Attack of the Slutty Sandals!

I hate my feet, I hate your feet, and I probably hate the feet of an innocent child.

Despite my displeasure for the five-toed demons, I live in a world of seasons, so I can’t always hide in layers of poorly-stitched animal skin (faux animal skin, of course…I’m not even sure if that matters, since I feast on slaughtered animals from time to time, but anyhoo, another discussion for another day…).  And in case you were wondering, yes, those would be my quarantined feet in the pictures, circa February/March 2008.

My extreme aversion to all things “feet” begs the obvious question:

-What’s the deal chickadee?  Are you rockin’ some hideous feet?

In my humble opinion, yes, they are definitely hideous (so much so that I won’t dare to post them here), but relatively speaking…who knows?  I mean I don’t have any fungus (at least not on my feet), but with my long droopy toes and “size 9″ measurements, perhaps my feet are…borderline “mannish”?

And then there’s the pesky “stink factor”.  As far as that’s concerned…well let’s just say that after a long day’s work, my feet don’t exactly drip the elixir of a thousand roses, okay? 

In my defense though, the foot-stink is a hell of a lot less pungent that ten years prior.  Like I can still remember the nacho-stench that characterized my teenage “foot years” (by the way, did everyone experience uncharted levels of stinkiness in their teenage years (both in feet and body), or was it only me?).

So here I am, with my slightly mannish, circumstantially smelly feet, faced with another Summer of having to submit to (kill me now, kill me now) “sandals”. 

Sandals and flip-flops pretty much piss me off.  I just can’t see how it’s socially acceptable to air out your feet like that.  Back to my fungus-reference, our feet could be crawling with numerous diseases, and yet it’s okay to release our hazardous foot-bacteria in the atmosphere?  If I were President or Tyrant or Czar, I would demand that everyone’s feet be wrapped up in reinforced rubber, from mid-calf to toe.

As it is, world domination eludes me, so maybe I should buy some frickin’ sandals (I could always keep up with the boots all summer, but my wavery self-esteem would prefer to be ”socially acceptable”).

I’ve already made a couple of attempts to “sandal browse”, and on both occasions I left the store short-of-breath, and searching for a giant donut.

The source of my anxiety is directly related to the wide assortment of this year’s “‘Ho-bag” sandals (note: all of these images are pulled from 2008 collections).  Now maybe I’m not in the fashion “loop”, but were sandals always so slutty?  ‘Cause last year I remember that sensible-flats were the talk of the town, making it a whole lot easier to remain inconspicuous.  But now, the complicated straps, the gaudy sheen, the mammoth heels…it all seems very uncomfortable (and at 5′ 7″, I’ve never felt the need for “heightening).

And so we arrive at my Catch-22:

-Am I more concerned with comfort, or looking sexy? 

Well for someone who’s desperate to find herself a man, perhaps I should be erring on the side of “sexy”.  In the end it’s even more than just looking sexy, since a lot of men openly admit to a foot-fetish (to the extent of feverishly humping well-adorned feet in public (seriously it happens, I’ve seen it with my own tainted eyes…)). 

Well attention-whore that I am, it is not enough to quietly observe as the “Foot-Feeding Frenzy” ensues, so maybe it’s time for my first pair of strappy sandals.

If I do indeed partake in this inevitable discomfort, I only ask one thing of my future boyfriend: please don’t ever, ever EVER wear man-sandals (or any foot-exposing shoes, up to and including Crocs (ugh…)).  I mean I know that guys get sweaty and like to release their feet on those humid days, but the gross-out factor is far too much for me to handle. 

Seriously, what’s grosser than hairy man-feet?  A baboon’s reddish ass?  An elephant’s wrinkly balls?  Perhaps, but not a lot else…

The “Man-Ponytail”: Y/N?

