Reality Vs. Fantasy: Tabletop Edition

Today starts a new semi-regular series about delusion.

Holidays are coming up. Yeah, I said holiday not Christmas because there’s more to fall and winter than Christmas. You wanna make something of it? Thanksgiving is up first and I have folders and folders and folders of INSPIRATION just waiting for me to, um, be inspired. And I do get inspired. Oh, do I get inspired. Then? Well, reality sets in. And I realize that carefully gold-leafing each individual leaf of ten artichokes and then using organic thread which I have dyed myself to hand-embroider each family member’s name on said gilded artichoke for beautiful, meaningful place markers IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. EVER.

So I go have a little cocktail and hope everyone will enjoy a holiday dinner of frozen pecans and pimento cheese.

 

But I Really Do Like Pie

Y’all, I need a sister wife. My husband would like for her to be Cindy Crawford. I don’t care as long as I can get some help cleaning these damn floors.

ASIDE: Who puts white floors in kitchens and bathrooms? People who either don’t eat; don’t, um, bathroom; don’t have children; or do have an OCD sister wife.

Okay, I guess what I really want is a maid, not a sister wife. EXCEPT a sister wife would be nice when my honey wants to talk about hats. My husband likes a well-made hat. You’d probably have to pay a maid extra for that. Maybe what I need is a personal assistant. I know that’s what he needs. Someone paid to remember things for him and listen to him talk about hats. I say that as if I don’t ever talk about things he doesn’t want to talk about. My personal assistant would do nothing but reassure me I do not look like a sea creature in profile and that those jeans do, indeed, make my butt look good better.

My personal assistant would also make sure we have an array of stamps in varying rates. Do you ever have a postcard stamp when you need one? No, no you do not. He or she would be responsible for me in the grocery store.  I spend a ridiculous amount of time deciding what laundry detergent and body lotion to buy. And you know that section right there with all the sort of laundry implements, tool-type stuff, and tape? I am mesmerized by that section. You’d think I’d never seen electrical tape and clothespins before.  He or she would also be responsible for reminding me whether I like butt or shank ham better. There’s a price difference, but Lord, it’s ham. Isn’t it all just smoked ass?

My personal assistant would also write a new bio for me anytime I have to do something that requires a bio. I know, you don’t need to tell me. I KNOW I write. I should be able to do it myself. I should have a standard one I pull out for emergency bio occasions. I don’t. Sometimes you want snappy, sometimes you want competent, sometimes you want one that makes you look 20 pounds lighter. I would rather pose for nekkid pictures than write a biography paragraph. When I go to write one, all of a sudden I lose my ability to form sentences like an adult:

My name is Susan Wilson. I am from Laurel, Mississippi. I live in Memphis, Tennessee. I like pie.

My assistant would also be responsible for assuring me that whatever sound I just heard was nothing. The roof is not caving in, there is no monster/rapist/clown/politician lurking in the shadows waiting to eat me/rape me/make me watch balloon animal creation/crawl up in my uterus.

ANOTHER ASIDE: You know how your sheets and blankets have magical powers? Monsters, it’s a well-known, proven scientific fact, cannot eat you as long as no part of your body slips beyond the borders of your bedclothes. The top of your head is an exception. It’s a well-known, proven scientific fact monsters DO NOT start eating at the top of your head.  They start with feet. If no feet are to be found, they move on to your brother’s room.

My assistant would also be responsible for standing behind me and reminding me I was going to talk about something else today. And also what that something else was.

I would also like my assistant to be called Magda.

An Open Letter To Shoes

Dear Shoes,

I hate you.

I thought about ending the letter there, but I’ve got a lot of hostility built up right now. I’ve just ordered two pairs of shoes because I have–LITERALLY– one pair of shoes appropriate for my life in Autumn and Winter. I’m about to make some career gal on a budget extremely happy when I dump all the pumps and grown up shoes from my Former Life off at Goodwill.

I will admit most of the problem is mine. I have kite-shaped feet. Diamond shaped, when I’m feeling fancy. I don’t feel fancy right now. What I feel is dismayed at this, this, thing called a “shootie” that is the unholy spawn of an open-toed FMP and an ankle boot. The FMP ship sailed for me years ago. YEARS ago. Like during the Clinton administration. Why does this shootie need to exist? WHY? Oh, wait. I know. It’s for when I’m bloated, right? The open toe says, “Hay sailor, take you to heaven for a dollar,” but the boot says, “as soon as I finish watching Terms of Endearment and this bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Miniatures. And that can of Pringles. And are you gonna finish that burger? Do I look gross? DO I?!”

Shoes, I know women who would give up sex to go shopping for you. Women who call you their best friends. I don’t actually like any of those women, I’m just saying they exist. There are women who swoon at the mere mention of Manolo. Me? Well, let’s just say there’s this set of copper cookware I’ve been eyeing that I’d let get to second base.

I’m not saying I want to look like that librarian who scared the crap out of you in third grade. I want to look like a girl from the ankle down, sure. But, shoes, you know I’m flat-footed and therefore have no balance. Most of what’s out there sends me careening into doorways, making my ankles do a decent Linda Blair impression, and causing most people to believe I go through life drunk when that’s only true like 30% of the time.

I just ordered two pairs of you. They arrived today. They were not transformative shoes. These shoes are like the Temple of shoes. The Yale of shoes didn’t work out. I wanted Payton Manning. I got Kerry Collins.  I want to send them back, but…

I hate you. And while I’m on the subject, why has the circumference of boots decreased like a million inches in the past five years? I don’t, strangely enough, have huge calves, but your Barbie-sized boots give me YET ANOTHER body part to obsess over. THANKS, BITCHES.

Look, I’m probably going to keep these shoes because I don’t think I can do any better. But I want you to know this: I will pummel you. I will crush you. I will throw you in the back of the closet. I will run in you.

I WILL MAKE YOU PAY, SHOES. I WILL MAKE YOU PAY.

Heartsies,

Susan