men and shoes.

There was:


Another Justin












And a doctor who took me to Folly Beach. 

As we walked down the pier I contemplated throwing myself over in hopes that Moby Dick would swallow me whole and take me to a foreign land where boys didn't say things like, "You'd look really good in a white Mercedes," or "If this goes well you can have all the botox and lip injections you want." 

I'm leaving a few out. A few plus a few, probably. That's besides the point. 

These aren't men I've had relations with (no sex, people). These are men that I've sat across tables from most likely while eating Tex-Mex. Asking the same questions I've asked before. Questions that seem interview worthy. The questions are only a formality. Same with the first date, the second, the third. Because only time can give us answers to questions that can't be asked. 

If dating were a profession I'd be a pro. I've gotten good at saying no to second dates, dodging unwanted lip locks, and not feeling awkward when I clearly know I'm being awkward. 

The list is sprinkled with nice men. A few assholes. One that I liked that didn't like me back. One that I should have loved. A few gave me flowers. One gave me four bottles of wine and two packs of cigarettes (I don't smoke). One of them took me to Waffle House when I asked for pancakes. One of them smelled like maple syrup.  One almost made me commit suicide on the Folly Beach Pier. One was passionate about wallpaper. One was passionate about me and her and her and her. One made my heart hurt. And one reminded me why I shouldn't give time to someone who makes my heart hurt. They've all said similar things. They are all different. 

There's about a 50/50 split on who opened doors. 32 and younger generally don't. 33 and older generally do. 

It's starting to feel like I'm at Saks and I've tried on too many pairs of shoes. I loved the third pair. 

The third pair was comfortable, reliable, and reasonably priced. I should have just stopped there, but I kept looking. You see, I had the same pair for so many years, I loved those damn shoes, and was really sad when I had to give them away. So I guess, now I just want to make sure that I get the right pair. 

I know what I'm looking for. The problem is I always want the pair that I know I'll pay for later; a little out of my budget and wildly uncomfortable. But, God, do I. LOVE. THE. WAY. THEY. MAKE. ME. FEEL. I can never wear them long because they are painful and unrealistic. I always regret when I go with that pair over a pair that would actually be useful. 

Now that I've bridged the gap between men and shoes. I'll leave you with a few words of advice from a self proclaimed dating pro, which means I'm not a pro, which means I really have no idea what I'm talking about, but I can say the advice below has been tested (multiple times).


1) If you meet a man who idolizes Dan Bilzerian or Hugh Hefner no more information is needed. RUN. FAR. FAST. Choose a pair of running shoes and SPRINT.

**Unlike Dan and Hugh the guy who idolizes these men will not have boats or jets or houses on crystal clear waters. He'll be all headache and no perks. 

2) Never order mozzarella sticks on a first date. Unless your exit strategy is to choke to death. 

**Or unless you are on a date with guy from number 1. Order them for him (extra cheese, please).


emotional cutter

I’m not sure I’ve ever chopped my locks in a complete state of sanity. Although I’ve never gone straight “Britney” style, the urge to remove my mane has always come in times of change and discomfort. Losing the 12 inches of extra weight can feel like a long deep exhale, and my new hair almost serves as a magic wig; a wig that gives me an element of sass and spunk that my long locks just didn’t produce. Friends nor family members would blatantly bash my current “do,” but are quick to call out the hair phase they admired the most … "Don’t get me wrong I like your hair short, but your hair is so pretty when it’s long.” My days are spent wishing miracle grow scalp treatment existed and popping prenatal vitamins to grow hair and not a baby.  The worst is transitioning from sassy short cut to the dreaded dull middle-length. To tuck behind the ears or not is about as exciting as it gets, and the days of the lazy pony are rampant.

I still can’t decide if I cut my hair in an asymmetrical bob and bleached it to tumble weed status, because I thought I needed a new look or a new life. Many of us can relate to the immediate gratification of a new haircut, a new pair of shoes, or a new shade of lipstick. It makes us feel better for that moment. Key words: that moment.

