Jimmy Choo Shoes and I Don't Care

Jimmy Choo Shoes and I Don't Care

Unlike a lot of women, I hate to shop for clothing. Online retailers get much of my business. I can order pretty much anything I need from the Internet with a quick Google search. But I have a daughter. She loves to shop. Her estrogen levels peak with the words “sale” and “new arrivals.”

Unfortunately, the downside of online shopping is shipping. It takes at least two days for delivery. My husband and I were invited to a party where the suggested attire was “festive wear.” The closest thing I had to that was a lime green and yellow muumuu my aunt bought in Hawaii a hundred years ago. I needed party pants, and I needed them fast. So off I went to shop at local stores with my daughter and her fashion guru friend.

“Miss Kristen, try this on.” It was a request I heard repeatedly from Katie’s friend, a young man with impeccable taste who knows Jimmy Choo shoes and is visiting the highbrow fashion district of Highland Park Village in Dallas for his summer vacation.

He dangled a dress for my inspection, noting the price tag at the armpit.

“It’s a 14 Wide,” he announced. “I think it will fit you.”

“Look, hon, the ‘W’ is for ‘Women,’ not ‘Wide,’” I corrected him scornfully.

“Well, it means ‘Wide’ in shoes. Speaking of shoes, you need some new ones.”

We spent hours like that, carting outfits to the dressing room, Katie and Mr. Picky waiting to see the results.

“Do you have it on? What does it look like? Let us see!” they implored.

“I’m going to need scissors to get out of this,” I growled, immobilized in a tight-fitting nightmare.

“But how does it LOOK?” they cried. And I cried, too. I felt far from festive trapped in a twisted tunic of glitter and taffeta.

By some miracle, we found a pair of black flowing pants and a spaghetti-strap top that didn’t look too bad.

“The sash bothers me,” I worried aloud. “I’m not certain it works with the top.”

“Are you kidding?” Pro-Sash Man exclaimed. “It’s works! And look. You can take it off easily. It’s only tacked on, not sewn down the full longness of it.”

“I think you mean ‘length.’”

“Longness, length, whatever. Use your seam ripper and take it off. We need to look at shoes!”

My feet ached, my back throbbed, and my credit card fell limp. I had something to wear to the party, and I wanted to go home.

“I already have some shoes. Let’s go.”

A look of horror crossed his face. My daughter retreated in disgust.

“Miss Kristen, you aren’t planning to wear those same black pumps, the ones you wore to the Christmas party, are you?” The puppy dog eyes filled with terror got to me.

“Oh, all right,” I conceded. “We’ll go to one shoe store, but that’s it. These dogs are barking, and they have no desire to squeeze into four-inch heels.”

Off we went, the two of them chattering about stilettos and snakeskin, while I braced myself for more retail exposure.

“Try these on, Miss Kristen.” Three pairs of shoes greeted me with menacing smiles, the slender heels and pointed forms taunting my pinky toes with sadistic suggestions.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “Those would effectively hobble me. This event is at a horse farm, for heaven’s sake. I have to actually move around, preferably on my feet. Haven’t they got anything lower that doesn’t require blood-letting?”

Much to the chagrin of daughter and friend, I found nothing I liked better than the shoes I had at home. We left empty-handed while the teenaged shop-a-holics lectured me on the essential nature of women to desire lots of shoes, purses and jewelry.

I tried to enlighten their young minds with a lesson in “need” versus “want,” a soliloquy on the beauty of minimalism and the basic concept of home economics. But, they tuned me out with iPods and cell phones, suddenly very tired and eager to go home.

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

“What kind of dog do you have?” someone will ask. This usually follows my own inquiry into what kind of dog is at the end of a leash or pictured within a frame on a desk. When you have a pack of five dogs like our family, the explanation gets a little complicated.

We used to be a one-dog family. Her name was Winnie. She was absolutely the best dog who ever lived. She came from questionable lineage. Her mother was a full-blooded yellow Labrador, but her dad was a hot-blooded stranger in the night. Shortly before she died, our dog Spottie the orphan appeared on the scene.

Tailless with black-and-white spots, Spottie resembles a cross between a Dalmatian and an Australian cattle dog. For all we know, he could be from a champion bloodline of some rare canine breed. Likely, he’s all mutt. My brother David says he’s a sweet dog, but ugly as a mud fence. We think he’s beautiful. But then, come to think of it, I’m not sure that we have ever seen an ugly dog. And therein lies the story of our four poodles.

