Mama Needs A New Pair Of Boots

I overheard a couple of women today discussing the fall weather and fashion, specifically, their love of boots.  One was wearing a pair of black suede boots with spiky heels, and the other was admiring them. 

Now I liked the boots too, and was also quite enjoying my clandestine eavesdropping until one said:   

My grandma always said “Don’t get caught wearing open-toed shoes in the fall.  You just don’t do it…”

Now maybe it was my imagination, but I felt a quick glance at my favorite pair of navy blue open-toed shoes. I had a brief moment of shame.  Had I committed a fashion faux pas?  Should I sit on my feet to hide them?  Do I give them…the look?  Would I be in an upcoming edition of Glamour with a black rectangle over my face with the words that say “Don’t” across the image?  In 78-degree weather, is there something wrong with the fact that I’m going to let my toes breathe for as long as I can stand it? 

So I got a little defensive and stomped away in my shoes o’ shame, all the while wondering who writes these fashion rules we’re supposed to abide by unquestioningly.  Who says my purse must match my shoes which must match my belt?  Who says my fingernails must be painted the same color as my erroneously on-display toes?  That the bra must match the panties?  And my least favorite…that we can’t wear white in winter?

For the record, I’ve always faithfully abided by the “don’t wear white after Labor Day” rule.  On the Friday before Labor Day, I was decked out like I was going to one of  P. Diddy’s white parties.  And then I stored it all away like a good Southern girl was always told to do.

The rule stood as I was bringing up my girls too.  When one was 3, she had an absolute temper tantrum one wintry Sunday morning over why she couldn’t wear her white shoes with her Christmas dress.  I relented (of course) and she wore them.  I will always be grateful to the fellow churchgoer who informed me that day that the rule only applies to ages 4 and above.  I breathed a sigh of relief as my mothering was still intact.  I pondered over who made up THAT rule for about a minute, then quickly decided it was a mother of a very dramatic toddler, much like myself.

So this mere bit of eavesdropping, coupled with the leniency of motherhood, has provided me with a moment of clarity.  I will no longer feel inadequate when my purse is grey and my shoes are black.  I will no longer be concerned that my nails are french-manicured and my toes are pumpkin orange.  I will cast aside all doubt when my hair shows blonde “highlights” during the holidays when everyone else is going dark brown or bronze.  I may even pull those white pants out of storage and pair them with my bulkiest winter sweater.  And as long as my toes aren’t in danger of frostbite, I will continue to wear my open-toed shoes with it all.

Then again, I sure could use a new pair of boots.  

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I Want To Be A Real Housewife

Yes, you read that correctly.  I want to be a housewife…a “Real” housewife.  I’ve been watching the Real Housewives of New York, Orange County, New Jersey, DC, and Beverly Hills for some time now.  I’ve loved the glamour, the cattiness and the all-out brawls of these women from all regions of our country.  And while Jersey may give us a run for our money, South Carolina represents a slice of life that has yet to be portrayed.  I can fix that.

I know what you’re thinking.  What could possibly be entertaining about watching some Carolinian Housewives who aren’t rich, glamorous, or scandalous?  Well, I haven’t gotten this far in my seasons of faithful Bravo-viewing to not know that there are certain unwritten Bravo rules that I and my castmates would have to abide by. 

First and foremost, we have to fit the stereotype that people would be expecting from a South Carolina native.  I’m quite aware that the rest of the country may look at my beloved home state and expect to see a cast of uneducated, toothless, Walmart-shopping, redneck caricatures.  And maybe there are a few fitting that description in these here parts.  But seeing that reality television isn’t always so “real” and everybody needs their 15 minutes of fame, I’m willing to cast my dignity aside to play along with that caricature…to a point.  In short, it’s time to bring a little “redneck” to the Housewives franchise.

I present my case.  Bravo Andy, are you hearing me?

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…But What I’m Really Worried About is Will and Jada

What a day. 

From my East Coast location here, some of us felt a few tremors today as a 5.9 magnitude earthquake rocked Virginia, D.C. and New York.  In fact, tremors were reportedly felt from Montreal to Atlanta.  As a result, a nuclear plant in Virginia has shut down. Stones fell off the National Cathedral.  Even the White House was shaken up. 

On top of all that, there’s a so-far Category 3 hurricane heading for my side of the country that could very well blow our socks off this weekend.   On a personal note, I’ve got a friend who’s hoping their wedding this Saturday doesn’t get blown away.  On the flip side, I’ve got another friend facing the finality of divorce.

I won’t even go into the economic state of our union, the stock market roller coaster ride, or the debt ceiling.  That’s old news…and ongoing.

But the fact is that none of this, I repeat, none of this pales to what I’m really concerned about. 

Yes, I’m talking about Will and Jada and the “alleged” break-up.  Will?  Jada?  Are you listening?  What are you guys doing?  You are the glue, apparently, that was holding our nation together.  Just as Brad and Jen before you, the rumors alone have wreaked havoc across our nation.   Our nation…the world cannot be at peace until we know you remain as one.  Otherwise, we would all have to ponder the question…

If you two can’t make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Enquiring minds wanna know.