tappa tappa tappa

Oh hell yes! Red glitter Schoolgirl mary janes from Pleaser, USA

I want.

To be more specific, I want to wear them as wedding shoes. I want I want I want, even though:
a) they clash horrifically with everything else I’ll be wearing;
b) they’re a tiiiiiiiiny bit too ridiculous even for our ridiculous wedding;
c) periodically throughout the reception, I’d randomly snap, “I would’ve killed for ‘tappa tappa tappa’!”

edited to add
As a nod to those friends and readers urging us arrange the details of our wedding to please ourselves: thank you, and thank you, and thank you, but have no fears on that front. Though I’m giving up my bouncy castle and my spangly shoes, and The Fella and I gave up our zombie cake, we gave them up for us.

For one reason or another, we decided that these elements don’t fit with our plans. But we have no question that the wedding day will reflect us, our taste, our humor, our silliness.

And! Our happiness and gratitude that our friends and loved ones embrace the silliness in us. Thank you.
As a bonus for those who are heartily sick of my wedding frippery, note that the final link uses “tappa tappa tappa” as a jumping-off point for a discussion of simplistic educational models. For those readers not thoroughly sick of my wedding frippery… oh, you will be.

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quirks

shoe business. After giving to charity perhaps 30 pairs of shoes*, I still have perhaps 15 pairs left. How many do I wear? Two: a pair of leather sandals in the summer (and around the house year-round), and a pair of tall boots in cold weather. In my defense, that’s partly due to an injury sustained in an accident early this year: I cannot wear heels above an inch these days.

*These were crazy rich-lady shoes, too, expensive and fragile and stylish and about 20 years out of date. There’s a story there for another time.

junking junk mail. When I receive junk mail with a prepaid return envelope, I circle my address on the return form and write in big block letters PLEASE REMOVE MY NAME AND ADDRESS FROM YOUR MAILING LIST. THANK YOU!, then carefully fold the entire mailing, including the original envelope, jam it into the prepaid envelope, and mail it off. I don’t know if it works, but it’s quite satisfying.

click. When I ask if you mind having the overhead light off (and I will ask, since I dislike the overhead light) or, more rarely, when I ask if you mind the overhead light on (which means I’m beading with teeny tiny beads or sewing or trying to find my black shirt among a pile of black laundry), I ask by saying “Click?” as I reach toward the light pull.

blocked rage. If you leave your grocery cart blocking the center of the aisle, if you pull your car into the crosswalk while waiting for the light to change, if you jump onto the bus the moment the doors open without waiting for standing passengers to disembark, if you enter the elevator and stand blocking the doors, if you and your gaggle of friends choose the spot in front of the escalator/ the library doorway/ the video drop/ the classroom door to stand around with your dogs and your strollers and your lattes while you catch up, you fill my field of vision with a pulpy red haze of rage. Also, if you have more than two items over the limit in the express lane, I loathe you, scofflaw.

queue. On the other hand, if I’m in line at the library with a lot of books or at the market with a number of items, and you’re standing behind me with just one or two (or you’re behind me with a mess of things but also with a child who is noticeably melting down), I’ll wave you ahead almost every time. If you then gum up the works by not having your library card or whatever, well, see above.

I am participating in NaBloPoMo.

Let an umbrella be your umbrella

Today the skies (or clouds or atmosphere: I’m not too hot on this weather stuff) are pouring rain, or as our weatherman likes to say, “TROPICAL DOWNPOUR!” Who thought of the umbrella, anyway? Brilliant in its way, but curiously imperfect, if only insofar as I now have a stream of rainwater that had collected in the folds of my semi-furled brolly guttering down my leg and collecting in my naughty-Dutch-girl shoe. Excuse me a moment while I drain my shoe.

Ah, that’s better. Also, here you go.

Vertigo primavera

One more semester is hurtling toward its close. At this point, I always suffer from something akin to vertigo: my expectations and my backlog of work have climbed to staggering heights, and the hasty plummet is sickening.

Therein is a perfectly good explanation for my absence from these pages. With three papers weighing heavily on me (one is due tomorrow, in point of fact) and thousands of pages to read, I thought the best time management plan was to bugger off for a few days of fun. My weekend included unplanned meetings with old friends, shopping, an afternoon at the museum, a trip to the bead and yarn shop, an evening in the pub with girlfriends, and a long late talk with the dear friend I stayed with.

I also paid a long overdue visit to my much-valued longtime barber; although I moved out of town several years ago, I manage to see her a few times a year, bringing her desperate cases of Hair By Misadventure. Once again, she has coifed me but good.

Maybe is the haircut, maybe is the new shoes*, or maybe is the delirium of academic panic, but I feel gooood. Dangerously, flirtatiously good. A change has definitely hit this small patch of New England: the wind is crisp and fragrant, birds are chirping, green shoots are transformed into great blooms of scent and florid color, bloggers are noticing that their male acquaintances smell really great: it must be spring.

*Expect more on the shoes later — so embarrassingly much more.

Cruel shoes

I bought new shoes almost two weeks ago, and can’t bring myself to wear them. Buying shoes has become so staggeringly rare a treat, thanks to the classic student budget, that the mere fact of them has made me sick with joy… but still I can’t bear to take them out of the box.

Poor shoes. It’s so unfair.