If you have never seen a poodle puppy with its voluminous coat of shiny curls, tiny ears and weepy brown eyes, then you have never witnessed the epitome of cute. It is the kind of cute that induces supposedly reasonable adults with a perfectly wonderful dog to lose all good sense and establish a poodle kingdom. It is also the kind of cute that fades in its intensity at 2 a.m. when the insufferable little whiners insist on human contact 24/7.

Honey and Scooter comprised our first pair. We bought Beignet because of his stellar pedigree. We intended to establish a profitable poodle breeding empire built on the cute factor. Only, we found out soon enough that cute is a relative term.

Honey and Scooter gave rise to three pups that survived the birthing process. Beignet simply stood around and looked confused. In spite of round-the-clock feedings and as much maternal nurturing as I could muster every two hours, only the runt, Daisy, made it. Somewhere between the completely disinterested mama dog and my sudden incarnation as a wet nurse, the cute factor disintegrated faster than you can say “pipe dream.” We had all four neutered and spayed and vowed never to contribute to the poodle gene pool again.

My brother-in-law visited over the weekend. He graciously tolerated the poodles, and they returned the favor by announcing his every move.

“Good morning, Mike,” we’d say.
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!” the poodles answered.
“Let’s go grab a bite to eat, Mike.”
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

It didn’t matter that they sat on his lap and he scratched their heads and called them by name. If Mike entered the room, he was re-introduced with a canine chorus every single time.

“He’s going outside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s coming inside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s, he’s, he’s, just sitting there!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)

Sometimes we try to remember what it was that possessed us to lay claim to four poodles. All I can figure is that temporary madness can be blamed for a lot of things. I was looking through some old photos and I remembered all too clearly. Hordes of baby poodle pictures featured the face of a little angel and the hypnotic stare of a miniature master manipulator.

My daughter and I stopped by the pet shop to buy some supplies. Like complete idiots, we visited the puppy cages. There they were, two Pugs intent on stealing our hearts, a Basset Hound imploring us with woeful brown eyes, a trio of Schnauzers schmoozing through the glass and a couple of identical Schipperkes that I would swear mouthed the words “take us home.”

We never left a place faster in our lives.

No More Plastic Wrap and Moving On

No More Plastic Wrap and Moving On

On January 26, my dad died.
Thirty-seven days later, on March 4, my mom died.

Grief descended on us long before their passing. With the ravages of Parkinson’s disease and stomach cancer prevailing, our family felt the tide pull away. We sensed the ebbing of their time here.

On their front porch, on each side of the doorway, two pots of ivy guarded the entryway. One died in January, the other simply faded, a subtle yet undeniable metaphor for my parents’ passing.

It is the natural course of events for children to lose their parents. At ages 67 and 70, Mom and Dad left far sooner than I anticipated. A dear friend of the family, Betty Malone, referred to us three kids as orphans at my mother’s memorial service. The word, in its brevity and definition described exactly how we felt. Orphaned.

Yet, we understand that our grief, while deep and extraordinarily painful, is not the only grief in the world. Everyone loses someone, eventually, to death. There are blessings to be found in the relief of suffering, in a return to our loving Maker, in finally securing that understanding that surpasses all understanding. We who are left behind have to grieve, but we do not have to wallow in it. We can choose to rejoice, in time.

My dad hated plastic wrap. He cursed its very existence. He never won the battle of the tear strip. He claimed it never stuck when it was supposed to, and always did when you wished it wouldn’t. Of all the things that occurred to me when I said goodbye to Dad, plastic wrap emerged as just one of the many insults of life that he would no longer have to fight. When I see plastic wrap, I think of Dad.

My mom loved peanut butter crackers. Ritz, creamy peanut butter and a tall glass of milk were her standard indulgence on Sunday evenings until the cancer took her taste away. A master in the kitchen who tantalized our taste buds with rich, complicated Southern recipes, her love for something as simple as peanut butter crackers evokes memories of Mom that both comfort me and make me want to hug a jar of Jif.

If we are smart, we will grieve like little children. They ask the hard questions outright. “Where did they go?” and “Why?” and “How can we live without them?” They find the answers, too. “They are in heaven.” and “Because God needed more angels.” And “We will see them again some day.”

My niece Anna Kate pulled it all together for us. She discovered Dad’s glasses on a table after he passed away.

“Oh no!” she said. “Paw Paw forgot his glasses!” There he lives, in the memory of his grandchildren, still needing his bifocals to work crossword puzzles. Nana, no doubt, is smiling. She knows he doesn’t need them anymore.

