Toe-Chi and the Pedi-Bitches

People, these are serious times. Some major shit is happening in the world, which is why I feel compelled to discuss my toes. I have ten of them, and mostly they look normal. In fact, I was once told by two hunky podiatrists at a Lake Travis marina that I had absolutely beeeuu-tiful feet. Of course, I had on a bikini and they weren't exactly looking down when they said that. Still, I think they look okay.

But because my feet are so sensitive, I avoid drawing attention to them. What if someone decides he simply can't stop himself from petting them? Cuz that is like lighting my ass on fire. Touch the "dogs" and I pretty much teleport to the next galaxy over.

So you can imagine how I feel about pedicures. Those pedi-bitches are all combat on your feet—like ancient toe-chi warfare—scrubbing and rubbing and exfoliating your tender insteps with the zeal of a Canadian seal clubber. Plus, my pedi-bitch speaks zero English. She nods a lot, smiles and giggles at me—all innocent and friendly like—which only prods me to reciprocate in a feeble attempt at polite communication. But what she's really doing is conning me into letting her engage in her Vietnamese torture tactics. She then turns to her cohort doing my friend's pedi and hai-ching-dows something totally gossipy about what a silly, squirmy white girl I am. Obviously, I speak hai-ching-dow, so nothing is lost on me.

Then with my feet in her grasp, the pedi-bitch deftly sets me to writhing and wriggling and recoiling and grimacing. And even though it's consensual? I can't watch. I'm too busy fighting with an industrial-strength massage chair that tenderizes my back into pulpy flank steaks and vibrates my eyeballs with the ferocity of a jackhammer. By the time I get out of that chair, I'm exhausted and a little ready for a barbiturate.

Given my clear aversion to such cruelty, why would I go through this? Simple. My plain jane feet look awesome all dolled up. Something about buffed, polished, shiny toenails that make you feel sexy everywhere else, as if you might use those feet for something, you know, provocative later.

And then someone completely HAWT and utterly kissable recently said he liked "Red, always red." And I thought, hey, that's an invitation . . . Red it is. Plus, that same boy thinks my feet look symmetrical. I'm pretty sure he meant my feet look like a celebrated international rock star's, but he cagily downplayed his—I think we can safely assume—insanely bizarre fetish with the always charming "your feet look symmetrical" card.

To be honest, my feet are not my best feature, but all dolled up they're darn close. Here, have a look at my roomie's and my feet, shown here after a particularly torturous toenail treatment. I'm on the left with an Asian-inspired, diamond-studded black flower on my hallux (that's "big toe"—you had to learn something while you were here).

Note, Roomie's second toe is longer than her hallux. She tells me that's an indication of advanced brain activity. Clearly, I belong on the short bus. But that's okay. My feet are symmetrical, and that's something when there's some serious shit going on in the world.

This was also seen over at Studio Thirty Plus, where we still know stuff. 
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Heaven's a Bad Place

“Heaven’s a bad place.” So says Miss America as we cuddle on the sofa watching Shrek2.

“What?” I say, refraining from spouting my jaded philosophy on heaven with a four-year-old. I stick with the basics. “Heaven’s a good place.”

Miss America shakes her head and looks up at me with big brown eyes that reveal how much she’s learned of life and death in the recent months since my sister died. My sister Dee and Miss America were very close—an understatement if ever there was one.

“I don’t want to go to Heaven,” Miss America says firmly.

“Well, you don’t have to go there now,” I say.

“Only people gets dead there.”

I can’t argue this point.

“So I don’t want to go,” she continues. “Heaven’s a bad place.”

She reaches for her brightly colored spiral notebook, opens it in her lap, and informs me: “I’m going to write that down in my diarrea.”

Some days, that's the only viewpoint that feels right.
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This is a Fragrant Liar rerun from April '09. Thanks for indulging me while I devote time to writing deadlines that actually net me cash.

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Are You Vulnerable? I Know You Are But What Am I?

Lean into discomfort. I'm inspired by that idea. Oh, and the fact that I'm inspired by something? Means you should brace yourself.

Dr. Brené Brown talks about discomfort in her spiel about The Power of Vulnerability. She says vulnerability is at the core of our shame, fear, guilt, grief, and struggle for worthiness—and probably insanely bizarre fetishes, although I'm not going to say which insanely bizarre fetish so you don't think I'm picking on you, or so I'm not the first to tell you that the fetish you revel in most is insanely bizarre—no, I wouldn't even bring that up. Obviously. Ahem, so this core of vulnerability is also the birthplace of creativity, joy, belonging, happiness, hope, gratitude, and love. Think of it as, Out of a nasty, slimy oyster springs a double fudge chocolate cake.

