I'm Putting Summer in a Jar

The first day of fall is September 22nd. There are twenty three days left of "official" summertime. There are six days left until my children go back to school. (Wait, am I the only one who hears a choir of angels singing?) There are only five days left in which I can wear white without my friend Nica pointing and gasping and just about hyper-freakin' ventilating.  She's my Miss Manners go-to-gal for all things dignified and proper. An infraction of the "no white after the first Monday of every September" would result in my banishment to the "Island of Misfits" for the crime of "fashion faux pas." I'm pretty sure it's a special kind of hell where I'd be surrounded by fanny packs, pants with elastic waistbands and some guy wearing a shirt with picture of two pigs screwing and the slogan, "Makin' Bacon." I ask, who died and left the person in charge with the grand responsibility of making sure no-one-who-knows-anything would ever, ever, dare to wear white after Labor Day? Sorry, I digress. My point? Yes, I have one. Shut up and I'll get there. Summer is almost over. All together now... big sigh...gulp. My anxiety is building even as I type. 

These dates on the calendar don't mean much to others. To me they indicate Old Man Winter will be showing up soon. Last year I hair sprayed my bangs hella high, lined my lips chocolate brown (chola style) and laid in wait for that bastard. Screw Jack Frost. I was gonna shank his cold ass upon arrival, therefore sparing myself the inevitable pain of winter. It was a good plan. A great one really. Apparently the sneaky, slithering shit slipped past me cause winter came. I was cold and depressed and uncomfortable in my own skin. Did I say I was cold? I HATE BEING COLD!!!

I consulted a professional about my "Seasonal Affected Disorder" and was directed to a pharmaceutical that was supposed to help. The irony of my "winter despair" being technically diagnosed as S.A.D. is not lost on me. Being the word nerd I am I tearfully contemplated the cleverness of the acronym for several minutes. Perhaps ten minutes passed that were not completely consumed by how much I detest winter. The minutes were consumed by the contemplation of a an official diagnoses of my hating of winter. Oh well, ten  minutes I could put a big red X through on my way to spring, right? I tried to exercise more and I soaked up the only skin warming sun available, in a tanning booth. I tried on my bikini to make sure it still fit and I went on making big red X's through the days on the calendar. Spring sprung the third week of April. The buds on my big, backyard tree burst open and once again order was restored to both my mind and my sunshine loving (and apparently needing) body.

In an effort to capture some of the sacred essence of summer I started putting it in a jar. Really. No, not the same jar where I keep the kitty whiskers I find while sweeping, or the one butterfly wing I found, or my son's first lost tooth or the completely intact snake skin I retrieved from under a bush by my pool or any of my other "witchy" things. See...

"Summer in a Jar" starring (from top to bottom) Strawberry jam, Peach jam, Brushetta topping (I grew the tomatoes), salsa (so hot and good that your only defense is just to keep eating it. Grew the 'maters and the jalapenos), bread and butter pickles (eaten straight from the jar with my fingers) and peaches.

Oh glorious summer and your beautiful bounty, how I love you so. I'm hoping braking the seal on one of these treasures in the dead of winter will ease the blow of gettin' an oops upside my head by the biting wind and monochromatic, grey days of another Michigan winter. At least my days will taste like summer. It's a well laid plan if you ask me. But so was shanking Old Man Winter so I guess we'll see.
For the moment, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet so Jack Frost can kiss my tan-lined ass. I'm going to the pool.

   

It's Friday and I'm Showing You My Panties

Hey...nice to see you, glad you came back. Now I don't have to come looking for you. Seriously, a huge heart-felt thanks to you, my sweet, sweet reader. This venture into blogger-dom is still a journey without a clear destination for me. Until I get all the coordinates mapped out I appreciate that you will sit in the passenger seat and just enjoy the ride. Now, I don't need a backseat driver telling me to turn left, it wouldn't be right. So sit back, buckle up, hold on and shut up the eff up. Besides, it's my blog and I'll do the talking. It's one, of the many things, I do best.