An anonymous quote says, “Do not be afraid that your life will end. Be afraid that it will never begin.” Mom did not fear death. She missed my dad. They started a new life together back in 1961. I like to think they started another in 2007, without plastic wrap, with plenty of peanut butter crackers and the knowledge that here on Earth, they were loved more than words can describe.

I am trying hard to move through the grief, to rejoice in the kind of life they taught me to love. While I falter on a daily basis, there remain solid footholds for the future:

In the splendor of the daffodils, camellias, and daylilies Dad loved.
In the crisp coolness of autumn that my mom cherished.
In music that we savored and books we devoured and stories we told with sidesplitting laughter.
In the memories made by a family cultivated by two people defined by kindness, compassion and love.
In the lesson they exemplified, that God is good, all the time, even when you have to say goodbye.
Especially when you have to say goodbye.

Grief, Never Good

Update...

My mom, Mary Chapman Long, passed away March 4, 2007 due to stomach cancer.

People use the expression "good grief." There is nothing good about it. It is miserable. Grief, in all its twisted stages, proves to me that you can never fully understand how very much you love and care for someone until they are gone.

But...there is comfort and joy in the fact that my mom no longer fights with stomach cancer. She did so courageously, with every intent of winning. We enjoyed the blessing of more time than she would have had without that fight. Her time to leave this earth came, and we were there to see her off.

They died within 37 days of each other, Mom and Dad. Certainly, that is not enough time to grieve for one, then lose the other. We were extraoardinarily close, deeply attached and our family continues to struggle with weekends, the time we almost always gathered at their home in Poplarville to eat, laugh and enjoy time together.

People warned us that Easter would be difficult. Really, not so much more than any other day. If there is any time of year that should remind us of the release from suffering into unbridled happiness that God promises, Easter is it. And the chocolate helps.

As I grieve, I try to mine the memories of our our lives together. I try to recall those moments in time when I felt most loved, when I laughed hardest, when tears came in a flood and finally receded, only to leave me stronger, wiser and glad to be alive.

Mom and Dad. A pair of one-of-a-kinds. Much loved, much admired by so many people.

Good grief, bad grief, I miss them so very much.

Checking in...

Checking in...

For those who follow my newspaper column, let me just say that I hope to write it again. My editors at the American have always been very understanding when I need a break. Or maybe they're relieved?

I am on hiatus while I grieve the loss of my dad and help my mom as she courageously endures the final stages of stomach cancer. These are days filled with emotion, heartache and wonder. Mostly, I wonder how to get through them.

Thank you for your prayers and words of support. For those of you who have lost loved ones to incurable illness, please know that your wisdom and sympathy have provided amazing comfort during this difficult time.

Meanwhile, mend your fences, hug the unhuggable, love like there's no tomorrow and remember those who have passed before us. Embrace all that makes life so wonderful and laugh, laugh, laugh. When your time comes, you'll have no regrets and your family will have a beautiful life to remember.

Enjoy this day...

Kristen

God Bless the NFL

God Bless the NFL

It started out as a disposable relationship. When I needed him for a good time, he was there six months out of the year. Weekends, Monday nights and the occasional Thursday evening, we would meet with friends but seldom alone. The attraction had little to do with him. It was the crowd he could assemble, with chips and beer, laughter and high spirits.

Those were my early years with the NFL.

My friend, Lori, gave me a placard that reads, "We interrupt this marriage to bring you football season!" I resented football. Always, somewhere on cable or satellite or radio there was an NFL game that interfered with my husband's diaper duty or ability to converse in complete sentences.

"Yes, I understand your frustrations with dealing with the kids all day ... Whoa! Did you see that? They got a safety! They got a safety!"

Many weekends have been spent rooting for or commiserating with the New Orleans Saints. My Aunt Ora got us hooked as babies. We've run the gamut from Archie Manning to Bobby Hebert and Morten Andersen and every player who has ever given die-hard fans a splinter of hope that some day the Saints would make it to the Super Bowl.

Watching the NFL games lost its luster because life got hectic. I resented the NFL because it seemed like a huge waste of time to sit glued to the tube for countless hours watching grown men run around in pursuit of that insufferable ball.

Times have changed. My son discovered the male bonding experience that is the NFL. He served as commissioner of his own Fantasy Football League. He can run stats like a bookie.
Ask him about any player today or even some of the retired guys and I guarantee you, he'll know more than is sensible. Through this football junkie kid of mine, I came to know the game in a different light.

