I Got Plenty Of Sole Inside! (Unfortunately It's Way Too Squishy)

Both pairs of my beloved Birkenstocks have seen a better day. I really did try to equally distribute the gift of potent Elasticwaistbandlady foot sweat between them, but they're still weathered down to a point where the insides look like Tiny Tim's teeth after he's been on a licorice bender while tiptoeing through the tulips.

The Birkenstock Two have lost all ability to properly grip my massive feet. So consequently I struggle when I'm walking to keep my tootsies from sliding around. They also make unholy armpit fart noises from the foot friction. I've grown weary of laughing off the embarrassment and telling people that I opted for shoe insoles manufactured by the Whoopee Cushion company.

I don't enjoy shoe shopping at all. If I could get my house full of mini-Infidels to work like little sweatshop elves-cobbling together shoes- I'd happily take that option over dragging myself to the store.

Luckily, I found these tanned leather beauties that scream out "MIDDLE-AGED MAMA!" while replacing my oldest daughter's black EMO shoes that sprung a leak last month. (I think she wore them down from constantly polishing them. I have weird kids with weird shoe fetishes)

Since Ross Dress For Less discount stores don't offer complimentary hose footies for trying on shoes, I snagged my new sandals without even giving them a trial run through the bargain lingerie section.

The first day of ownership I wore them to Church without incident. The second time I slipped them on though, I noticed an odd "SSSSSSSSSSS" sound that followed me everywhere I went.

I keep losing steam as I age, but I'm not losing air. My mind kept nagging me. Maybe I did have a slow leak somewhere? Well, I wasn't about to stick the tire pressure gauge in any of my holes to find out!

Perhaps my Made In India shoes came specially equipped with a bunch of baby snakes inside, and that's them in there, hissing with each step I take?

I exhausted all logical possibilities and finally concluded that the annoying sound was emanating from the ridiculously puffy sandal insole.

Terrific. Now the first impression I make when I sashay into a room will be my lifelike impression of air whooshing out of a padded, cushiony toilet seat when you plop down on it.

How will I ever win the Hide-And Seek Grand Championship when my shoes betray my location with every step? 

These sandals have been rejected by the Stealth Ninja Society and The National Library Association.

*I kept the 10 sticker inside so I could show any doubters that I am and always will be a PERFECT 10!*

Won't Santa Be Surprised To See 'Eunuch' On Wish Lists This Year??!!??

Yeah, true enough, having a personal eunuch really would be awesomeness personified. I mean you could utilize them in the way that sultans and emperors alike did for centuries and have them guard your personal harem or station them next to your glowing fireplace as an interestingly exotic conversation starter when entertaining your friends and family this holiday season. Won't your snobby neighbor, Bob just keel over with jealousy at the sight of your fancy new eunuch??!!?

Before you rush out and grab the first eunuch that comes your way just bear this fact in mind: There's a tag attached to the back of every eunuch stipulating that they're DRY CLEAN ONLY. Scrubbing them up with simple soap and water will only lead to additional shrinkage and don't nobody want to see that.

Luckily, theres a cleaning service that specializes in the particular grooming needs of the average eunuch-- A place where eunuchs don't mind getting hung out to dry. Why else would they name their establishment UNIK Cleaners? Obviously the owners were just too cheap to spring for the additional letters to make their neon sign read properly as 'Eunuch Cleaners' but I'm sure that doesn't detract in the slightest from their dedication to producing gleaming, bright eunuchs spit-polished until they sparkle.....thanks UNIK Cleaners!

*The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas would soon leave a shiny new eunuch there. But please be sensitive to the feelings of eunuchs this Christmas season and don't sing Jingle Bells or Silver Bells around them. They loathe songs that remind them of ding-a-lings.*

Very Short And Funny Eunuch Commercial Here

A Lite Version Of The Smiling Infidel!

Sometimes, when me and my Infidel posse go to the store, we find that the automatic doors won't open no matter how hard we jump up and down on the rubber mats lining the entryway. I always tell my mini-Infidels that it means I'm way too skinny for the automated system to register that I'm standing on it, and that signifies a need for a quadruple banana split...STAT! Yeah, I'm just like the big, bad wolf standing outside the door, stomping vigorously on the mat while bellowing, "Let Me In! Let Me In! Or I'll Huff And I'll Puff..." Well, see, all that physical exertion does make me huff and puff. A lot.

My tribe of mini-Infidels insist that it doesn't, in fact, mean that I'm too divinely petite to trigger the automatic doors. They think it means that the store is actually closed. Such heathen liars! Heathen liars that ain't getting none of my banana split, might I add.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm A Perfect 10

Bo Derek and I have a lot in common. Yes, we both share the enviable quality of having attained perfect "10" status. I tried to solidify our special connection by buying one of those hand held hair beader gizmo thingies to replicate the Bo Derek look. Ummm, something went disastrously wrong as it entangled my hair, wrapping it tightly around my throat as I struggled to dislodge this tool of the Devil and avoid beaded hair strangulation. Seriously. I very nearly didn't survive the experience, but I guess that's the price you pay when you're maintaining a perfect 10 lifestyle.

I've never shown many photographs of myself around here but now is your chance to take a glimpse into my perfect 10 kind of world.

Yes, those are my new shoes. As you can see, I didn't mislead you. I am a perfect 10, and I have the shiny sticker to prove it! And yes, the brand is White Mountain. Oh, the irony because I am indeed a massive mountain of white. Some have the mistaken notion that being a perfect 10 is all glitz and glamour but they couldn't be more wrong. When you're a perfect 10 the odds are stacked against you to find a really cute pair of shoes at the storewide clearance sale racks. When you're a perfect 10 all eyes turn to you to go and squish the giant cockroach scurrying across the floor. You know, because Mother Nature endowed you with naturally ginormous stomping arsenal. When you're a perfect 10, you go as a clown for Halloween because the dainty Cinderella costume glass slipper shattered in your hand when you tried to wedge your sweaty, behemoth foot inside of it. It seems that society has a scale for everything and I tip those scales in more ways than one.

My four daughters aspire to one day follow in my shoes and to also become perfect 10's. They literally, have some really big shoes to fill to accomplish this.