The world seems to work in mysterious ways, and I’m starting to think that karma’s a bitch.  The latest example comes directly from my very own blog…

Two posts ago a reader commented on the incidence of men with ponytails, and after loudly exclaiming my anti “man-tail” views, I was karma-slapped by a “manly mane” encounter, not even a week later…

…Imagine a busy street corner, right at the peak of the morning rush.  Tack on a warming sun and a boisterous breeze, and there you have the scene of my trauma…

…The traffic light was red and I patiently stood there waiting to cross.  My surroundings were a semi-conscious blur (as is usually the case “pre latte”), but suddenly the setting sharpened, in a shocking and horrific way:

-I was hit in the face with a “man-ponytail”

Did I mention the boisterous breeze?  Well let’s just say that this man-ponytail had serious wings.  FOUR TIMES I was lashed in the face by his manly locks, with my innards squirming in agony.

It was a terrible moment, one that I wanted banned from my permanent memory (like the time I pooed my pants at a wedding), but as the morning wore on my mind become obsessed with the mane, and every “manly mane” for that matter…

Here’s my position on man-ponytails: I hate those nasty “danglers”, and I wouldn’t date a man who had one.  Surely this sounds judgmental, but the source of my hatred has always been a popular stereotype fact: man-ponytails (at least the long ones) are associated with greasiness, smelliness, and a colony of head-lice. 

So wouldn’t you imagine my surprise when the ponytail that whipped me didn’t possess these traits?  Not only was his waist-length pony-tail soft, but it smelled of papayas and luscious berries.  Despite his ponytail credentials, I almost projectile vomited on his back when his tail started hitting my face.

My continued abhorrence left me with the following quandary:

-If a man-ponytail is groomed and soft and luscious (but ugly), am I still allowed to shun the men that have them?  And if I do, what does that make me?  A superficial beyotch?  And if so, what right do I have to be a superficial beyotch, when I’m nothing more than a desperate dried out “hoo-ha” surrounded by a 27-year-old semi-crazy chick?

You can imagine how these questions haunt my soul, and to think that it all started with a careless comment…

So I guess it’s time for a long hard look in the mirror, to try and figure out if the well-groomed ponytail men are indeed dateable entities, or completely off my list (along with relatives, chimps, and chicks (well mostly…))

In the meantime, I wonder what the people out there think of man-ponytails…hmm?  (to help in your decision, I’ve peppered this post with unbiased, neutral ponytail pics)

Kitchen Sex-capades

I have this recurring “kitchen fantasy” in my head, and because I’ve seen it in movies, I know I can make it happen.

It’s a classic scene from an everyday romantic comedy; it’s the one where the guy and the girl are baking together in the kitchen. They’ve only been friends up ’til now, but they’re up to their ears in sexual tension. As the girl is busy kneading the dough for the cookies, the guy starts to get “excited” (naturally). Feeling that a “move” is in order, he grabs a handful of flour and tosses it at the girl (*gasp!*). She responds with an assault of Hershey’s chocolate chips. The next thing you know, they’re pouring buttermilk all over each other’s bits, and having sex on the kitchen counter (oh wait, I think that’s a different kind of movie…).

Okay so maybe I need to calm down a little, but I still want my “kitchen moment” in the sun. I’m not even sure why the “kitchen fantasy” stands out against the rest. Maybe it’s because it’s super-sexy when a guy helps out in the kitchen. And then when you add “ingredient fights” to the mix, all bets are off.

The closest I ever came to a “kitchen sex-capade” was in 2004.  It was my last year of university, and I was totally in love with this dude in my Marketing class. One afternoon we decided to have a “cutesy” date at his house (and yes I was skipping class, but whatever, I earned my degree so it’s all good).  Not a lot was happening between us “action wise”, so we started to make some popcorn, and that’s when things heated up . It was the kind of popcorn that comes with a packet of “cheese sauce”.  Well you all know the best way to stir in the cheese sauce don’t you?

You mix it in with your hands, your bare freakin’ hands!

And so, we mixed, together.

OH…MY…GOD.

What can I say? It was hot, and no I’m not talking about the sauce.

Just when it seemed that some “kitchen-love” was on the menu, in walked his roommate with a rude disposition and a craving for popcorn.