I know I'm a big blabber mouth. It's one of the many reasons you love me. However with respect for your time, how about we agree that Fridays will be light hearted and considerably more brief than I am becoming known for. More a snack than a meal it took me and my blog pot three days to brew. Fun, frivolous, fabulous, fantastic, frisky and maybe even fruity. Think pink hearts, yellow moons, green clover and blue diamonds. Magically delicious. Like me.

Ready to co-sign? Done.

Hold on, I'm putting the pedal to the metal, the gas is smashed, let's goooooooooooo!

First stop? My underwear. Okay, their not really mine, yet. But given it's late summer and my children are home EVERYday the days are blending together in a "I've been sucked into a sidewalk chalk, cartoon network, freeze pop vortex" kinda way. The only way I can be sure what day it is is to look at the calender. That's not always convenient. I'm getting these so I can sneak a peek at my "sweets shop" and let my panties do the talking. Thank goodness these knickers can't really talk cause after I wear 'em... the tales about my tail they would tell. I'm willing to bet I couldn't get a word in edgewise and this is MY blog, remember?

Stella McCartney days of the week undies, $195. Just like the ones my momma never bought me at K-Mart.  Silk blend, lace trim and pretty little floral embroidery. They come in a mini-dresser box. The eighth drawer is labeled "bits and bobs" and I am dying to know what's inside.

And to check out my booty in these cuties...

Angel wing mirrors. The website where I found these little pieces of heaven quotes price as 179 pounds. That's $277.77 for us American devils. That's a big pile of corn just to check out the junk in my trunk. And that's okay cause I think my ass is worth it.

Let the music play...I'm listening.

Once a month I find a small sixteen to twenty page newspaper in the little box below the one used for post at my curb. "The Bedford Press" informs me of all the going-ons here in my tiny piece of the cornfield. Last week I thumbed through the quick read and noted the photos of "Bedford's most beautiful garden." For a moment, I let myself imagine the dreamy possibilities held hostage within my own fences and imagination. I turned the page and scanned the obituaries. I'm not from these parts and most people I know have my own last name so I don't recognize anyone. Thank goodness, what a shitter that would be. A couple of pages later I am celebrating local youth and their educational achievements rewarded with scholarships from The Rotary Club, The Kiwanis Club, you get the picture. For a moment, I let myself imagine the yet fully realized potential in my own children and the resulting pride attached to them. Then somewhere in the middle of the free to me, not much more than a flyer, paper my attention is drawn to the "Church Chatter" editorial. Titled, "An Uplifting Moment, The Fiddler" and penned by David J. Claassen from Mayfair-Plymouth Congregational Church.

There, I found a piece of God.

I don't go to church, anymore. For an accurate description of my own religious/spiritual belief system, written with words that didn't come to me, you could take a look at Elizabeth Gilbert's, "Eat, Pray, Love" chapter (or bead number) three. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and God by any other name is "an adequate and inadequate description of the indescribable." With that said, there on the tree pulp turned to paper, I found a piece of "God."

God is good. God is great. Let me thank him for the spiritual food I am fed. Especially the tender and juicy morsels that melt in my mouth and are left in my mind and even more importantly, in my heart.

Pastor Claassen's editorial drew heavily from an article in The Washington Post originally published on April 8th, 2007. It was Easter Sunday and it was my birthday. The author, Gene Weingarten, won a Pulitzer Prize for his efforts and I can clearly see why. I strongly recommend when you leave here you read the full article for yourself. The gist of it you will find below...

7:51am, Friday, January 12, 2007. A violin player stood near a wall in L'Enfant Plaza, smack dab in the middle of federal Washington's rush hour. His violin case was open at his feet as he fiddled away for forty-three minutes. A total of 1097 humans passed through the plaza as he played six classical pieces. Here, my dears, is where it starts getting very interesting. Seven people stopped, at least for a moment, to listen.

Wait, how many? Yeah, I said seven, that lucky little number tucked between six and eight. Seven fellow humans stopped, for at least a moment, to listen. The musician collected a total of $32 dollars and some change for his efforts. Of that amount a twenty dollar bill came from one generous woman. Her donation almost doesn't count. She recognized the musician as the internationally-famous virtuoso Joshua Bell. She'd attended his free concert at The Library of Congress three weeks earlier.

