All Hail The Heels!

Being the single mom, I'm running in different directions constantly.  On Friday afternoon, that included running in different ways in four inch, open-toed, grey Etienne Aigner heels.  Why?  Kung-fu weapons class at 5:15.  But cheese and crackers for date during kung fu.  Go back and watch knives flying during weapons class.  Drop off kidlets at grandparents' home at 6:15.  Date at home for snackins at 6:25.  Go to see a play at 7:25.  Walk in heels the whole time and do not falter.  Flip that pleated, Lily Pulitzer spring, green skirt just right.  

Perhaps I was born in the wrong decade.  I love wearing heels.  I adore them.  So much so that I own about seventy pairs of shoes right now, mostly heels.  Did you hear that?!  Yes, I just made a public confession that I'm a shoe whore.  One woman at work said, "My husband said that's why you're divorced."  My comment?  "No, that's just why I'm lucky."  I'll confess that the majority of the shoe addiction started after the marital nupitals split.  Was I searching for something to complete me?  Let's stop with the psychoanalysis.  I like shoes.  Plain and simple.  And I buy them on the bargain rack - I can't say no to a $10 pair at DSW marked down from $100.  I put feelings on inanimate objects.  These babies need a home, and who better than me to give them one?  

So yesterday afternoon I marched into Market Basket, clothed in my 1950's cardigan and pleated skirt, completed with the heels and over-the-shoulder purse.  Throw back Friday I was!  Yes, I did get stares.  I know I did.  I didn't fit the mommy uniform of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and dammit if I didn't.  I don't want to be there.  Ever.  Bring on the preppy cardigan before all else.  But you know what else?

It felt pretty good to be dressed up and about.  I felt empowered to be once again in heels.  Those that know me well know I've been away from heels from a few months due to an ankle injury (ouch!) and it's been tough.  But jeans with heels, skirts with heels - I love the dressed up look, even if it's for the supermarket.  Why not look your best when going out?  A few years ago we had an exchange student who remarked to us, "In our country if people went out in their pajamas we would think they had mental issues.  How come so many people go out in their pajamas here?"  I wonder.  

So the Stuart Weitzman's shown here are a bit out of my price range ($450-650 a pair), but still nice to drool over.  Any shoe call "The Lovepotion Pump" deserves recognition.  A girl can dream, right?

Bring on the heels!  Kick 'em up!

Krissie's Last Words...

My grandmother is the sweetest person I know.  I believe a lot of people say this about their own grandmothers, but they are wrong. My nana, Kathleen, affectionately known as Kay, would bake us cookies and serve them to us not only with milk but Hoodsie ice cream cups.  Not once did she say that I was too chubby as a pre-teen to partake in her goodies.  That earns her mega-bonus points right there.  This woman helped me learn how to bake to perfection (especially lemon bars)!  Who did I call when I had a cooking question?  Nana!  It's no surprise that when I was making dinner many times I would pick up the phone and give her a ring.

As I write this, Kay is about to pass.  Isn't that a horrendous expression?  Pass to where?  Pass the ball?  Pass over a bridge?  Stop!  We Americans, unlike Mexicans, are so afraid of death.  I celebrate Dia de los Muertos when I teach it to my students because it celebrates the life of the deceased.  Death is just part of the process.  But here we are, as my nana sits on the brink, using terms like, "expire" (like my license?!) and pass, and "move along" (kind of like the line at the deli).  Why not use the true term?  She is about to die.  And there is no shame in it, no remorse.  At ninety-three years old, my grandmother lived an amazing life.  She raised two wonderful children, and influenced six grandchildren, along with six great-grandchildren.  Kay was a devoted wife for years upon years to my grandfather who passed last October.

Breaths per minute.  Today in the hospital room we watched her chest rise and fall, and had our eyes fixated on her jugular vein to make sure she was still alive, that there was still some part of nana, mom, Kathleen, Kay with us.  But won't there always be?

I'm sitting at her dining room table right now as I write this.  I was lucky enough to inherit this furniture, in pristine condition, to brighten my kitchen.  I made the promise to Nana that I would always have fresh flowers on the table.  She would be a bit mortified that the crumbs stay a few hours longer on the table than was her habit, but it is still filling up with love during family dinners all the same.  Words passed between Kidlet A, Kidlet B, and I of our days at school and their adventures.  Kidlet B's dilemma of asking someone to the eighth grade semi, and Kidlet A's foray into the world of acting have been recent topics.

My last words to my Nana?

"Nana, James and Roark and I love you, and will always be with you, like you will be with us."

xoxo MausiGal

(photo of Nana and Krissie, Mothers' Day 2013)