Yang Girly Girl

I admit I’m one of those people who don’t have pretty feet.  Does anyone? Well, yes, some do, and they’re mostly men. The baby soft skin that surrounds the unblemished, un-veined, inner profile of the perfect, milk toast foot, gives new meaning to male foot associated appendages.  Believe me, it’s a myth.

I’m either too cheap or too embarrassed to get a professional pedicure.  I’d have to get a pedicure before the pedicure, complete with jack-hammer, saw, and an electric sander.  I have an excuse.  I grew up in Southern California, went barefoot regularly, and every callus on my feet has a story to tell about hot sandy beaches, crab grass, and an occasional aluminum can. 

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I have a new name for Seattle.  I call it Foggy Shrouds.  I think it’s a lot more interesting than the Forks place in Stephanie Meyer’s books, you know, the Twilight series….a romance novel about unrequited love, because sucking your loved one’s blood is just not politically correct.  I suppose I’m one of the those cynical ones that can’t believe a vampire would desecrate another human, while not being able to say anything worse than “horse feathers” for a swear word.

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Thanksgiving is over, but the message behind the holiday came home to me this year.  A while back, Thanksgiving became the holiday of food, football, and family drama.

It was the start of what I call self-inflicted flagellated slavery.  I shopped, I cooked, I tasted until my taste buds rebelled and all I wanted was some guy named Paulo to serve up a Mojito, laced with three different types of rum.  Ergo, the happy cook.  Anything that tasted like turkey, dressing, or sweet potatoes was off the list.

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