And just like that, our kitchen romp was tossed to the curb like yesterday’s trash…

…Well that was then, but today I face a challenge of a different sort. The truth is, there’s no one who I’ve been seeing/crushing on, and believe me it’s hard to just kidnap a random fella and force him to bake some bread.

Which means my home-base kitchen is out…but what about the kitchen at work?

Well I know we have a microwave in the office-kitchen, so that’s a start. I even think there’s a decrepit oven that hasn’t been opened since 1996 (and possibly has an emaciated “oven troll” living inside it).

So I’ve got the setting, but what should I cook? Well considering I’ll be at work, it’ll be really weird if I start to whip up a batch of cookies. I need something a lot more sensible…like a lunch-food item.

Whatever it is, it better be sexy, ’cause my goal is the following:

-Get a male co-worker to stop in his tracks, observe my sexy cooking, offer to help me out, and after a couple of minutes of inappropriate touching, carry me away to an abandoned office.

So what’s a good “sexy cooking food?”…

…Well when I was a kid, I always remember how my mom would huddle over the kitchen sink, and skin the raw chicken that would later become the meat in her delectable curry sauce. And no I’m not saying I was “turned on” by my mom, but as I picture the texture of the chicken and the motion of the skinning, I realize just how sexy it is.

Just think: you’re a worker-dude and you stroll by the office kitchen, only to find a cool-looking chick skinning juicy hunks of slimy meat, and occasionally wiping the sweat from her brow…pretty hot right?

Yeah I know.

And if anyone questions me for hijacking the kitchen to cook myself some meat, I’ll bust out a doctor’s note, the one that describes my dangerously “low iron” (the sheer uncomfortableness of discussing medical issues will prevent anyone from asking me why I don’t cook the chicken at home…HA!).

Ahhh…another perfect “Romi Approved” plan.

Well anyway tomorrow’s Monday and I’m fresh out of raw chicken, so I better make my way to the grocery store…

Show Me Your “Goods”!

I was sitting in Starbucks this morning when a middle-aged man walked in. He took a seat across from me, and so began my hormonally-charged observations…

…His face was okay (i.e. free of deformities/extra eyes), but that wasn’t enough to go on.

I needed to examine his body. This was not an easy task, considering he was cloaked in a loose-fitting dress shirt, loose-fitting trousers and a bulky blazer. I didn’t understand all the excess; like how was I supposed to judge his “chisel factor” when he was wearing enough square-feet of textile to clothe a small country’s children?

And that’s when I had a realization:

-Men aren’t pressured enough into showing their bodies in public.

Take the Starbucks-Man for example. In his big bulky suit, I had zero sense of his “firmness of bottom”, “bicep-girth”, or “package-significance”. All I could really see was that he had a fondness for embroidered ties that looked like they were sewn from the scraps of an Arabian mogul’s drape collection. And on that note: what on earth is the point of a tie? A tie is the #1 piece of clothing that has absolutely no purpose, so why are men allowed to wear them?

Women on the other hand wear clothes with a focused purpose; we take great care to assign our clothing important jobs: the low-cut tops make our boobs look bigger, the special undies make our bum look curvier, and the skirts show the world that we have legs (and aren’t afraid to use them). Of course it’s not “required” for chicks to objectify themselves like slabs of meat in the butcher’s store-front window, but when searching for a man, whoring self-promotion is highly recommended.

So back to the Starbucks man (or any man for that matter): I really believe that men should start assigning “jobs” to their clothing. Once this is complete, the women of the world will be able to judge them accordingly!

So listen up men: official clothing choices will remain in your discretion, but if you’re short on ideas, how about some super-tight-pants for a start? Bicycle shorts are a viable option for Summer, but whatever you choose, make it tight, so we can rate your bum (and package) in one quick shot.

And if tight pants aren’t your thing, how about some ultra low-rise jeans? That way you can tease us chicks with just the right amount of “ball cleavage” (assuming it’s landscaped of course). I know this seems like a shocking notion, but it illustrates my point: men have been covering up for way too long, while women have been putting on the racy show.

