A Green Thumb Gone Bad

Every year around this time I find myself inspired to grow something. I spend at least three weekends at the nursery trying to decide which flowers to put where and what my color scheme should be. I get ahead of myself, buying potting soil and containers, and I imagine what it would be like to have a real garden in a real backyard someday. Now I actually have a backyard, and I still feel that itch. But I'm doing something I don't normally do: I am ignoring it to the utmost extent.

Because, you see, every year I invest not just my time and money but myself in growing things and having pretty flowers. But every year my efforts are thwarted by something.

In Memphis, it was the neighbors upstairs who thought it would be a good idea to dump their bleachy mop water from the balcony on the third floor. In doing so they effectively killed the flowers I had growing in the hanging boxes on my railing. One morning they were bright flowers bobbing in the wind; the next morning they were dried shrivelled twigs. I brought them back once or twice, but there's only so many times you can defy bleach, especially if you're a petunia.

Now we live in a desert, an environment conducive to growing nothing but succulents. Well, almost nothing; the rattle snakes seem to do pretty well here too. Last year I made the attempt. I bought my annual tomato plant and my flowers and potting soil. I bought fertilizer and gloves. I even made an attempt at growing beans from seeds. I wish I could say that my efforts amounted to a hill of beans, but that would be entirely too generous a way of putting it. In all honesty my efforts amounted to nothing but sunburn, sore muscles, and an outrageous water bill. The flowers died. The vegetables never had a chance. I found myself watering three times a day, and even that wasn't enough. When the first great wind storm blew through, the whole enterprise seemed to blow through with it. Again, I made the attempt to bring the flowers back; I even replaced them once. Ok, twice. But each time I was a little more disappointed than the last.

This year I can't handle it. I can't stand the thought of having my botanical efforts mocked by Mother Nature and everything else. Maybe someday I'll become the gardener I have attempted to be. I will have flower beds instead of flower pots, and my biggest concern will be making sure there are no lizards hiding under the leaves of the Lamb's Ear. For now I will have to appease my green thumb by buying flowers at the grocery store. In my experience, they last longer, and they thrive in almost any indoor environment.

That's My Bag, Baby!

Some women like shoes. Others prefer jewelry. I happen to be a bag lady. I prefer a new handbag to almost any other item of fashion.

Over the years, my affinity for handbags has, both admittedly and somewhat ashamedly, become more expensive, but I continue to search for the holy grail. Every time I get a new one I feel like I have found The Bag, the only one I will ever want. That is until next season's collection arrives on the shelves, and I find myself lusting after some newer, better version of what I already have.

So you can imagine my surprise this season when finding the perfect bag proved to be a futile effort. Apparently the bag I got for winter is the bag I've been searching for all along. This has me wondering: what happens when you find the perfect version of whatever it is you're searching for?

Perfection is supposed to be unattainable, and those of us who manage to find some version of it often find it maddening. I'm sure I will get another bag (probably sooner than I'd like to admit). But for now I am content with what I have, and I have to say the feeling is a bit unsettling.

Fashion Week officially ends tomorrow, and I promise that all posting dealing with aspects of fashion will cease. I don't think about it that much, and as I said before, I should probably leave it to those who are more adept and cutting edge than I. Once the new collections are on the racks, I solemnly promise to return to the rambling thoughts that normally pervade my page.

Identity Crisis of the Sole

Generally I like to leave the fashion blogging to my friend Bekah, who is much more adept at handling it than I am. But since it's fashion week, I am finding myself both inspired and confounded.

I find myself overwhelmed by certain aspects of fashion. I am particularly perplexed by certain types of footwear, specifically those shoes that seem to be involved in a sort of identity crisis. These are the shoes that are trying desperately to appear as though they are something other than what they really are.

For example, I find it interesting and oddly disheartening that Coach makes a sneaker. These shoes have all the looks of an average athletic shoe. They have laces and rubber soles, and they are very obviously not to be worn with anything aside from, perhaps, a velour hoody and matching pants. They have a white rubber topped toe, which I can only assume is a nod to their Converse predecessors.

But these sad little shoes cannot be worn for any sort of sporty purpose. They have no arch support; they have no support for the ankles. There's no cushioned bounce if you attempt to run in them. A shoe with an identity crisis.

Similarly, I find myself equally annoyed at newer trends in orthopedic footwear. I see these shoes in stores like The Walking Company, and all I can ever seem to do is shake my head and walk away. I understand that there is a need for orthopedic footwear; a girl has to do what a girl has to do. However, current stylings make use of patent leather and suede. They have bows and clever silhouettes. The unsuccessful nature of this shoe stems from its sole. While patent leather can cover a multitude of footwear faus paux, it's very difficult to camouflage the non-existent heel or the heel that is so clunky the shoe looks like a work boot or the toe that is abnormally rounded. Another shoe with an identity crisis.

I would be lying if I said I didn't own shoes that fall into both categories. Again, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I have nothing against shoes suffering from this affliction. In fact, I think it's rather liberating in a way. Our shoes suffer from the same (very human) conundrums that their wearers often struggle with.

A Silly Note...

Feelings change. This we know for a fact. And we don't always get to feel how we want to. Another fact. I would argue that every person has at least one favorite way to feel. Obviously the goal is to be happy, but I want my favorite feelings to go farther than that.

Personally I like to feel splendiferous and fantabulous. Not only are these positive feelings, but the words themselves inspire positivity in others (I dare you to say them out loud wherever you are right now.). Either they enjoy the words themselves, or they feel the same way I do. Or they are relieved because they think they've finally met someone who's crazier than they are, which also leads to a positive reaction. I'll take that.

I don't think this is necessarily something everyone thinks about. For some people it's enough to just be happy. But I feel like life is about more than that. And sometimes happy doesn't even begin to cover it.