You learn something new every day. My latest lesson? If you’re spray painting something black while you’re barefoot, you probably shouldn’t wear sandals the next day.
I just realized my feet look like I haven’t bathed in a year.
Bear with me a second. I need to explain.
The first time I wrote this column, it began with, “Most everyone has experienced One Of Those Days. I believe I am having One Of Those Lives.”
The next six or seven paragraphs went on about the onslaught of frustrations and setbacks I’ve experienced over the past several months, problems that included having four contracts fall through on the house we’ve been desperately trying two sell, and our two-year old dryer deciding it would be better suited for toasting marshmallows than drying socks. (It went up in flames.)
As I was leaning back in my chair trying to conjure a happier ending than I was actually feeling at that moment, our power went out.
The computer went black.
When the electricity was restored a few minutes later, I restarted the computer and opened my story.
All that remained was, “Most everyone has experienced One Of Those Days. I believe I am having One Of Those Lives.”
So please excuse me for taking what might appear to be the easy way out, but after finding myself being edited by the One capable of turning off my lights, I decided more whining might not be wise. Perhaps I should count my blessings instead.
While sitting at the mall for seven hours on Saturday (see below), I finished reading Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. This book actually made the many hours spent sitting on the mall floor not just bearable, but enjoyable. It’s one of the best, most absorbing books I’ve read in a while. Water for Elephants is the story of Jacob Jankowski, a circus vet, told from the point of view of Jacob as a 23-year-old and as a man in his 90s. Set mostly in 1931, Gruen captures the world of circuses of that era, showing the many differences in the lives of the performers and the workers. The characters are beautifully drawn (especially charming is Rosie, an elephant). I can’t tell you the last time I read a book with such a perfect ending as this. It took me completely by surprise.
I highly recommend it.
So we were among the crazies who went to the Town Center at 6 am on Saturday to stand in line for hours (seven hours) to get Corbin Bleu’s autograph. I took Celeste and her friends Jordan and Bre, who swear it was worth the wait.
Unlike the kids, the highlight of my day came while standing in line. After so many hours, you get to really know the people around you. The ones behind us drove three hours to get there. The ones in front, about two. (Us, about five minutes.) We held their spot in line while they shopped. They held ours while we went to the bathroom.
Among the group in front of us was a 13-year-old girl with beautiful blue eyes. She was a total character. About 12:30, when Corbin was finally beginning to sign autographs and the line started to move, quite a few people began ducking under the rope, trying to cut line, somehow believing that no one would notice they hadn’t been there before. The adults in line handled the line-cutters quickly, but my back was turned when two pre-teens ducked under and got in front of us. I was about to say something when the blue-eyed girl we’d been talking to all morning winked and shook her head just a little, then pointed to herself, as if saying, “Allow me.”
“So are you guys big Corbin Blue fans?” she asked the two line-cutters.
“Oh, yeah!” one said. “We love him.” The two gushed about how they had seen High School Musical dozens of times and on and on about how they were his biggest fans ever.
The blue-eyed girl then tipped her head cutely to the side, as if confused, then said, “Well, if you’re such huge fans, why weren’t you here at 6 a.m. like we were? Here, let me hold the rope up for you.”
Without another word, the two line-cutters ducked back under the rope. Some people might think I’m awful for liking how she managed that, but I was totally impressed.
Sadly, there were many parents trying to duck into line with their kids. Nice lesson to teach them, huh? One man got angry with me for not letting them in. He said, “What would it hurt? They’re just two little girls.” I told him if everyone behind me in line said it was ok, they it would be fine with me, but that it wouldn’t be fair to them.
Corbin Bleu was impressive. He seemed to have something to say to most everyone. He shook Jordan’s hand and told him he was cool, and he called Celeste “Sweetie.” Looked everyone in the eye.
I didn’t like that the only things he was allowed to autograph were copies of his newest CD, which were of course available for sale for $15 right there. We heard that wasn’t his idea, but the rule of the business that sponsored him coming there. (The one selling the CDs, I imagine.)
I’ve always been someone who knows herself well. Or so I thought.
