Holy Dolce & Gabbana, folks, yesterday I pulled the rip cords on both chutes and neither worked. In non-metaphorical terms (I know, get to the point already), I completely freaked out over my cancer being back and over my upcoming surgery.
Having a weird phone conversation with an old (and I'm pretty sure now-former) friend didn't help, I have to say. We're urban and childfree. She has a Omen-esque offspring and can't wait to move to the suburbs. She couldn't stop raving about the cutest things little Damien was doing and saying.
She advised me to relax after my surgery by watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Okay, so we haven't spoken in a long time, so I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that. "They're just so funny and sweet!" Wow ... who are you and what did you do with my friend? At that point in the call I had some theories, some of which involved alien abduction and the largest mirror in the state of Texas.
In the meantime, my asthma has ramped up to 11. On the upside, this gives me an opportunity to practice my audition for Camille. "I always look well when I'm near death ..." (hand splayed over forehead) I'm trying to get some prednisone I can take before my surgery so I can, well, breathe. Breathing is good.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my lack of oxygen to the brain, I've been shopping online like a madwoman, addicted to HauteLook, Gilt Groupe, Sole Society, ideeli, Swirl by Daily Candy, and especially to Rue La La. The UPS man just asked my husband if I was getting married. Um, probably more like getting divorced. With chronic illness and fatigue and now cancer, I get depressed. I like it when people send me presents, even if they're technically from myself and I'm paying for them. But that's beside the point.
The new spring shoes are to.die.for. I'm in love with ballet flats, first off. You probably guessed this by looking here in the first place. So many textures and colors, with bows and buttons and jewels, oh my! Lots and lots of vegan options, thankfully. And we also celebrate the full-on return of the outfits the scary older girls wore when I was growing up in the '70s: chunky platforms, cork soles, flowing tunics, showy jewelry. I guess it's called Boho Chic, technically, but to me, the look will always belong to The Girls on 92nd Street.
Sure, call it an addiction, obsessive compulsive disorder, whatever. I call it wanting to look good when (if?) I go out again. What's so wrong with that? I'm reminded of the Imelda Marcos quote when asked why she had 3,000 pairs of shoes, "That's not true! I only have 1,750!" Or something like that - I can't remember the exact number. You get the picture. Shoes have their own personalities. My mom was the same way and she too drove my dad crazy with all the boxes and packaging materials. Good: there's my excuse, I inherited the shopping gene. Did you know that there are people out there who don't like to shop? It's true!
Well, I should go. As long as I'm breathing, I have a date with a box cutter. Ciao for now.