So, I bought these shoes that are aggressively twinkly. Whoa. Twinkly. Immensely twinkly. Twinkly with extreme prejudice, brotherrrrr. I was drawn to them like a magpie, and now I am struggling with the repercussions. First, there's the fine print on the bottoms of the soles that says I need to learn how to foxtrot to be permitted to wear 'em. Second, if I master the foxtrot, I'm going to need to learn how to throw my head back gaily when I laugh--these are those kinds of shoes (please mail me potent painkillers to help ease the agony of the whiplash I get as I practice this advanced maneuver). Third, can I accessorize with the robots? Can I wear them as earrings or do I need to go with elegant studs or classic small hoops (robots please, robots please)? Fourth, am I allowed to shamble along in my usual early cavewoman slouch-walk when I wear these shoes? Must I carry myself like a lady? Dear lord, these twinkly shoes will be the death of me.
As I was looking at the shoes, innocent of the post-purchase trouble ahead, I made an aisle-chum. This often happens in thrift stores--intense little conversations bloom as densely as REO Speedwagon tour t-shirts. So, there we were, looming up in each other's thrifting zones, and she was talking to herself. Loudly. A pistol-packin' tattooed brick house of a mama that I want backing me up in my next barroom brawl. (And by the way, what's with all of these barroom brawls I keep anticipating? It's the fault of the movies. I'm ready to jump on someone's back and put my hands over their eyes, it has just never been required of me...) Thin Lizzy would be playing on the jukebox and she'd be the first to grab a pool cue, but at that moment she was pushing a cart down the thrift store aisles mournfully saying, "I'm talking to myself, and I ain't got no money in the bank...I'm talking to myself and I ain't got no money in the bank." As I passed by her, clutching the nefarious twinkle-toe shoes in my hot little hand, she turned up the volume of her plaint and looked at me. "Hi! How are you doing?" didn't seem like the right reply because she was already on the record for not having any money in the bank and engaging in self-banter. So, I said, "I talk to myself a lot, too. Hey, we're good company for ourselves, huh?" and she smiled and she said, "I'm talking to myself and I ain't got no money in the bank." I nodded, and we passed out of each other's lives.
Then, yesterday I was scooting around the house at coffeed-up warp speed--talking to the Internet tech support guy (I have a "trouble ticket" whatever that means), sorting through some boxes, cleaning, working, blah blah, and I THWAMP my head on the vicious underedging of a cupboard door and there is an awful melon-dropping-on-pavement sound and I holler out a very bad word that involves a female parent. LOUDLY. To myself, I thought, until I looked out the front door and saw the neighbors and their dog sprinting down the driveway away from me. Apparently, they had just dropped off some misdirected mail and had witnessed my self-banter. The husband was covering the ears of the dog. I am very embarrassed. If you do not hear from me again, I will be in hiding. Practicing the foxtrot.