I know I’m a quiet person. I don’t like speaking in a room full of people. And I really hate confrontation. Or so I thought.
Being quiet doesn’t mean I don’t like to talk. It simply means I don’t like to be loud.
Speaking in public is probably my biggest fear. I’ve made a little progress overcoming my anxiety during the past two or three years, but the possibility of having to speak in front of as few as a dozen can still prompt the contents of my stomach to vacate their premises in a most repugnant and unladylike fashion.
And about confrontation–I often go to extremes to avoid it. I don’t like to argue, don’t like tense situations or even mild disagreements. I have enough drama in my life without being combative. Usually, if I can’t avoid, I acquiesce.
I admit it isn’t the best way to be. To avoid confrontations, I sometimes tolerate behavior that I shouldn’t (then later can’t stop thinking of all the things I wish I had said).
These are times of road rage and Jerry Sprenger entertainment. Confrontation phobics like me placate ourselves by pretending our silence is a matter of self-preservation. I suspect apathy and fear deserve equal blame.
Recently, my husband, daughter, her best friend and I went to the movies, a crowded afternoon matinee of “Fantastic Four, Rise of the Silver Surfer.” About ten minutes into the show, a family entered–mom, dad, and two children–a boy about four, and another little boy about 18 months old. For the next several minutes, they made so much noise getting settled and opening their food that, rather than say anything, we chose to quietly move several rows back.
The disturbance this family caused only increased. The little boy talked loud, the mom answered at the same level, and the baby yelled, cried, screamed.
Even though the seats all around them were crowded, no one spoke up.
After 45 minutes, when the baby’s shrieks reached a level where the onscreen explosions were being completely drowned out, this quiet person had enough.
I don’t know what got into me. Like I said, it’s completely unlike me to speak up, but I suddenly found myself on my feet in that room full of people, loudly asking the woman to take her child out.
She stood and turned around, hands on ample hips, head waggling loose on her neck, and said, “You better not be talking to me.”
“I am talking to you,” I said. “You need to take your baby out. We all paid the same as you to watch this movie and he’s ruining it for everyone.”
Now this is the point where I expected at least a few of those people sitting in the rows between her and me to speak up. They’d been sighing loudly, complaining to their companions, and mumbling about getting the manager, but now that the ball was rolling, they just sat there and watched.
The woman challenged me to come down there and make my complaint to her face. Thoroughly believing in my “cause,” I– (more…)
The apple-cinnamon Krispie Kreme donut I’m eating while typing these words is not being consumed due to hunger or because of a needy sweet tooth unrestrained by weak will. Rather, that donut is digesting because its calories should assist my desire to leave this world in a somewhat more dignified fashion than a New Port Richey, Florida, woman.
According to an AP article, the 38-year-old woman returned home, greeted her mother, then disappeared. Police were contacted and a search conducted, but it wasn’t until two weeks later that relatives found her wedged upside-down behind a bookcase right there in her room.
It’s believed that woman, just 5-foot-3 and barely 100 pounds, fell headfirst into the space behind the 6 foot tall bookcase, then couldn’t get out.
So I’m eliciting the assistance of that donut—and perhaps one or two of its companions—to make certain I’m incapable of being so thin I could meet a similar fate.
It’s already extremely unlikely, but one can never be too careful, I say.
Apparently, thinking about the manner in which we’ll meet our eventual demise is considered a normal, natural part of growing older, so not only have I found an excuse for downing donuts, but I’ve found one for obsessing on morbid exits as well.
For a while now I’ve been following the Darwin Awards, which are given to honor those whose enterprising demises “improve the species by accidentally removing themselves from it.”
(Their mottos include, “Chlorinating the gene pool,” “Population Control Volunteers,” and “Evolution in Action.”)
My new goal in life is to eventually manage to leave it without making their list.
A visit to their website (darwinawards.com) revealed a West Virginian is in the running for 2007 “honors.”
Although the nomination details are still unconfirmed, the story goes that the West Virginia man was dismantling a dilapidated barn in mid-January of this year when he decided a chainsaw would speed up the process. Unfortunately, the posts he chose to slice through were the same ones that supported the roof under which he was standing. Gravity, one. W.Va. man, zero. (The site notes that as a consolation prize, the deceased did successfully manage to demolish the barn.)