People with a strong sense of belonging, love, and worthiness are "whole-hearted" people, and they also have these things in common: courage, compassion, and connection—plus a willingness to let go of who they thought they should be to be who they are. Which is totally where "to be or not to be" comes from. Shakespeare was whole-hearted, though he probably wasn't the whole of who he said he was. More like a pseudonymous shell for other-hearted Bards. With fetishes. But stop distracting me.

Brené Brown says that making connections with other people is why we're here. Also to enjoy ice cream and cookies, but treats weren't part of Brené's study. She says to allow connections with other people, you have to allow yourself to be seen, and for deeper connections really seen, which leaves you wide open and vulnerable, sometimes excruciatingly so. Cuz like, what if they notice your flaws? I totally have this weird freckle on my back. What if someone sees it and gets all judgey? But it's not just being seen physically; it's revealing who you are inside as a person. For instance, how did those insanely bizarre fetishes come about? Who instilled them into you, and was he ever prosecuted? And why have you embraced them as your go-to means of, you know, satisfaction?

I think I'm a whole-hearted person. Whole-hearted people fully embrace their vulnerability. Check! I admit, I am often right out there, pretty much letting it fly. Though good manners do rein me in. Usually. When I have self-doubts, it's not easy to blast through them, but I know I gotta if I really want something.

Whole-hearted peeps believe their vulnerability is neither comfortable nor excruciating, just necessary. Check! Like when you need to go from A to Z, you have to stomp on LMNO to get there and you can't be all squeamish about it.

Whole-hearted peeps are willing to do something, to risk being vulnerable, without a guarantee of the outcome. Check! Like I'm seeing this guy, and OMG, who knows how it could end up. He could have three wives in four different countries. One in a Gobi Desert tent cultivating an insanely bizarre fetish; one swinging from the tree canopy in the Amazon—herself an insanely bizarre fetish; and one buried in two places. Still, I feel compelled to engage in judicious risk-taking anyway because, well, I like him. A lot. And I own my story here, as Brené says. Plus maybe I just want what I want when I want it. That has been said about me before… with that tone.

Thing is about vulnerability, you can't selectively numb out of it. You can't numb yourself to what makes you feel bad without also numbing yourself to what makes you feel good. Plus, pretty sure feeling vulnerable means you're alive, and human. Probably. Of course, I numbed out once and totally screwed myself into thinking I was going to die. At any moment. Never having enjoyed a single insanely bizarre fetish. Well, I wouldn't call it insane.

All that to say, be brave and lean into your discomfort, people, and then you can lean into joy. I hope we've all learned something here today.
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Happy Fourth!

Fragrant Liar has been deep in the throes of freelancing and day-jobbing and breathing and having a little fun (mmmmm, fun . . .), and she has nothing to write about today that doesn't involve all manner of intensely personal shit, which requires censoring, which involves indecision, accompanied by copious amounts of giggling, fueled by a teensy amount of Malbec.

Plus, since she lost a box of summer clothes and it is sweltering in Texas, she is on a mission to find shorts. Therefore, she must shop. Yeehaw.

But because she's proud to be an American, she wanted to wave the red, white, and blue (this photo from the Wounded Warrior Picnic 07/02/11), and wish you all a happy Independence Day for the 235th time. It just never gets old, does it?

Y'all have fun and stay safe.

P.S. I'm the featured blogger this week on BlogHer. Woot!
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SPANXED!

In homage to summer and all things girly, here's a vintage Fragrant Liar salute to Spanx (circa Winter '09), with mucho thanks to Janie!

I needed an undergarment for my new sweater dress which hugs my curves a little too well. However, it was Sunday night when I decided this, and in Marshall’s all I could find was Spanx.

First off, this “shaper” on the hanger looks like a body bandage for a two-year-old, though the tag said it was LARGE. It fits me from boobage to mid thighs. I did look stylin’ in my sweater dress, and I wore the ensemble, including black bootery, all day. However, a lot of tugging occurred, as my Lycra contraption rolled up from the bottom and down from the top. I gave in by early afternoon and let the girls free, since they have little tolerance for compression at a hundred-thousand pounds per cup. I slid the elastic cinch just below the boobcage, where I gained a new appreciation for bucking broncs.

Later that evening, in my closet, I tried to take off the Spanx. You might think:  "easy peasy." But you would be wrong. Perhaps it was the route I took. The over-the-head route. I had grabbed the hem and pulled it all the way up, over my head, at which point I realized, with my arms pinned across my chest, elbows akimbo, and bionic Lycra stretched as taut as a Bay Bridge cable, I had effectively strait-jacketed myself. That's because wearing Spanx is like stuffing yourself into an elf’s condom. Unless you can shrivel up on demand, you're a captive little fucker.

So I stumbled around my closet, in a wrestling match with my Spanx, and gave myself a full nelson. Disoriented, I tripped over my boots and flailed around on the floor. I paused in my hapless exertion to enjoy a moment of debilitating terror, wherein I imagined I might die and no one would find me till the next day when my putrefying scent would overpower the catbox. That, or being so tightly encased, if the thing hardened, I might actually emerge with wings and a penchant for light bulbs.