If you live in the Raleigh, NC area I suggest you dump your hair stylist and make a visit to:

Marissa Mazza. Junction Salon. 919-449-7144.

greener grass

Attached to what has been and addicted to what will be. The past seems like a fluffy cloud memory that consisted of solely blissful days. Now may not be as comfortable as you had hoped for. You strived for A, B, C and thought that’s all you needed for a constant state of pure MDMA.

Take a closer look at the fluffy cloud memories of yesterday. Why were you happy? Was your life perfect back yonder year or did you simply reside in the moments of the past and treat them like home instead of a foreign airport which is simply a means to a connecting flight?

And why does the future seem so appealing?

The perfectly planned and constructed possibility of the future serves as a beacon of light directing you toward your "dream life", full of vertical striped jumpers and days of lying in your father’s perfectly manicured lawn with your best friend.  ** Note: although our green grass-jumpsuit photos portray a life of leisure and magic, we clean our own bathrooms and have failed at attempts of witchcraft.

We have problems (you see we are all stuck in the midi). The only real problem though is comparing our life as it  actually is to the pictures in our head of what it ought to be; therefore, somehow always falling short.

The bitch is we don’t know what it “ought” to be, we only know what is which by default is what it ought to be.  By experimentation I came to the conclusion accepting what is, is a harder pill the swallow than Xanax. Also by experimentation, Xanax doesn’t make the latter easier to swallow.

All we have is now. Embrace your reality. Appreciate the present. You just might be pleasantly surprised.

Al: Black jumper (denim available here), black kitten heels (we also love these), floppy hat (this one is also great).

Ab: Vertical Striped Jumper (available here), burgundy pumps (these are better), Versace sunglasses $60! (check out T.J. Maxx)





there's a hole in my sole.

This is a “fashion” blog, although as of late my depressive unruly brain wants to create a self-help forum, and instead of writing about shoes I’d rather see how many pairs I have to buy to fill the hole/whole in my sole/soul. I haven’t reached that number yet, but I’m convinced the pair in the post has the potential to heal my heart (That’s the hope, right?). But then again, no one has yet to answer the age-old question of how many licks it takes to get to the center...of a tootsie sickos!

On a much more serious and oh, but of course darker note, my heart is broken. By broken I don’t mean the boy I was dating dipped and left me crying in my steel cut oats. I mean my heart is perpetually blue, and at times even leaves me thinking I could be a well-dressed poster child for antidepressants. Close your eyes and imagine this: Me on a poster in your doctor’s office holding a big bottle of happy pills, cheesing ear to ear, on my shoulder a beautiful Italian crafted handbag, and strutting heels I’ve only worn in my wildest dreams. We can all agree life isn’t strictly comprised of sunshine, rainbows, and puppies. And the tiresome and utterly pointless effort to get rid of all the black and have a life that consist of only white is what seems to make life that much more difficult.

In a recent Meditation in the City: A Shambhala Podcast, Joe Mauricio poses the question: Can avoiding unhappiness actually cause our unhappiness?

“………Maybe the very things that you think are holding you back actually are making you interesting and actually maybe even give you a way in to understanding other people’s difficulties. See the way we’re hurt, damaged, confused is actually our way in to understanding other peoples hurt, damage, and confusion. You think that the world will like you better if your world just hits 100% and everything is perfect and great and actually people will just hate you for that. Cause you’ll be so out of their league, ya know. We all have that one friend who has it all together and it’s like oh God….whatever. I’m kidding, I think its great when people have it together, but nobody really has it together because the people that have it together still have to go home at night, close their eyes, and be with themselves and find those places inside they don’t find completely satisfying. Places where they’re insecure and frightened.”

Broken heart, guilt you can seem to shake, financial trouble, low self-esteem, family issues, fears, anxieties, you name it for the list goes on and on. Screaming at those creepy little monsters, wishing they didn’t exist, and being angry at yourself for not being able to move past only makes them BIGGER, SCARIER and leans heavily on the very side we want to shift. Be patient with the little creepy monsters and maybe, if you dare, try to make friends with them. If you’re sad, be sad. If you are hurt, be hurt. My recommendation isn’t a lifelong wallowing sentence. Just be exactly where you are, recognize it, accept it, and don’t apologize for it. I can promise you there’s peace in that...

and a collection of heels that heal.