Ugh, Ugg

Ugh, Ugg

            Black ones. White ones. Tan ones. Brown ones. One fish. Two fish. Red Fish. Blue fish. To wear them up, or down, or up, or possibly….tucked in? The inevitable question. In fact, they’re everywhere. In the arctic snows of Alaska. In the beachy Californian sun. And yes, in the Midwest, where fashion is always a staple of utmost interest. Ugh...Ugg boots.

            Gaining popularity among adolescents as a “trendy” thing to wear, Ugg boots have not gone away. No, no, no. They are now everywhere, appearing on the feet of girls who are still eating sand on the playground all the way up to women who wish they were young enough to eat sand on the playground.

            How many alpacas and llamas will be shaved naked before we put a stop to this terrible crime of animal abuse? Because I guarantee that no llama would be caught dead in a pair of those boots. If he did, all of the other reindeer wouldn’t let poor llama join in any reindeer games, that’s for sure.

            And have you looked at the price tag for a pair of those shoes? I’ve never seen a set that sells for less than $200 retail. Hell, I’ll go out in the backyard now and shave my Labrador Retriever, Lassie, hot glue her yellow fur on the inside of a pair of boots I got at Goodwill and call it a day. It wouldn’t look that much different, right?

            The cold season is upon us, I’m afraid, and with it, more questionable fashion choices. When the frigid air hits, the brain freezes, too.

Well, I’m off to find Lassie….here doggy, doggy,

Perfect Vision

Execute, Explore, Experiment, Exile, Repeat

Why do we call a significant other whom we’re no longer with an “ex”? Is it because we’re "ex"tremely "ex"cited to be ride of them? Hardly. Ben and Jerry’s should give me a holiday bonus for all the "ex"cess pints of Chubby Hubby and Chunky Monkey I bought the year Jeff cheated on me with his co-worker, Fransisco.

Are we "ex"asperated? Most likely. I won’t even go into detail about Anthony, the "ex"cellent defense attorney and poor "ex"cuse of a boyfriend. I could barely ever get a word in to "ex"press myself, "ex"cept in bed. Oh wait, not even then. The time he answered his cell phone for the Japanese gangster was the worst. My patience for him had "ex"pired like a can of moldy, fishy tuna. I knew the relationship was doomed from then on. Every time he tried to get frisky, my head "ex"ploded, “Iie! Iie! No! No!”

Sometimes though, a break up is "ex"actly what we need. Take Bill, "ex"travagent in every way, yet completely "ex"hausting. I was accepted for a summer internship in New York City and quite frankly, "ex"ceptionally glad to be rid of him and let the relationship "ex"tinguish. A week in, he showed up at my doorstep and got down on one knee with a ring he’d gotten from a Cracker Jack box, eyes wide with "ex"pectations. Oh yeah, and did I mention that we’d been together for two weeks?! Goodbye Bill. That one taught me that I needed to be "ex"tra ready before getting into a serious relationship.

There are times when a fling turns out to be an "ex"periment. Tyler, what a sweetie. Always was on time. Always got me a dozen roses. And did I mention Tyler was absolutely gorgeous, "ex"uberant and "ex"otic? She will be a perfect match for someone someday. But not for me.

What’s so "ex"traordinary about love, anyway? Are we really "ex"traterrestrials who aren’t meant to stay together? Or do we "ex"pect to get hurt, so we stop trying? Humans do know a couple of facts. Love is "ex"emplary in its hold on our souls. Love is an "ex"halation of passion and companionship all at once. We must "ex"terminate those in our lives who don’t "ex"emplify our definition of what love is. But the truth is, no one can really "ex"plain why we call our past lovers “ex”s. We can only "ex"amine how we feel. And "ex"ercise after eating ten pints of Chunky Monkey ice cream.
Have "ex"ceedingly "ex"plosive "ex"cursions, all,
Perfect Vision

The Skies Are Full of 'Em

I squirm in this uncomfortable chair wishing I was anyplace but here. I'm completely bored. I've already looked at all the magazines. I bought some overpriced coffee. I even finished my book.

I am stranded in the threshold of hell. The airport.

Anyone who has had an extended layaway at an airport knows that besides watching planes fly high in the sky and sneaking a smoke in the bathroom, there's not much to keep one occupied. You have to make your own entertainment. Well, you're already stuck here until your flight leaves. Might as well make your time at the airport good by watching all the goons that walk by.

There are three types of people you'll run into at an airport at any given time or location.

1. The Zombie in a Suit:
This is the guy who's here on business and has a million frequent flier miles racked up. He whips out his cell every two seconds. What he's doing on that cellphone to occupy his time is something I don't want to know. He probably knows the pilot by name and has canoodled with several of those perky flight attendants. He's suave and smooth, but way too suave and smooth. Don't let him near your girlfriend or your wallet.

2. The Parent Who's In Way Over Their Head:
Every mommy and daddy wants a vacation for their young ones to remember forever. So they pack up their sippy cups, Mickey Mouse ears and bottles of Advil to embark on a fabulous Disney World trip. What they didn't anticipate was the airport hassle. And that their kids would be a nuisance. To everyone within a twenty mile radius. I've got to give these troopers credit though. I wouldn't even think of totting two twin tornadoes to the airport with me in a million years. This pair get a gold star for having nerves of steel.

3. The Nervous Flier:
I spot one right now. Over there by the toilets. He's got one hand on the Pepto Bismol and the other on the blanket his Nana gave him when he was four. He hates flying and wishes he were anywhere other than here. His face is green and his eyes red from weeping last night.  If anyone in this airport needs a hug right now, it's this poor sap. I wonder what traumatizing experience pitted him against flying? Maybe his wife left him for a pilot? Or maybe he saw Cast Away? I make a mental note to slip the guy some vodka on my way to the loo.

Ding. Ding. Finally. My flight is boarding. I step in line behind the Zombie in a Business Suit and am ahead of the Parents Who Are In Way Over Their Heads. Mr. Nervous Flier is approaching and gives me a small grin. I return it. Then his face turns green and he spews chunks all over the ground at my feet.

Note to self: Never give another Nervous Flier vodka before boarding the plane.

Keep your eyes to the skies my friends,
Perfect Vision