Now does it have to be “ball-cleave”? Maybe…maybe not, but it’s time for the men to show some “bod”.

So what do you say guys? Let’s start to see a little more of “you”…

The “Back-Up” Boyfriend

Two nights back, I was having some drinks with the girls.

Whilst they chatted on about Summer ‘08 “must-have looks”, and whilst I stared at them inappropriately (I know they’re girls, but there’s nothing wrong with “experimental gazing”), they asked me a surprising question:

“Romi, who’s your back-up?”

“Huh?”

“You know, like your back-up “go-to guy”, if you don’t find the one you’re looking for.”

…

My WHAT!?!?!?!

I was stunned and speechless (for once in my life).

As much as I failed to utter the words, in my mind the response was screaming like the blare of a siren:

-Why would I have a back-up? I’m looking for Mr. Right, not Mr. BLAH!!!

But could it be…is there a chance….that I WON’T find Mr. Right??? (excuse me while I hyper-ventilate)

While the optimist in me refuses to consider failure, let me at least entertain the notion…

…So where do these “back ups” come from? Do all of us ladies have them (and fellas too)? Are they these nervous, sweaty “forever friends” sitting on the sidelines, hoping we’ll set them free from our “No Bang” zone?

If that’s the way it works, then I might even have a few…

…For starters, there was a boy in high school, who happened to fall for my many charms. At the time I wasn’t anything to look at, but he said that he just LOVED my personality. He also said that he could picture the two of us talking for the rest of our lives (I know, “talking”?….nevertheless, I assure you he wasn’t gay).

Unfortunately for him, I was very “non-commital” at age 17, so I reported him to the cops (but wished him all the best). It’s been ten years, but maybe there’s a shrine to me in his mother’s basement…should I call him?

There’s also a guy I used to work with. He was very socially awkward, but loved me because I’m awesome. We lived near the same stretch of town, so we’d ride the train home together. After several weeks of this (and by “this” I mean: carrying the load of conversation whilst he stared at me lovingly), I’d had enough.

So I decided to escape from the situation, by pulling a “Jason Bourne”.

If you haven’t seen the Bourne movies, the “Jason Bourne” is basically the “lost in the crowd” effect. That is, we’d arrive at the bustling station, and as a swarm of a thousand people would head for the doors, I’d suddenly stop mid-stride, and count to 3. After 3 full seconds, he’d be meters and meters ahead of me. After “losing him”, I’d sit in a different train-car, basking in my sneaky success (does that make me a bitch?). I’m sure he still knows where I live; maybe I should open my bedroom window one of these nights, and give him a hearty wave…

I have another back-up, and this one is totally current (like as of last week). I noticed him on a recent grocery store visit. I was wearing my slutty work-out pants, and picking up some cereal (it wasn’t my favourite brand (i.e. Cheerios), but it happened to be on sale for the “drop your baby” price of $1.99…).

The key to this encounter was my slutty work-out pants (slutty work-out pants are the key to a lot of things).

As I exited the store, I heard a not-so-manly voice coming from my right:

“Pull down your pants”, it said. I turned and saw what looked to be a thugged-out 15-year-old, hunkering alone in the dark. I smiled and continued walking, knowing that I’ve “stilllll got it”.

Now you’re probably wondering: “Why isn’t the sideways-baseball-cap wearing thug on your A-List?”. That’s a good question, and the answer is simple: he’s under-age, and an arrest/stint at a women’s correctional facility would get in the way of finding Mr. Right. Hence, I’ll keep him on the back-up list (for now…)

So those are my back-ups, but like I said, I’m not even ready to admit that I should HAVE a back-up. Because of this apparent denial defiance, my answer to my friends went like this:

“This chick don’t play for the silver medal”

My friends swiftly told me to “shove it”, and instructed me to have some shots.

I complied.

Now while the alcohol kept me quiet for the night (though it usually has the opposite effect), I’m sober again, and you heard it here first:

-I’m going for the gold, no matter how many performance-enhancing estrogen pills it takes.

So there.

(the only question now is: could it be that I’M someone’s “back-up”??? Hmm…)