WAY too footloose

I’m throwing my hands up; we need to talk about feet. On a gradually increasing basis the general public is being afflicted by feet, and afflicted is the right word: to distress with mental or bodily pain; trouble greatly or grievously.

I can’t put my finger on the exact moment, but somewhere along the line it became OK to just let your feet hang out there – in all their glory, or grotesqueness - in public. Case in point the attached photograph; I was graced with these little beauties at the gate of a major US airport (the thought of this individual sitting next to me on a sealed aluminum tube for a few hours makes me throw up in my mouth a little). Note the (not-so-white) bandage around the right big toe and the manky (Google it, it’s a word) Birkenstock sandals that he tossed off in my direction. This is not OK. I don’t want to see your Barney Rubble feet, and I certainly don’t need to know about your podiatric medical issues. Put a sock “on” it, literally!

And if you think this is strictly an issue with men, let us not forget the Northwestern University’s national championship women’s lacrosse team whose 2005 visit to the White House had four of the nine team members pictured in the front row wearing flip flops. Politics aside, flip flops to the White House? It was widely reported that family members (mothers in particular) were horrified. Is this something that we’re going to have to add to “and remember to wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident”? “Don’t leave for Washington in flip flops; you might get invited to the White House”.

Airplanes seem to generate a strange sense of privacy in people; I can’t remember a flight where someone seated near me has not slipped off their shoes, exposed their bare feet and rolled them around on the carpet for a while. Nice visual, huh? Or even worse, those seated in the bulked row putting their bare feet on the wall for everyone in the 10 rows behind them to view! A girlfriend had what was, up until last week, the worst (or best, if you’re grading on a curve) foot story; mid-flight, a man sitting next to her took out a bottle of lotion, slipped his feet out of his sandals, and proceeded to lather them up. For her, this topped even the lady who clipped her (finger) nails on a flight (yeah, I can’t even go there on that one, those suckers fly everywhere!). See, I told you, people do things on airplanes that should strictly be reserved for your bathroom at home, and NOT in front of your spouse!

But the worst/best foot story position is now occupied by the man who sat next to my husband on an international flight last week. Every seat on the airplane was equipped with a personal video screen on the seat-back in front of you. The screens are touch-sensitive. You know what’s coming, don’t you? Yep, the guy reclined his seat, took his shoes and socks off, and navigated the touch screen with his big toe. They just don’t clean aircraft well enough for that.

Unneccesary Plastic Objects

On her live album, “One Fair Summer Evening”, Nanci Griffith tells a wonderful story before the song “Love at the Five and Dime” about the first time she toured in Europe. While driving through London they came upon a Woolworth store and she wanted the driver to stop the car so that she could go in and “fill up my suitcase with unnecessary plastic objects”, and with that my addiction had a name. Few words in the English language make my heart race more than “storage solutions”. I-have-a-problem. I am addicted to plastic organizers, storage objects, solutions, tools, etc. – and my husband deems them ALL unnecessary.

Any trip to Target for “a couple of things” resulted in an hour-long stroll through the store and at least $40 in various organization and storage accessories purchased as well. The feeling of coming home with an $8 item that’s assured to bring peace and calm to your everyday life, what’s not addictive about that? Just the promise alone became lure enough to upgrade. The “new and better” junk-drawer organizer was purchased because it promised even more than the “old and lousy” version.

Then I learned that Home Depot also had a “Home Organization” section and my husband never went there alone again. He’d shop for whatever was needed for our latest home improvement project and I’d shop for a new shoe rack, wreath storage unit, etc. There was more than one awkward moment in the checkout line when he’d see my selections in the cart and ask, “What’s this?” “It’s an impenetrable plastic storage container made especially for a Christmas wreath, see?” And I’d lift it up and show him the features and benefits in such a way that could have landed me a gig on the Price is Right. “We already have a storage container for the wreath, it’s called a Hefty bag.”

It was about this time that even I had to admit I had a problem. This was more than just wanting order in my life; my constant search for the perfect closet, drawer, office and garage organizational had became all-consuming. If I found something good in April, it would soon be replaced by something better in July. One day my husband (figuratively) had to slap me out of a-la Cher in Moonstruck. No more trips to Target. For the next few months he’d be going to Home Depot alone. I had to quit cold turkey; there was no other option.