When my mom found out she had cancer and as my dad's health took a hard turn for the worse, football season started. Sam delved into team rosters and schedules. He watched games to see how his Fantasy players performed. When the Saints played well, he rejoiced in high fives with his dad and called Aunt Ora as the Saints continued to beat the odds.

Meanwhile, the ups and downs of ailing family members threaded through the season. In hospital rooms and lobbies, John Madden's familiar voice comforted like that of an old friend.
Surprisingly, I found myself more than ready to sit and watch. The NFL and I, we go way back.For once, football felt right. In spite of worry and stress, there was laughter and gladness. Most amazingly, there was hope. The Saints had made the playoffs.

When those NFL players suit up and take the field, I imagine they focus on the job at hand. They have work to do. They face injury and frustration, pain and disappointment. A lot of people depend on them to bring home victory, to take us away from our troubles for awhile.

What I have discovered about my old flame, the NFL, is that in each team's pursuit of a Super Bowl ring, the rest of us find escape and a welcome respite from life's hardships.

It feels fantastic to see your team's running back catch a Hail Mary pass in the end zone.

It feels great to see the underdog win.

It feels downright euphoric to see your 79-year-old aunt jump to her feet and shout with unbridled pleasure while your son does the same, a pair of football nuts gone mad every time the Saints score.

While the Saints marched into their second playoff game, it felt like miracles are possible. And I know they are. Because now I can say that I truly enjoy watching football.

God bless the NFL.

Sail Away with Captain Dad

Sail Away with Captain Dad

Our daughter beseeched us to entertain her.

"Can we do something, like play cards? Watch a movie? Go somewhere?"

My husband and I lay motionless atop the bed covers. It was Saturday. It was cold out, the skies were gray and it seemed obvious to us that the only reasonable form of entertainment would be to leisurely watch the back of our eyelids.

She persisted.

"Come on. I'm bored. Get up. We need to do something."

Somebody groaned. The dogs whimpered. They already were piled high on the bed with us in various states of unconscious indulgence.

"I tell you what," her dad offered. "Let's play 'Boat to Boat.' "

She stomped off, disgusted, while we erupted in unbridled glee and recalled the birth of the best game ever invented.

Her dad concocted "Boat to Boat" many years ago when our then 3-year-old daughter insisted that nothing would do but an activity that involved Dad. He is clever in the ways of creative play.

He taught her to hammer nails into a block of wood. She'd say she was building a fort, a doghouse, maybe a barn. He gave her a rod and reel and showed her how to cast a rubber worm. This worked great until the line got caught.

"Boat to Boat" came about one of those lazy Saturdays when the week at work had left him ready for nothing but some serious R & R. He stretched out for a nap. Katie arrived, wide-eyed and eager to play.

"Whatcha doin', Dad?"

"Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about a nice long nap."

"Dad, I wanna play. Let's play something. Whatcha wanna play?"

"I have an idea," he said sleepily. "How about we pretend this bed is a boat."

She pondered the proposition.

"OK, we're in a boat. Now what?"

"Uh, I think we'll need some stuff for our boat. How about you go get us some stuff?"

She squealed delightedly and he retreated to his quarters. She had an open invitation to drag everything she owned from her room to ours. Her dimples popped like those of a game show host, and she ran off to raid her toy box.

Hours later, I discovered them charting the depths of some faraway ocean. He had donned an authentic captain's hat. They were taking drags on huge plastic cigars and resembled a pair of mobsters who had just looted Toys R Us.

"What in the world happened in here?"

Capt. Dad replied with incredulous surprise.

"Well, we've been playing 'Boat to Boat,' of course," he informed me.

"Yeah, we call dis 'Boat to Boat,' Mommy. It's wots and wots of fun." The first mate snuggled up to the captain.

"And who is going to swab the deck, I mean, clean up this mess?"

Just like that, they both fell asleep, oblivious to everything except the soothing sensation of their seaworthy vessel rocking atop the deep water of some calm and gentle sea. It was the first of many "Boat to Boat" adventures where Capt. Dad always seemed to sail into the Bay of Lost Consciousness.

On that more recent Saturday, we discovered that "Boat to Boat" has since lost its appeal with the first mate. The captain now sails with a crew of poodles. Sometimes, the call of open water fills me with a serious need to join them. When they've settled into a satisfied slumber, I set the anchor, take a deep breath of salty air, and sail away, too. I agree with the captain. It's one of the best games he ever invented.