You see, this was an experiment.

Staged by The Washington Post, Mr. Bell was playing his 397 year old, handcrafted Stradivarius, reportedly purchased for $3.5 million dollars. He was performing six of the most beautiful and difficult pieces one can play on a violin. Bell regularly sells out auditoriums with the "cheap seats" going for a hundred dollars and more.

An experiment. On the condition of the human heart if you ask me.

I read the original small article in The Bedford Press a week ago and I still can't shake the heart aching sadness that overcame me. Does it matter that it was rush hour? Does it matter that he was some famous guy? Does it matter that the whole thing was staged? Would the outcome be different in another city at another time of day? What does matter people? The questions keep coming and I find myself searching the sum of my own experiences for an answer. The sad, sad reality is 1090 people walked by this man without as much as a second glance, if they saw him at all.

Oh good grief Dani, get over it, the world is a cold, self-centered, hustling and bustling place. There are meds available for minds like yours. Not everyone has the luxury of hanging around with their head in the clouds. Some of us have j-o-b-s. To that I reply...Isn't it part of our "jobs" as humans to recognize (even if there isn't time available to honor) art? Beauty? To reward an artist with at least eye contact if not more? Why can't I shake this melancholy? This judgement attached to the 1090 humans I don't even know? I told you...the questions keep coming.

I clearly remember on a day following 9/11 how acutely I felt for the victims, the families, the rescue workers and on a grander scale every American. (It's the same way I felt when that mom drove her kids into the lake and another drowned hers in the bathtub, and the way I felt when Michael Vic was arrested for dog fighting, and the tsunami, and the earthquake, and human trafficking, and honor killings and this list grows with every newscast.) On that particular September day I told my mother-in-law I wished I didn't feel as much, as deeply as I did. I wished I could just shake my head like so many others and leave it with a, "That's a shame." I wished I could go back to channel surfing for another reality show to get sucked into. Because watching some dysfunctional schmucks screwing up their lives makes me feel better about mine. I wished I had rose colored glasses, I would wear them all the time, because the world is prettier that way.

I wished. I wished. I wished.

My God loving and worshipping and praying mother of my husband looked me dead in the eye and said, "I pray those wishes never come true." And then, I did too.

I don't always wallow in such self-indulgent lamenting about the condition of the human race and what our collective behaviors mean. I mean, I do, a lot, sometimes. But I will be the first to admit this world of ours is a beautiful place and in it I am blessed beyond anything I am deserving of. Realizing so, I make it a mission to find the beauty and magic in my days. They may play a game of hide-and-go-seek with me all day but I 'll sniff 'em out before the day is done. I declare victory, daily, again against a world seemingly hell bent on self destruction. My glass is always half full so that empty half leaves plenty of room for shaking. The emotion pulled from me by the violin experiment definitely constitutes shaking.

This shaking inside has magic of it's own, a lesson is the blessin', some bliss within the bitch. After a week of chewing this spiritual food I think I have it figured out and here's where God comes back in...

The deepest, greatest sadness in the violinist being passed by is in a world so full of hurt and hate and ugly that 1090 people passed up an opportunity for a moment of potential pure joy, art and beauty. Free too.

"Ghetto Dani" could string togetha a long list of very descriptive words for this group of people. Okay fine, I'll go there. Wait, let me get my head bobbin. Cheap a**, mf'in, spiritually depleted, soul-broken, a-holes. Oh my, that kinda felt good. In a really wrong kinda way. However, my far more evolved doppelganger knows I shouldn't judge their audacity to opt into mediocrity.

I know I should pray for them. (See, I told you God would make another appearance.)

Surely Pastor Claassen would agree. His final thoughts on this subject were," The world walked by as the musician played. They missed something beautiful hiding in plain sight. Let us heighten our awareness of all that's good around us. The world God has made and sustains is brimming over and bursting forth with so much we should appreciate."

I couldn't agree more and so it shall be.

Now I'm gonna go pray for those assholes.

Word.

