Wisdom tooth, I swear to god, either shape up, or you’re coming OUT.
"This whole world is wild at heart, and weird on top."
The things you pick up as you go.
Have I ever mentioned that my two dearest and most excelling hobbies as a child were fencing and knife throwing?
Because I don’t think I have, but I also think that factoid explains A LOT about me.
…Actually, my second boyfriend was my fencing partner in high school— I sent him to the hospital one afternoon after nearly plucking out one of his eyes while sparring; the next day, he asked me to be his girlfriend.
I never quite understood those dynamics, but suffice it to say, some men find fierce women more appealing than having both eyes. Huh.
I’ll raise my children on museum field trips and art gallery outings. I’ll raise my children to believe that nothing is ever too “grown-up” for them. I’ll raise my children with second and third languages. I’ll “parle” and “parlo” with them. I’ll raise my children knowing the difference between “education” and “learning.” I’ll raise my children with big vocabularies and surrounded by art. I’ll hang Botticelli prints over their cribs, and will never, ever baby-talk to them.
I’ll raise my children with library cards as soon as they can scrawl their name on the line on the back. I’ll decorate their nightstands with stacks of books. I’ll raise them in mud and dirt, and teach them how things grow from the ground with the right amounts of dirt, water, and love. I’ll raise my children with no particular belief system, other than the belief that they must be kind to nature, and that they must believe in themselves in order for anyone else to do so.
I’ll raise my children quietly in theaters and concert halls. I’ll foster them with culture and the arts. I will make them edible finger-paints when they’re too young to hold crayons, and proudly display their art on the refrigerator. I will buy them children’s cameras so that they can learn to see their world through a different lens. I’ll raise my children to dance, to move, to express themselves in not just words, but in motions. I’ll raise my children to be graceful.
I’ll raise my children to be aware. I’ll read the news to them, like a good-morning story. I’ll teach them history, both world and personal, so they are never doomed to repeat prior mistakes. I’ll teach my children that the world is both magical as well as frightening. I’ll raise my children to be street-smart and poised. I’ll raise my children to be aware of which houses are smart investments to trick-or-treat at, and to inherently know which ones are not.
I’ll raise my children to dress themselves; to shop at an early age for what defines their characters, rather than what I or their grandmother want to define them as. I will let my children go to elementary school in a tutu, or a suit, or a werewolf costume, even in May. I’ll not roll my eyes. I’ll raise my children to be individuals, to have personal style and flair, and to be respectful of everyone else’s.
I’ll raise my children in the corner table of restaurants, on the floor after they eat with a small group of toys. I’ll raise my children in business meetings, at parties with family friends, on airplanes and trains and in cars. I’ll (hopefully) raise my children internationally at some points, showing them that there is a world that exists beyond our house, our city, our state, and our country— and it is a world that does things differently. I’ll raise my children to know that “different” is not another connotation of the word “bad.”
I’ll raise my children firmly, and then loosely. I’ll let my children raise themselves at some points, and make their own mistakes to learn from. I will never panic over a fall or a bruise. I will stick a Band-Aid and a kiss over shallow cuts, not trips to the ER. I’ll raise my children with a deadly whisper instead of a yell; with a look that hurts instead of a spank. I’ll raise them with manners— not just “please” and “thank you” but also “how are you today?” and “how can I help you?” I will raise kind, empathetic, intelligent children.
I’ll raise my children on imagination and make-believe. I’ll raise them in cardboard castles and pillow forts. I’ll raise small princesses who kiss frogs, and gallant princes who befriend dragons instead of killing them. Because I will have taught my children, it’s much more exciting to fly than to remain grounded. This is my promise to them.
Disclaimer: Despite all appearances, this is not my child. Only on some weeknights and weekends. But I am aware it looks otherwise, because it’s been mentioned to me for the last 2 years.
Bannerman’s Castle, an abandoned military surplus warehouse on an Island in the Hudson river
I remember passing this on an Amtrak train going to New York when I was little and thinking I wanted to live there, in a real fucking castle.
1989, the same year I was born, at my christening. Mom’s a fox. I am obviously cultivating a hate/hate relationship with the camera early on.
P.S— Though blonder than a Hollywood starlet now, I spent the first six months of my life as a redhead, which explains a lot.
I feel like I should explain all the foot shit with my regular, long-time followers. I know it’s not part of my usual programming, and it may have been a little disconcerting when it popped up out of nowhere, suddenly. Don’t worry; I don’t want to suck on your toes. Ewwwww. You can breathe out now.
Where I grew up, we were the kids that dropped our sneakers as soon as the snow melted and it was over 65 degrees. We walked barefoot over hard, crushed gravel driveways and dirt roads, and padded over wood and cement and tile at home, not rugs and wall-to-wall carpet. You didn’t NEED shoes to go walking through the woods; just had to watch out for old barbed-wire fences, that’s all.