Other site “favorites” (up for vote) include a 1998 winner who was sliding down a ski run on a protective foam pad he had stolen from around the leg of a lift tower when he crashed into a lift tower and died. The tower he crashed into? Yep. It was the one from which he’d stolen the pad. Seems like there’s a moral in that story somewhere.
Well, another contract has fallen through. It was contingent on their house closing (it was already under contract), but their deal fell through, so it cancelled out ours.
Even though I was upset, we had this woman who had called us repeatedly, hoping our deal would fall through so she could get the house. She was so happy when we called to tell her it had, and we emailed her a contract, which she told us looked fine, but she wanted to have her lawyer look it over. It was a standard contract–a fill-in-the-blank kind of thing. Her only concern was how fast she could move in, since she was starting a new job and living with relatives and needed something ASAP–as in the 5th of July. So trusting that this was actually going to happen, Geoff and I rented a truck and hired a few neighborhood teenagers, and on the 4th of July, we moved the rest of our furniture. (We’d left it at the old house so it was “staged” and looked better than an empty house, plus we’re still painting at the new place.)
It was a miserable day to move. One of the hottest, most humid days I can remember, but we kept at it all day (shocked at how much was still there). But the woman who was calling relentlessly for weeks completely disappeared. She wasn’t even considerate enough to call and let us know what happened, and hasn’t answered our calls.
The first contract we had that fell through made me bitter. The people were awful. Luckily, the second couple was so nice I’d have bent over backward to help them get into the house. It was perfect for them. Same with the third couple. But then this woman who lost her ability to dial a phone has gone and made me bitter again.
And so now, once again, our house is back on the market. I know people must be thinking there’s something wrong with it because of how long it’s been on (six months), but so much of that time it’s been tied up with one contract or another.
If we can’t sell it by the end of August, we’ll have to start renting it. I hate the idea of that. I’ve heard too many horror stories. Stress-wise, this has me at the end of my rope. I’m so frazzled I’m having trouble functioning at times, especially right after I sit down to pay bills.
As much as I love our new house, I’m starting to question the decision to move.
We were about halfway through dinner last week when my daughter was inexplicably inspired to burst into song — or a semblance thereof. It was painfully loud, but blessedly short.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“I just felt like singing,” Celeste said. 
“Oh, that’s what you were doing — singing,” Geoff teased. “I’m not sure Simon Cowell would agree.”
“Silent Cow?” I said, completely confused. “I don’t get it. What’s a silent cow have to do with her singing?”
Celeste and Geoff exchanged amused glances and a few chuckles leaked out.
“What?” I said, wanting in on the joke. “I must’ve misheard.”
“Miss Herd,” Celeste said. “Is she like Miss Piggy?”
“Sort of,” said Geoff. “Except she’s silent.”
When they were done laughing at rather than with me, they explained, but it was too late. The damage was done. The cow puns had been freed, and there was no calling back the stampede.
For hours, the puns continued. Sure, the udder nonsense was fun for a while, but holy cow! That kind of herd mentality can be draining.
“Isn’t it pasture bedtime?” I said.
Celeste mumbled something about kissing and her “dairy-air,” then — with just a little more prodding — hoofed it up to her room to hit the hay.
Just then, a strange feeling of familiarity washed over me. I was about to chalk it up as just another instance of deja moo when I realized it was right about this time last summer when I had a similarly bovine-themed conversation with my friend Julie Blackwood. We’d dressed up like cows to get a free lunch for Chick-Fil-A’s annual Cow Appreciation Day.
I checked with Julie. Sure enough, the date for this year’s event was fast approaching.
“Shouldn’t that be Cow Uh-preciation Day?” I asked her. “Then the acronym would be ‘CUD.’”
“Does seem more appropriate,” said Julie.
“So we’re on again this year? You don’t think it’s a bad omen that it’s on Friday the 13th?”
“Just bad for the chikins,” said Julie. The words of a true believer. (A believer in how to score a free lunch.)
“Anyone going with us?” I asked.
