Ew, Facebook. You're gross.

Some of the more annoying things about Facebook (aside from my inability to navigate its realms) (and the site's existence in the first place) are the ads that pop up along the right hand side of the page. Invisible Facebook gremlins have spied on my profile (I only wanted my 238 friends to see it!) and posted ads for products and services for which I am the targeted audience.

They've seen that I'm Status: Engaged (which sounds like warfare weapons lingo) and so have presented me with 200 different ads for wedding photographers and honeymoon destinations, etc.

But today they have crossed the line and entered WTF? territory.



Facebook Ad Gremlins, are you suggesting that my mattress contains pounds of...how do I say this... sex fluids? Really? Lingering from ex girlfriends. Really? Way to tap into unfounded paranoia.

Nice picture, btw. She's all, "Hope you like the cake, Darling. I'm so glad we're not rolling around in filth any more. Wheee!"

There's Something On Your Foot

I’ll never be one of those women who goes out and splurges on a pair of over the top, expensive shoes that she just HAS to have. I assure you, I have great taste in shoes, but at the same time, I operate with a hilariously limited shopping budget. I am aware of the brands Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, and Manolo Blahnik, but I’d venture to say I’ve never even seen a pair in person. I also had to google those names to make sure I spelled them correctly. That’s how removed I am from the world of fashionable shoes. I rock flops out of necessity (and partially out of love).



But with an upcoming wedding to foolishly spend a fortune on, I decided now’s as good a time as any to look for a pair of shoes out of my usual $25 price range (I know, it makes me sad that I’m like that). So I ventured online to try to find some sandals to wear with my wedding dress. I’d originally planned to wear white flip flops, but then the thought of them making that thwack thwack thwack sound as I walked down the aisle made me cringe.

Now, because I shop for shoes so infrequently, I often find myself overwhelmed at the hideousness of the latest trends. I’ve written about this before, and I’m about to do it again.

Can I just ask one of you fashion-forward and hip young readers about this?



An exploded leather eggplant engulfs your ankle, while the rest of your foot is held in place by a meager strap. And then your big toe is especially secured in its own little holster.

This shoe also piqued my curiosity for the same reasons:




Why would you want your heels and toes to be at such extremely different temperatures than your ankles? I could almost get behind the overall look of this black one, but then I picture wearing it to work one day and constantly shoving a pen down into it to pull it away from my foot and give my smothered ankle a breath of fresh air.

But before you go thinking I’m just worried about overly-constrained, over-heated feet, let me tell you that I also worry about shoes with no form whatsoever. Like this:



See that little barstool thing at the front? That and the 3 yards of rope at the ankle are supposed to keep your foot in this thing. I’m sorry, but I would never be able to make it down the block without stepping out of this shoe and having it drag behind me.

It’s a problem that would never happen with this foot cage:



Which looks like some kind of punishment or a cobbler’s mold to make boots.

And then there’s this leg brace, which prompted me to say “Oh my God” outloud at my screen.



You know, I don’t care how cool you are, you simply cannot get away with wearing this and I might be mad at you for even trying.

And I’ll leave you with this garden lattice turned foot entombment.



The trusty ol’ flop isn’t looking so bad now, is it?

It Was Only A Matter of Time

Okay, yes, I've been gone for a while. After blogging for about a year and a half, a sort of fatigue set in and I didn't like the idea of going online and complaining about my own shortcomings yet again. I understand this is a common problem among us blogging types.

And then on Saturday, Kat from Pink India Ink called me out on my lack of recent postings, while also saying very nice things about me.

So I thought I better write something before everyone in the blogging world (I won't say "blogosphere") forgets who I am. Or maybe it's too late.

Let me tell you about this thing that happened to me last week that made me say, "Damn, I wish I was still blogging."

I split my pants.

I'll need to back up and explain something before this story makes complete sense. A few weeks ago, the company I work for moved into a new office. It's a big loft space with exposed bricks and hardwood floors and such. The upstairs area is, for some reason, divided into 3 large sections by 2 waist-high walls. And we've been told by the contractor and the property manager that if we were to cut openings into the walls for us to walk through, the whole building would collapse. No, really. We don't totally get how that's true, but whatever.

This means that if someone needs to talk to a coworker at his or her desk, and that coworker sits in a different section, one needs to clamber over a wall. As you can imagine, this leads to many awkward situations, especially if skirts, high heels, or an armful of papers is involved.

So now we get to last Friday night, and I needed to bring a presentation over to one of the creative directors. I threw one leg over the wall between us and then sort of did the splits until my foot landed on the other side, at which point I swung my other leg around. Then I threw my arms above my head in a V-shape, mimicking an Olympic gymnast. Impressive, I thought. Clearly I was getting good at this wall-jumping business.

After a brief chat with the aforementioned creative director, I walked back to the wall. Before leaping over, I got another coworker's attention. "Hey," I called out, "watch how fast I can do this!"

I threw the first leg over the wall, started to slide over, and then heard a strange noise. I paused mid-maneuver to figure out what had happened. I looked down and saw the inseam of my jeans had completely busted open from my knee to my crotch, allowing my fat thighs to come bulging out like a sausage with a torn casing. "Oh shit, I split my pants," I confessed loudly to anyone who was listening.

I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. And in fact, that very morning as I put on this pair of jeans, I realized I'd absentmindedly put them in the dryer. They were always a bit tight on me, and when they went through the dryer they became the sort of jeans that flattened my ass into a pancake and cut off circulation at my knees. As I shoved myself into them, I noticed Devin was awake and watching me, and I felt compelled to say, "Whoops! Put these in the dryer and now they are way too tight," lest he think I believed these to be stylish and suitable pants.

Fortunately, and quite remarkably, the pants-splitting incident happened at the end of the work day and not first thing in the morning. So I was able to escape to my car and head home to mourn the loss of yet another good pair of jeans.

*I just wanted to add that the runner-up story that nearly got me blogging earlier involved my first ever encounter with a hearing-ear cat, which is like a seeing-eye dog, but opposite...I guess. I was in line at the bank and this man pulled a cat out of a cat carrier on wheels. He then held up an orange vest and, while the bank teller looked on, held the vest up to the cat, then pulled the vest away, then up to the cat, and then away. He then set the cat and the vest down and pointed to his ear, conveying, overall, that he was hearing impaired and that this cat was allowed to be in the bank with him because it was a licensed helper. I could not for the life of me make sense of this arrangement, particularly since the cat was in a crate.