So all these years later, when I get home the first thing off the instant I get through the door are my shoes. (Sometimes followed by shirt; sometimes pants; sometimes bra. I was also raised casually nudist. Fun stuff, Vermont!) I loathe socks. I never really thought any further about it than acknowledging it was just something that I did; I went barefoot. Inside and have to get some snow peas from the garden for dinner? Walk right out there; don’t pause for shoes. It’s just grass and some stones on a walkway. In approximately 1400 B.C, someone in Mesopotamia sewed some leather together and put it on their feet for the first time. For centuries before that, our ancestors walked soles-to-earth just fine. So a five-minute jaunt won’t kill you, and isn’t really worth pausing and rummaging around down by my feet for a minute. Simple, I thought. Logical. My friends and I thought nothing of going without shoes. Feet were just…feet. Kinda weird, just like that word, F-E-E-T. The things that carried you around. Normal. Functional. Boring.
And then, one fateful night a few weeks ago, I was sitting in a VW van (“Ah! A VW van,” you say! “How very much more Vermont of you; how hippie; how chic!” I’m not trying to make this any more hipster-shit cliche, I’m not, but it just fatefully happened that way,) when the man I was with leaned forward and pushed the little foam flip-flop that was dangling off the tip of my toes onto the floor. I didn’t move. He paused a moment, giving me time to react, and then took the foot that was resting over the knee of my other leg and drew it into his lap. He pressed his thumbs firmly into the ball of my foot and straight to my heart.
…You know how there are those funky Chinese acupuncture/pressure-point/energy charts of feet, Press Point A to have it be felt in Part B? Whelp. They are not such Old Age/New Age bullshit after all.
I’ve had casual foot massages before. I’ve run my soles over those funky little roller things with the nubs. I use a pumice stone on my heels. I’ve had people touch my feet before, pull on my toes, mess around with the absurdity that were my calluses and arches. This was NOTHING like any of those things. This was like sex and the high you get after a really good run and relief and melting into a blissed-out mental state, for your feet. When a woman orgasms, our Universe contracts to a few thousand nerve-endings South of the border for the few minutes before and during. And suddenly, I was having that same sort of single-focus, only-body-part existing phenomenon in my feet. My mind was BLOWN.
…He switched feet.
Goner. I was a total goner. Not even a chance. Here was this handsome, intelligent, articulate man talking to me about travel, offering me wine and chocolate, cocking a boldly darker eyebrow when I said something he found interesting (which is something that has always driven me inexplicably nuts when a man with lighter hair does), and he’s making my soles whisper urgent things to my vagina and my toes tell my brain spontaneously proposing to him wasn’t a really crazy idea. Really, it wasn’t even fair.
Reader, I obviously slept with him. If he could do that to my feet, imagine all the possibilities!
The next morning, he played with my toes while we talked. I looked down at my anklet, and really thought about the way it played up the bones in my ankle and complimented my arch. I looked down at his feet, something I think I have consciously avoided doing with every other man I have ever slept with. They were nice and neat, too. It was like the really yummy cake had not only frosting on it, but sprinkles and candles, too.
Two days later, I unearthed two old toe-rings and came across a photo here on Tumblr of a girl wearing barefoot sandals, and thought how totally impractical they were. Then I paused and thought of how cute they were and how infrequently I was actually wearing shoes. I started designing and making a pair. Two pairs. Five pairs. My feet, something I was actually thinking about for the first time in 21 years since I was 2 and probably still chewing on my toes because what the hell were these things attached for?, were suddenly interesting and well-accessorized and I liked them.
Feet. I mean, who really spends much time thinking about their feet? They were for more than just trimming and painting. I could look at them and their wacky polish and jewelry and they’d make me smile. It was like when I was in elementary school and discovered my clitoris. (Boys get over the surprise and novelty with their dicks for a few childhood years until again when they’re about 11; girls don’t even KNOW that there’s a secret, hidden thing in our body that does stuff until you accidentally find it one day!) I thought they were pretty damn cute; how did they really stack up? I started noticing other people’s feet and comparing notes. Check out her hair; where’d she get that shirt?; are her feet as cute as mine?; does he have those freaky monkey toes where the second is longer than the big toe? It just became another “something” of interest and pride. I have interesting blue eyes; a nice rack; and cute feet. These are my unique appearance traits. And if the man with the van wanted to touch them again, go ahead, sir; have at! But anyone else— my best friend, my mother, a doctor— no, thank you. Please feel free to look; don’t touch.
So, that’s pretty much the extent of it. Enthusiast? Yes. Fetish? I’m still unclear as where non-foot-people draw the line; I don’t think so. Feet to me still strongly belong in that “Things That Are Better To Just Look At Than Interact With” category along with modern art, chocolate souffles, and bat-wing shirts, unless you happen to be a certain man who I know can make them sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Now that I’ve gotten my initial Great Foot Awakening out of the way, I don’t expect you’ll be seeing so much “feet shit.” But until the leaves fall and we get our first dusting of snow, if there’s a full-length photo of me, you can be assured you’ll see me without shoes. Try it more. There’s nothing better than a pair of tough feet. I bet you’ll like it.
Between my love for Halloween, planning parties, and my desire to adopt, this makes me want kids so I can throw the most bitchin’, classy, classic Halloween parties for them and their friends just like my parents did.
This is ADORABLE.