Fifteen minutes later, I managed a Houdini-esque escape by dislocating both shoulders and using my rabid spittle as a lube. I staggered to the shower, exhausted, out of breath, my hair electrified, and I stood under the water in a daze—like Goldie Hawn in Overboard after her nightmare with a chainsaw. Buh, buh, buh, buh.

Tragically, my cat Matilda saw the whole thing. Next morning, she hunkered down and growled as I waved the spanx in her face in an effort to desensitize her. When I left her, she was mumbling incoherently about throwing herself in front of a car.

Heed my warnings, people. Spanx should be worn at your own risk. I’m in recovery now, wearing slacks two sizes too big and a bulky sweater that leaves me shapeless. Ramping up for:  Spanx vs. Me, Round 2.
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So . . . I Cried Today

I don't cry very often, unless we're talking gripping emotional cinema, like The Last Samurai and Game of Thrones (Nooooooo! Not Ned Stark! Why Ned?), and of course Bambi—and potentially Old Yeller, which I confessed tonight that I've never seen. But it wasn't a movie that had me all choked up today.

I called my incredible pops and wished him happy Father's Day. He is the most loving man I've ever known, and he's instilled in me a great appreciation for all things men. I miss him, because he lives so far away, but he's not the reason I cried today.

I had another great date tonight with a really wonderful guy, so only smiles there.

My oldest and youngest daughters were together today in Fort Polk, Louisiana, and they called me three times while I was on my date. I didn't realize they did, so I didn't answer. They also sent me a bawdy text I bet most kids don't send their parents (I so love their spirits), so of course I called them back to share a good laugh. But then they said, "We just wanted to wish you a happy Father's Day."

I wasn't sure at first why those words hit me so hard—like in that place right at the core of you, where you normally don't let anybody get to—but I almost couldn't talk with that big lump in my throat. And I realized that after all these years of being the only parent they've ever known, it was the first time they had acknowledged that I was both their mother and their father out of necessity, and that they understood it wasn't always easy. I felt validated. They got it. They got me and what I went through.

Ah, parenthood. Who but your kids could take you out with a one-liner?

Tonight I got the best Father's Day gift ever. Made me exceedingly proud to be their mom. Then we had a good laugh about the adult things their mother might be up to these days. Those apples did not fall far from this tree.
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Getting to GRRR

People, my parents have regaled the masses with this quaint anecdote for, um, alotta decades:  Since Kimmie was a tiny tot, she called perfume "pisspume". Even then, I had a knack for taking all the air out of the hoity toity. These days, I wear Obsession, sometimes Eternity. They seem to agree with me, but I want something new, so I'm all googly for Chanel Allure. And by all googly, I mean, all googly.

A primo fragrance costs as much as a pro rejuvenation these days. And you can get that pricey sex-in-a-bottle home and find out that when other people smell it on you, instead of upping your Jessica Rabbit factor, you're suddenly Pepe Le Pew—an olfactory mess—and you've missed your opp for a sweet chemical peel (heh, I said sweet and chemical and peel in the same breath).

Apparently, these days, the general public needs to engage with a fragrance like a sommelier gargles the taste of wine (okay, it's not exactly gargling, but come on). At least you don't have to do a sip-and-spit, but the "notes" in a fragrance have to react well with your skin. Per Wikipedia, the definitive source of all things brainiac:

"Perfume is described in a musical metaphor as having three sets of notes, making the harmonious scent accord. The notes unfold over time, with the immediate impression of the top note leading to the deeper middle notes, and the base notes gradually appearing as the final stage."

That totally sounded like a menage. No wonder it costs so much. But WTF? I just wanna smell delicious.

My good friend, Anne Marie, once got onto a crowded elevator, and another floor later a guy squeezed in. He looked around at everybody and said, "I don't know who smells so good, but I'd love to have dinner with you tonight." She had a rockin' grrr factor going. That's when you know your fragrance is working for ya. It's not overpowering, but just enough in close quarters to get you dinner—and maybe lucky too.

So far no grrrs on the Allure, which means my googly may be all wasted. If that's the case, I guess it's just another pisspume. What are your fave scents?
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Miracle Schmiracle

Bad news, y'all. I turned off my resurrected cell phone last week because the battery was dying and the beeping at 3 a.m. was enough to make me want to fastball it back into the pool. But the thing wouldn't turn on the next morning at all, even after I exposed its little battery and gave it a thorough exam and a full charge—which is disappointing because now I'm forced to rethink what constitutes a miracle, like when I got all excited about Snuggies.

So apparently the Rice-a-Phoni trick only works temporarily, or sometimes, or not at all. So sorry for depleting you of hope. Rice-a-Phony.