Then a friend told me about The Container Store. If you don’t have one near you, I’m sorry. It is like crack cocaine to someone like me. It is storage solution heaven. It is organization tool nirvana. I can’t even describe it to you but to say that I’d rather go to The Container Store than buy a new pair of shoes or tube of lipstick – and for any woman, that’s saying something! Whatever you need to put away, The Container Store has the most perfect thing to nestle it in.

Needless to say I fell off the wagon and let it roll right over me. There were a few tense months in our house as white bag (with huge, bright pink lettering saying “The Container Store”) after white bag came through the front door, until I finally came to terms with my addiction. A trip to The Container Store is still enough to make my heart skip a beat, and I can easily drop an hour roaming the aisles, but I’m much more reserved now with my purchases (a small house will do that for you).

Recently I discovered that the corporate headquarters were in my own town, and that they regularly rank in the top 100 best companies to work for; I now harbor a secret desire to work there (and enjoy an employee discount) so that I can spend my entire day surrounded by unnecessary plastic objects. The first suggestion I would make as a new employee is to get rid of that huge pink lettering on the bags, you can’t sneak anything into the house with that!

Flying Solo

I’m not allowed to go the grocery store by myself. This is not a joke. All my friends know this to be true and are annoyed that I complain about this totalitarian state, as they would be only too happy to foist the weekly grocery trip upon their husbands.

Not only is my husband the Bob Villa of our group (that’s a whole other blog), but he’s also the Chef Boyardee. When we host a dinner party I can always detect slight disappointment on our guests’ faces when they learn I did the cooking that evening.

Given that my husband does most of the cooking, it only makes sense that he does the grocery shopping. I used to do some grocery shopping, but my license was revoked one fateful day when I came home with 3 bags and a receipt for over $60. To fully understand the ramifications of this event you have to know that my husband’s record is 8 bags for under $40 (and he doesn’t clip coupons). I buy what I want; he buys what’s on sale.

The effort and creativity required to achieve such results is staggering; it requires multiple trips to the store a week, a near-photographic memory of the price for every item in the cart (this from a man that can’t remember what I said to him an hour ago) because when an item rings up incorrectly – it’s free, and a willingness to regularly look past the “sell by” date (“that’s just a suggestion”). When you open our freezer door you’re met with a blinding array of bright yellow and orange “Manager’s Special” stickers on the contents (what we’ve come to call “used meat”). It’s a fine line between ptomaine poisoning and a bargain, and we walk it every night in our house.

One day I had the bright idea to go the store with him. If I couldn’t go alone, I could certainly go if I had adult supervision, right? Wrong. He got to hold the list, and push the cart, and I was sent on individual sorties for single items.

“Why don’t you get a jar of mayo while I look at the used meat and day-old bread? Why did you buy Hellmann’s?”

“Isn’t that a good brand?”

“How much did it cost?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ok, well we can go back and check. See the store brand is $0.39 less for 25% more” and the swap is made, and so on. This is not really fun for me (or him either as he pointed out), so we don’t shop together anymore.

Only when we’re really up against the wall (guests arriving in an hour, he’s mid-soufflé and we realize we are 2 eggs short) am I allowed to go to the store alone. I’m given a list, and only enough money to pay for exactly what’s on the list, and the bag is checked when I return.

Recently when he was away on a business trip I took our always-running grocery list to the store. My first solo flight in years; I was nervous but certain that I could pull it off. He hadn’t been home for 10 minutes when he noticed my purchases in the pantry and then went to the refrigerator, “What did you do?”

“I thought I’d help you out and do the grocery shopping.”

“Honey, I know you were trying to help, but it’s OK, I don’t need the help. Luckily it looks like you bought the right things and no one got hurt. It’s my job to do the grocery shopping, its man’s work.” And with that I got a loving pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek. I’m not the pilot; I’m not even the co-pilot. I’m the junior flight attendant - in coach.