The September issue of Elle and drugstore happiness ($2.99)

I just finished looking at the September issue of Elle, all 562 pages of "must-have dresses, jeans, jackets, and heels plus the jewelry that goes with everything." I dog-eared the cover article featuring Julia Roberts talking about Eat, Pray, Love for another time, reminded myself I want to read that book, scratch and sniffed Gucci's new fragrance "Guilty" and did a double take on the pictorial of Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian frolicking in the Bahamas. Their foray was titled "The Graduate" and I immediately wondered if it had been an under aged girl and a well endowed somewhere, twenty-nine year old man and the pictorial was titled "Lolita" if anyone would have a problem with it. Probably not, it's what we've come to as a society. I, for one was a little disgusted and a whole lot looking at every picture. Lord, please help heal my "Bieber Fever" I'm too old for it. After I flipped the last page I quickly decided there wasn't one "must have" that I couldn't live without.

Okay, on page 260 there is an Alexander McQueen, embroidered resin platform heel with a set of angel wings across the top of the foot (price upon request) that I would come close to selling a kidney on the black market for. A guarantee to seal the deal would be if they threw in the Corto Moltedo black satin and feather clutch on the same page, $1,105. Hell yeah! I could live without a kidney, that's why they come in pairs. But, I can and will also live without... the shoes.

Once upon another fabulous, five-inch heel I was a bright lights, big city, little woman-child livin' the life of Riley. Single and on the mingle, no mortgage, no car payment, no preschool tuition, no budget and a fistful of dollars to blow. On a regular basis I was all dressed up and had everywhere to go. And go I did. Been there, done that, all the way to the point of no return, asked for directions and found my way back. Spanx was something that happened to me when I was really good at being bad, not something I wore. I filled my God-hole and lots of other orifices with all the things that money can buy and just-the-right-look-in-your-eye can have handed to you. Sound fabulous? I thought it was. The hindsight reality is...I wasn't very happy.

Fast forward a decade or so and here I sit, corn fields on the left of me and on the right too. I would bet my left tit there's not a chick within a ten mile radius that could apply false lashes, let alone in the back of a San Francisco taxicab. I have a husband, two sons, a mortgage, property taxes, and contribute to a college fund times deux. Spanx still fall into their original category, just sayin'. Last week I was at Walgreens picking up my four-year old's nasal spray and some canned cat food. As I was digging for exact change in my knock-off (Don't judge) handbag I saw a scrap of paper where I'd scrawled "Ivory Fairytale." No, not a fantasy destination, a nail color. Sally Hansen, diamond strength, no chip nail color. I high tailed my tail right back to the cosmetics section. After acquiring the said polish I also made an impulse purchase of a $2.99 lip gloss by Wet n Wild. Turns out that not only is it the absolute perfect summertime-shine-meets-shimmer but it tastes like toffee. Bonus. I applied it in the rear view mirror of my Yukon, licked my lips and smiled. Sometimes, it's the little things.

I will be the first to admit that there's nothing that can suck the hot right out of you quicker than having children. But winter will find me rockin apple-bottom jeans and boots with the fur in my kid's school parking lot. Against my will, in part, it gets really fricken cold here. If function and fashion just happen to collide then I'm gonna call it physics at it's finest and roll with it. I opted for fringy bangs instead of Botox because saving by siphoning off the grocery budget by clipping coupons was just taking too long. Those lines on my forehead are from all the deep thoughts I have a-hole, what's your excuse? Occasionally after a particularly long day I will look into my bathroom mirror and pull the skin around my eyes taut imagining what a little nip/tuck could do. Then I smile as I think about how my first born tells everyone who asks that I am still thirty-two and they believe him. I slide my feet out of their Target flip flops ($9.99) and admire my Sally Hansen home pedicure. It hasn't chipped and I mopped my floors on my hands and knees cause I left my cleaning lady in Cali and she said it's the only way to get them really clean.

Sound fabulous? Maybe not so much if you can afford to not take this trip and therefore haven't arrived. It's not as glamorous as my "hot child in the city" phase but it's also not the maniacal extremes of highs and lows that I called my twenties. I don't need a pair of shoes and a handbag to make me feel whole, anymore. I don't need anything more than I have and the September issue of Elle will not convince me otherwise. If this fact makes me sound like a broke, self righteous bitch then so be it. At least I am a happy bitch.