THEN, I got a new phone; and last night, after a particularly AWESOME day that left me feeling kind of, like, dumb, I lost my phone. You'll never guess where it was. Think Beach Boys, Good Vibrations, and substitute boob for good. Yeah, that's right. Let me know when you can get that song out of your head now, 'kay?

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It's a Damn Miracle!

Saturday morning, I decided, was a good day to spend by the pool, or in it. It was only 100 freakin' degrees outside in Austin, in an unseasonably hot and drought-y June, and the pool looked all sparkly and refreshing and woefully lonesome for company.

At first I sat in a lounger, reading The World According to Garp, and when I got sweaty, I headed for a dip. I stepped down into the water and leaned over to run my hands through it or look at my shadow or some damn thing. Point is, I don't know why I chose to bend over, as it were, but at that precise moment, my cell phone fell out of my swim top. And sank to the bottom. Of the pool. In zig-zag fashion. While I watched. Dumbfounded, and wondering why the hell I stashed my cell phone between my boobs when the whole point of hanging by the pool is to relax, uninterrupted.

Since I hadn't yet gotten all the way into the water—because it was freakin' cold despite the ambient inferno—I gasped and eased in as quickly as I could, up to my hips, with more gasping—and the requisite F-bombs—and used my toes to scoot the phone up the wall, like Patrick Swayze with the penny in Ghost. And I shed tears as I watched the phone rise to the surface with my toes sliding it up. And then I was a believer:  never stick your phone between your boobs if you're going to bend over.

So I got the phone in my hands and opened it (like Captain Kirk with his communicator, requesting a beam-up), and the itty bitty screens were completely black, and within a few minutes of sitting on the scalding deck, they were filled with water spots and mist, and I thought shit, shit, shit, and shit.

Breathing deeply in search of some sort of so-the-hell-what zen, I left the cell in the sun and spent the next hour as a rotisserie chicken on a plastic raft. And then I bitched about my little catastrophe on FaceBook and Twitter, until my roomie offered a most unusual solution.

I call it the Rice-a-Phoni trick. You fill a baggie with rice—in this case, long-grain white—then drop your disassembled cell phone into it and seal it up. Wait 24 hours, while holding your breath.

I did this, and nothing short of the miraculous occurred. We reassembled the phone, et voila! working cell phone! Brought back to life by Rice-a-Phoni, the incredible cell phone feat.

If I could get the same sort of healing for my rotisserie burn, I'd be chin deep in a bathtub full of Rice-a-MyOwny. Ba-da-boom!
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Back to My Roots (Sort of)

Over the Memorial Day weekend, I hit a rural outcrop known as Lott, Texas. The 'rents were passing through from Phoenix to Florida, but stayed a few days to avoid the Memorial Day nightmare that is eastbound I-10 traffic, so I got to spend time with them "up 'ere."

Lott is between Temple and Waco, which means it's about 45 minutes from civilization as I know it. The daily forecast is:  windy, or sometimes plum blow-you-over gusty. The soil here grows some ginormous trees, and if you know anything about me at all, you know I have a ginormous affinity for thick-trunked behemoths--the ones that provide lots of shade, I'm sayin' (for all you gutter-brains).

I have fond memories of this vast oasis of cornfields, cattle ranches, and Civil War-era cemeteries. It's a great place to let your kids run hog wild, especially down by the crik, where the frogs scream and flee for the ponds as you run at them. My mother was born and raised in nearby Troy and Pendleton, and little has changed except for the passing of our small-town ancestors.

My uncle and aunt live in Lott as well, and they're the real deal. Uncle Mead is an honest-to-god cowboy (horse breaker/trainer, rancher, rodeo rider), vet, auctioneer, tobaccy spitter, and social butterfly. At about 72 now, there is nobody he doesn't know. He is adorable. The notable addition to their ranch is the off-road golf cart Uncle Mead now uses to get around the place. Yeehaw!

Aunt Sue is a bona fide cowgirl (same as Uncle Mead, but with female parts) and a champion barrel racer with incredible saddles and gleaming belt buckles the size of tombstones to show for it. Her prize barrel racing horse is Scoot. Scoot is 27, and now out to pasture with his mare. Even while out on the road taking care of business from rodeo to rodeo, he demanded his mare accompany him or the show would not go on. I tell you, the requirements of celebrities these days. But you don't want to sit on top of a cranky, 1,200-pound diva while careening around barrels through churned dirt.

Here's the champ, sound asleep.



I had a sweet little cardinal wake me up every morning at the butt-crack of dawn. His unorthodox methods for getting me to rise and shine and throw curse words at him far exceeded his pretty-boy factor, but I felt sorry for him because I'm sure the bird-brain knocked himself silly on a regular basis. Here he is in action:



Best sign of the weekend:



Oh yeah.
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