“Not sure,” said she. After hearing about our adventure last year, several friends and co-workers swore they’d be joining our next cattle drive. We’re betting they’ll chikin out.
Historically, the Charleston Chick-Fil-A has only attracted a couple of cows, but Julie and I both sincerely hope that’s going to change, partly because this is exactly the kind of thing that demonstrates what a fun place Charleston can be — a place where people aren’t afraid to dress silly and go out in public. (And partly because if there’s a bunch of other people dressed like cows, we won’t feel so dumb.)
So c’mon. Help us milk this day for all that it’s worth. Slap on some spots. Tack on a cow tail.
As for me, I’ll be donning a pair of cow ears and insulting everyone I see in my best rude English accent.
Because this year I plan to attend dressed as Simon Cow.
For a few years, I was the person who transcribed Readers Voice, so I’m familiar with the large number of calls the line gets. But now that I’ve actually made it IN Readers Voice, I realize how well read it is, too.
I know that because most everywhere I’ve gone recently, someone has made a point of staring at my feet.
A week or two back, after mentioning for perhaps the second or tenth time in my column that my feet are less than attractive and a tad larger than normal for someone my height, an inquisitive reader called in the following to Reader’s Voice: “In Karin Fuller’s Sunday column, she often alludes to how big and grotesque her feet are. Please publish a picture of her feet so we can see for ourselves.”
This, of course, prompted some razzing by coworkers about how they could run my foot photo actual size, except the paper wasn’t quite big enough. Or how—rather than risk an unappetizing foot photo spoiling someone’s breakfast–they could run a traced foot outline instead. Maybe even sell some ad space inside.
Truth is, I’m accustomed to the jokes. It’s not like my feet grew this large overnight. As a child, I remember people predicting how tall I would be once I grew into my feet. Never happened. I stopped at 5’4”.
My feet not only went long, but they went wide as well, the span decorated by bulgy veins under thin, pasty skin and toes as long as my thumb. (Color occasionally added in the form of red, angry stripes courtesy of a surly cat with a foot fetish.)
When my husband and I first started dating, I made some comment about my feet being ugly. Geoff, with a disbelieving wave of his hand, said, “Oh, please. All women think their feet are . . . Good Lord! Look at the size of those puppies!”
Perhaps if I were more poised, they would draw less attention, but since I walk as gracefully as a horse wearing clown shoes with gum on the soles, I suspect that I’m doomed. Just last week, as I was taking our dogs out early in the morning, my size 10 feet couldn’t finagle our size-five stair treads and I went tumbling down.
Another time, while seeing a movie with friends, we shared the largest tub of popcorn they had. After all were done munching, I put the mostly empty bucket on the floor, then sat cross-legged through the rest of the movie. When it ended and I stood, my foot went right in the bucket. And stuck there. Step-clomp. Step-clomp.
My friends, once they were done cracking up, helped free me from my bucket of shame, then couldn’t resist trying it on. Each of them, of course, could slip it on and off easily.
For years, I avoided wearing open-toed shoes or strap-y heels, opting instead for sandals that provided the best combination of ventilation and camouflage. Recently, however, I purchased my first pair of flip-flops since I was a kid. Upon wearing them, I was immediately struck by the sound. When my daughter walks in hers, they make a cute little flick-flick sound. When I wear mine, it’s thwack-thwack.
I’ve noticed that some women with small feet seem proud–as if they’re somehow responsible for the diminutive size of their feet. For ages, women have been cramming their feet into tiny, uncomfortable shoes, perhaps believing it makes them look smaller and more feminine. Fairy tales have done their part to perpetuate the belief that small is superior. Would life be different for us big-footed women if Prince Charming would’ve had to search for the woman whose foot was BIG enough to fit the glass slipper?
But my day is coming. In fact, I’m just ahead of my time. Recent surveys have shown that feet are getting larger, up a full size in the past 20 years. In 1987, only 11 percent of women wore a size 9 or bigger. It’s now up to 37 percent.
I wonder if anyone’s done a survey on ugly.
You are currently browsing the Karin Fuller weblog archives for July, 2007.