Who do you think you are?

Throughout the course of my formative teenage years my mother's favorite question was, "Who the hell do you think you are?" How exactly is one meant to respond to that?  Furthermore, was I really supposed to know? Failed attempts at answering resulted in a variety of responses. Among them: my being sent to my room (or running for cover, it's all about perspective), being grounded, her telling my dad, my phone privileges being revoked and once ended with a vintage, ten pound iron sticking out of the wall. My cat-like reflexes prevented bodily harm. I was a smart ass. Through the eyes of the mother I now am, I see how I could have single-handedly driven her to the brink of insanity. Genetics, a chemical imbalance, substance abuse and  poor planning helped her complete the trip after I left home.

As a grown woman I am far more sure of myself. I think I have a pretty firm grip on who I am, what's important to me, what makes me tick. She doesn't ask anymore but if she did this is what I would say,
"I don't know it all, like you said I thought I did, but these twenty-five things I know to be true. They may not define me as a whole but being a sum of all of my parts, it's a good start."

(In no particular order)


1. I don't believe in coincidences, everything happens for a reason.

2. I have a lifelong secret crush on Kenny Rogers. I can sing "The Gambler" by heart. "You never count yer money when yer sittin' at the table...they'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done..." Okay, stop laughing. I also know "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Sweet Home Alabama."

3. There is a good reason I was a dancer and not a singer.

4. The last birthday present my Daddy bought me was a guitar. I promised him I'd learn to play it.

5. If I were a doll my accessories would be: a yoga mat, a pair of fairy wings and a can of "kick ass."

6. My sweet-souled sister has been my best friend our whole lives. Jaime is an inspiration and all round quality human being. I adore her and miss her beyond words.

7. I have unfinished business with a few people in my life, amends to be made, truths to be told, responsibility to be taken. I am a work in progress.

8. Being a good mother is an enormous responsibility I take very seriously. My children inspire and humble me every day. I would fight a Grizzly bear for them...and win.

9. Nine is my lucky number.

10. I don't own a cat, she owns me. She sleeps with my sweet baby Jake every night. I have a dog that owns me too. I didn't really even like dogs with the exception of my snorting, wheezing, farting, dearly departed Pomeranian, "Emily." (May she rest in peace.) but somehow Coco, my chocolate lab has endeared her eighty five pound ass to me to the extent that I no longer find myself threatening a rehoming. I can't imagine not tripping over her while trying to cook dinner. She's a crafty one, that Coco.

11. I'd rather be Velma than Daphne.

12. I am not short. I am not petite. I am "fun sized" dammit. In a parallel universe I am 5'10" and built like Wonder Woman. I had a roommate like that once upon a time. I miss her.

13. I am writing a book about a really crazy time in my life and hoping the proceeds will spring me from the middle of this corn field.

14. I left my heart in San Francisco and will always call "the city" my home.

15. The first time I ate Wasabi I thought it was avocado and being with a kitchen full of people I thought were WAY cooler than I was I choked it down rather than look like an ass. I was going on "better to just appear like a dork than open my mouth and prove it." Eventually, they all knew me for what I was, takes one to know one...you may have been there.

16. I taught myself to crochet. Now I'm working on peeing standing up. JUST kidding.

17. Sometimes people tell me I'm funny. That's good, right?

18. I am married to a man who really knows me...and still loves me. I had the word "Angel" inscribed inside his wedding band because I truly believe he saved me, more than once.

19. I'm a joker, a stroker and a midnight toker.

20. If I ever run away I'm going to become a lavender farmer who raises miniature goats.

21. When I am lucky enough to catch the opening of "Ellen" I ALWAYS dance with her.

22. I have seen a full rainbow over Mt. Fugi from the bullet train.

23. I know what pride tastes like.

24. I make a mean meatloaf, drink the juice left in the pickle jar and recycle everything I possibly can.

25. I am well rounded. If you need proof just look at my ass.

From my Toes to Yo's...

Disclaimer: This is a recycled post.

So.

