An Invitation to my Readers

I’m hoping you all are enjoying my funny stories and various other adventures. If I made you laugh today then I have done my job and feel really good about spreading joy and positivity in this world. I would like to extend my Thank You to you, my readers, for following me. And I would like to invite you on a new adventure – I wish to start a homestead and educational farm here in New England (which I am sure will be an endless source of funny stories!) and I am asking for your help in doing so. If this sounds like something you feel like you may wish to support than by all means please visit my GoFundMe page: https://www.gofundme.com/help-fund-an-educational-farm

Thanks again!

Objects · Uncategorized

Shoes – Violently Named, Globally Adored

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAIt was three in the morning, or maybe four, or five. Point is I hadn’t slept and I was here, at a friend’s house, having a tremendous session with her and her cousin when I was asked, “What’s up with the shoes?” I looked down at my bright red Converse All Stars and for the life of me couldn’t answer. I had been wearing them since I was in third grade. They’d become almost a second skin. How was I supposed to know why I wore them now?? After much contemplation I decided it was because I have flat feet and am poor. I joke, but really, I love these iconic shoes and am rarely in something different.


The only other shoes which compete for my heart are my pair of muck boots – sturdy rubber monstrosities that look like hell but allow me to waddle through the most leech infested of swamps (should I choose to!) They’re not the ugliest shoes I have ever seen – that would have to go to a pair of neon green leopard spotted brothel creepers I think would have lightened up any Salvation Army. Those started a whole different conversation. Why are they called brothel creepers? Do brothels need to be creeped into? And by wcreeper-2hom? Apparently British sailors after World War II. Because if anything goes with bellbottoms and a superfluous amount of buttons it’s really weird thick rubber shoes… Brings a whole new meaning to, “You should wear your rubbers!” but I digress, no need for historical VD jokes this early in my blog.


Since this diversion into hshitkickersistory I have been thoroughly amused by all sorts of names for shoes, more so than the shoes themselves. Shit-kickers. Depending what you think a shit-kicker is probably says a lot about your class. If you think a shit-kicker is a high-healed ankle boot made for certain sexually voracious women you’re probably middle or upper class. If you think shit-kickers are steal toed boots… well you might be part of the mob, or lower class, or just someone who likes kicking the shit out of people. It’s a lot like a wife-beater. If you’re poor men wear wife beaters. If you’re middle class men and women can wear tank tops. If you’re upper class only women wear them and they’re called camisoles. But back to shoes…



Brothel creepers and shit kickers are wonderfully colorful names but they pale in comparison to knee-high fuck-me boots. Once, when I found myself searching for a pair, in another fucked up story I am sure I will illuminate you with later, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out whhhhy I was calling them this. Were they really called this or was I being unseemly again? Oh thank God, it’s not me. Now watch me toddle off with a pair, laughing too hard to stand. kneehigh

And since we’re talking about fuck-me boots I must also make a small detour for stilettos. It seems English speaking people have lost the meaning of stiletto, to them it’s just a high healed shoe, but actually the word stiletto refers to a very specific pick-ax like knife that was once used by medieval Italians to assassinate each other in the street without anyone noticing. Apparently one good stab under the ribs from behind would kill and provide an escape into a crowd before anyone realizes someone’s been stabbed! So now you know – shoes based on deadly weapons are sexy. Or something…

The only other pair of shoes I distinctly remember wearing were a pair of moccasins I got as pass downs all winter long. It should be noted right now that although I grew up poor I was neither of Native American ancestry or poor enough to have to wear something I plucked out of a donation box. I have no answer as to why I insisted on this for so long, slogging through the snow as they got dripping wet, their little frayed leather tassels drooping under the moisture, as I pitter pattered into the school making themoccassin soft slapping sound of a duck’s feet on tile. My teacher made note of this, though by this time I was already that kid and none of my peers said anything. Yup. So ends tonight’s musing on shoes.