy who is offended by white and beige, so, same.

Betty might have some pastels, and Nick certainly has pale button-downs. So they could have some lovely dreamy photos together.

I texted with our clothing scenario. Really, they said, we have to be true to ourselves. What's most important is that we all have the same kind of look. Like we're going to the same party, is how I think of it.

So these, I think, are the best options. All dresses I feel good in, to varying degrees, and none of which I feel is a clear winner.

What do you think?

A. Long and flowy. Upside: it feels dressy, and the ikat print resonates with me. Downside: Not the easiest to maneuver in. (Not ombre; that's just my photography.)

B. Closest-I-have-to-pastel sundress. Upside: Super comfortable, and I think flattering. Downside: Not an occasion dress. I wear it all the time. I mean when it's warm. I once wore it all the time and will again.

C. Brand-new ooh I adore periwinkle dress. Upside: Flattering color for my skin and eyes. Also happens to match my walls! (Perhaps not an upside). Downside: They think it might be too structured. Also might show wrinkles.

D. Picnic cloth print sundress. Upside: This dress was made for me and I have loved it for longer than I care to admit. Downside: Now, after forever, maybe I am too old for this shortness of length. Related: Might show my bottom if I'm sitting on the ground.

E. Magic dress. Upside: For years I actually called this my magic dress. I recommended it to friends and strangers for its magical properties. I just pulled it out of a box and remembered how many dates I wore it on because I always felt great in it. Downside: Maybe not a sparkly enough color for summer photos? And maybe a little bare?

Any thoughts appreciated.

And I have stuff to say on shoes but all the contenders have not arrived.

 I promise that I will return to being a blogger of more substance. Although honestly, I could talk clothing and shoes all day. I am that frivolous. I am.

Comfortsandalquest 2015

This is just ridiculously frivolous, and I understand that. I do have some guilt over my topic preferences.

But I'd still like to talk about shoes.

I need some comfortable sandals. This is not something I ever thought I would say.

See, I had that boot for a while, and while technically I can go back to exercise and normal footwear, I am still walking around in sneaks because otherwise my foot gets tender.

I cannot wear my sneaks with sundresses. And god willing, it is going to get toasty warm soon, and then hopefully hot as balls shortly thereafter. One of these days, I will be able to wear sundresses. I signed up to live in a swamp. I am WAITING for heat and humidity here.

Yesterday it got quite warm, but I was still wearing a long sleeved shirt. This winter was a bad boyfriend. I have no trust.

What I'm asayin' is, I need sandals. I believe it is time for comfort footwear.

They need to be very comfortable for walking, and preferably cute. But they could even be ugly in an ugly-cute kind of way.

I splurged and ordered this pair, which I thought were ugly-cute adorable and looked ridiculously comfortble because you could adjust three different straps.

Anthropologie.com

They arrived yesterday and I tried them on and asked Nick what he thought and he didn't like the white bottoms. But I told him those were in, and those weren't what bothered me, so he said they didn't look any sillier than some of my other shoes. And also, by the way, he thinks skinny jeans are dumb.

Right.

India, as pictured above, is no help. We went to Nordstrom Rack and I kept telling her we were looking for comfortable sandals. I found myself trying things on and being all, but they're not comfortable. For the first time in my purchasing life, I felt like Maude.

We used to go out shopping and I'd try on whatever looked fabulous, and she'd be all, "But are they comfortable? They are not comfortable."

And I'd be all, "I understand your words, but what do you mean?" And then buy them and mince around in them all happy.

Those days, it seems, are gone.

There I was in the shoe section, rejecting perfectly lovely shoes because they weren't comfortable. This makes me feel older than my forehead wrinkles, I will tell you.

India, my dear love, kept pulling out the highest, pointiest, strappiest shoes and saying, "Try this one! These are comshterble, Mama!"

Oh, younger me, how I love you.

I want shoes that feel like putting my feet into, I don't know, a basket of puppies. I don't need my feet licked, and the shoes don't need to be furry or wiggle adorably. But I want them to feel like soft happy puppy magic.

My super-adjusty sandals are absolutely not the puppy magic of my dreams, and as such are not the answer.

Do any of you wear comfortable shoes? That you'd recommend?

In my fantasy world, they have a platform but no heel, because, well, they just do. (But in my fantasy world I'm also 5'8" and know how to do a smoky eye and regularly wear a tiara and/or veil and/or thigh-high boots, so there's that.) But they really do have to have a comfy footbed. And soft straps that adjust.

I think those are my requirements.

Any ideas?