So, so, suck my toe, all the way to Mexico!

I gave it to ya once and it was so good I'm gonna give it to ya again. I'm calling it "re-gifted." Feel free to pass it along, re-wrapped, of course. Here goes...



It was recently brought to my attention that I post an unusual amount of photos of my feet on Facebook.

Yeah, what about it? You judging me? I'll own it.

It was then brought to my attention there are certain websites that cater to this sort of fetish.
"You should look into cashing in on those tootsies."
I actually thought about it, for an exorbitantly long amount of time too. I even tried to talk them  (My feet, that is. Come on now, keep up.) into it with the promise of new shoes. Pretty shoes. Sparkly ones. Heck, I woulda thrown in a spa pedi too. It was a no go.

"Ix-na on the oot-fa etish-fa imping-pa itch-ba!"

Yeah, they speak Pig Latin when they're really pissed. I hung my head with the shame no real pimp could ever feel. Guess I'm not that kinda playa, anymore. So, to make it up to them (Yes, my feet. You gotta stay with me, I can't drag you along.) I channeled my love into an ode and this is how it goes...


Ode to My Toes

Your feet, your feet, again your feet,

Is it a foot fetish or voyeuristic treat?
What’s your trip? What’s your deal?

Are you some kind of freak?

Or…are you for real?

Tell me, tell me, tell me right now

I’ve got to know, I’ve got the time

Make it fun, entertain me,

In the form of a rhythm…

I tilted my head and I grinned

Gave the smile with the dimple,

Cleared my throat, then I winked

I was ready to begin…

My justification for my fascination

Is really a form of appreciation.

For my feet that you mention, it is my intention

To call out by name

What is worthy of attention.

So sit back and relax let’s have a good time,

Let the clock tick and let the clock tock,

Put your own dogs up I’m gonna walk my talk.

With my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground,

It was time to convey what I wanted to say.

I closed my eyes, bowed my head, took a deep breathe and I prayed,

"This little ditty needs to be quite witty in the most amazing way."

‘Ode To My Toes’ was born on the spot,

I’d thought of it all and it was actually quite a lot.

My feet, my feet, they are so sweet,

I love them more than anyone you’ll ever meet.

They are at their most basic, not so much an inspiration,

But rather just my form of transportation.

It’s the things we have done, the places we have seen,

The people we’ve met and everything in-between,

That warrants my admiration, in consideration, of

All the miles we’ve logged and the road ahead,

Where we want to be barefooted and free.

                                                      

Me and my feet, you’re in for a treat

We’ve….

Kicked a ball, kicked some ass,

Raked the leaves and mowed the grass.

We’ve backslid and we’ve progressed,

Been photographed as evidence.

We’ve tested the waters, skated on thin ice,

Taken a wrong turn once or twice.

We’ve stepped out of the way and been stepped on,

My poor second toe hasn’t been right since.

We’ve tip-toed through the tulips, stepped in shit,

Eased on down the road and balanced a fence.

We’ve taken the high road, the low road,

come to the fork in the road, a crossroads

and chosen the path of least resistance.

We’ve done the right things, taken the easy way out,

Stopped on a dime and wandered about.

We’ve been there, we’ve done that,

Gone to the point of no return and yet… we found our way back

They’ve been soaked and scrubbed and rubbed down,

Painted, polished, filed square or filed round.

We’ve kick boxed and step-classed, cycled and spinned,

Piliated, viyassed, and samadhi’ed within,

But these are just a few of the places we’ve been.

We’ve gotten into trouble, gotten out of a pinch,

Made quick like little bunnies, looked at the stars from a ditch.

My toes, my toes, heaven knows,

We get cold as ice when winter snows.

(And that really fucking blows)

We’ve worn heels, flats, boots and everything in-between,

Some of the most amazing shoes I’ve ever seen.

From the Payless pumps to the Christian Loubotain’s,

From the Ugg’s to the flip flops, this list just began.

The five inch platforms with the mirrored heel,

On the catwalk or the sidewalk, yeah baby, we’re the real deal.

We’ve rocked and we’ve rolled on a dance floor,

Bikini small, heels tall, there are no angels in the centerfold.

We’ve got our groove on, we’ve gotten into the groove,

Music is an aphrodisiac, it makes my feet want to move.

We’ve hop, skipped and wiggled, we’ve shimmied and shaked,

We’ve escaped the Yakuza and survived an earthquake.

You might think this is it but don’t think you’re right,

The list of mischief could go on all night.

You still with me? You want to hear more?

Or should these honored feet of mine take me right out the door?

No? Oh good, I shall go on for sure…

We’ve been buried in sand on four different continents,

Pointed and flexed as I’ve stretched for a kiss.

We’ve walked down the aisle and been up all night,

Paced floors with my children, "Hush sweet prince, it is all alright."

We’ve jumped for joy, knelt in despair, and spun circles in the grass without a care.

We’ve jaywalked and cross-walked, ran like a bat out of hell,

With a prayer on my lips, "Please, please feet don’t fail me now."

We’ve been high class, we’re down home,

These dogs of mine have been all over the globe,

From the mountains of Alaska to the beaches of Jamaica,

"Respect mon, leave more than ya take-a."

From the pig farm in Japan, to the deserts of Saudi,

Me and my feet, one restless soul, one pixie-esque body.

So you see, for me, these aren't "just" my feet,

They are my constant companions for each day we greet.

The same is certain for yours too,

Think about it and you'll find it's true.

Your second verse isn't the same as my first,

It may be better, it may be worse.

You and your feet have a story of your own,

Knick knack, patty whack, give your dogs a bone.

Your feet will always... find their way home.

I'm baaack! Don't say you haven't been warned.

Guess who's back? Back again. Dani's back, tell a friend. Guess who's back? Guess who's back? Guess who's back...

(Fist pump and knuckle bump to the 8 mile trailer park kid done good. Love ya Rabbit.)

Did ya miss me? No? Awww, not the answer I was looking for. Wanna try again? This time with a little more feeling? I'll wait... Okay, not fair, I know. You couldn't miss me cause you didn't know I was gone. Truth be told, no one even knew I was here. 

You see, I'm writing a book and as every well informed unpublished author knows, you need a web presence. I started querying prospective agents for my book project and had a fairly amazing response in requests for reading a partial. Then, like a novice rapper at a mic I choked. I questioned every word I wrote, every line I spoke and this lil blog here was likened to a red-headed step-child that still wets her pants and picks her nose. I didn't want a prospective agent stumbling upon it and thinking for one moment that it was representative of the highest quality product I could produce. I mean sheesh, most of it was written here because Facebook doesn't give me enough available characters in my status updates. Damn them. I am not above a soap box style lecture to prove a point but let it be known that I only stand on that soap box because I am petite. No, not short. Petite dammit! Fun-sized, more accurately. Never known for my brevity I can be talk for days and there are times that a long-winded dissertation actually IS called for. I figure if I can't wear you down then I can wear you out and you'll surrender just so I will shut the eff up. I won't. Point being, I took down every post except for the little ditty about the county fair below. I figured it was a nice vanilla contrast to the hedonistic adventures of a "Hot Child in the City" who lived for almost decade as right hand woman-child to Dionysus. For the record, he's a leftie.

F.Y.I, I am still without a literary agent so if you happen to have one just laying around doing nothing please, please, please let me know. They are becoming notoriously lazy bastards now that e-books outsell print on Amazon. Hey slackers, some of us still want to smell the pages and last I checked my monitor here wasn't a freakin' scratch and sniff.

So, welcome to my party. Stay a while, or at least bookmark me so when have to leave you can find your way back. And you will want to come back, trust me. I'm going to knick-knack-paddy-whack throw you a couple of bones in the form of a few more posts after this one. I'm a giver, what can I say? Yes, you're welcome. I'm big on manners too so feel free to leave a thank you note for both my generosity and hospitality in the form of a comment below. You bookmark me yet? Whatcha waiting for? I'll wait...
How about just in case, you run and grab a Sharpie and write my info on your arm, or your leg, or your forehead if need be. I don't want to have to come looking for you, but I will if I have to. Don't say you haven't been warned...