Oct
9
October 9, 2006
JB wasn’t particularly excited by the prospect of visiting a pumpkin farm this weekend. “We can get pumpkins at QFC,” he said. “If you want a photo, we can just put Riley in front of the produce section.”
“You are the Grinch of Halloween,” I told him. “Come on, this farm has hay rides.”
They also had tractor rides.
And really big pumpkins.
Really, really big pumpkins.
Seriously fucking big-ass pumpkins.
Which we liberated with clippers.
So. Many. Pumpkins!
But best of all, this farm also had – oh, you’d better sit down for this one –
A NO-SHIT, 100% REAL, ACTUAL WORKING TREBUCHET.
Which they used to launch a watermelon (why a watermelon and not a pumpkin, I do not know) about a football field’s length.
And solicited the day’s first non-Maddox-Jolie/I-will-burn-you-with-my-eye-lasers expression from Riley. (“HOLY CRAP!”)
I can’t adequately describe the sheer awesomeness a trebuchet adds to a pumpkin farm. In fact, I think every wholesome family activity that you secretly (or in JB’s case, not-so-secretly) think is going to be lame should include a trebuchet. Easter egg hunt? Trebuchet. Playgroup get-together? Trebuchet. Sunday morning church outing? Fucking TREBUCHET, man (I can even think of a new hymn for the occasion, it’s called “Jesus, Pull Your Trebuchet of Faith For Me”).
Also, had I known about the trebuchet selling point, I seriously would not have bothered with that shit about hay rides.
Oct
4
October 4, 2006
Years ago, I was trying to set up a lunch date with an ex-boss of mine, and when I suggested the Cheesecake Factory in downtown Seattle – mostly because I knew there was a non-terrifying parking lot nearby – she snootily informed me that she wouldn’t eat anywhere with the word factory in its name.
I think of her sometimes when I shop at the Shoe Pavilion, because I bet she wouldn’t buy shoes anywhere with the word pavilion in its name, either. In fact, unless her personal circumstances have changed dramatically, I can pretty much guarantee it, because I once house-sat her Mercer Island mansion for a week and peeked in her giant walk-in closet and saw – for the first time in my life outside of Sex and the City – actual rows upon rows of carefully boxed Jimmy Choos. I don’t think you can buy Jimmy Choos at the Shoe Pavilion, is what I’m saying.
You can buy affordable boots there, though, and I decided that this year I need a sexy pair of tall leather boots. It is a Goal of mine, to find these boots. Sure, I could have a loftier goal like losing ten pounds or cleaning out the hall closet, but screw it, I want some boots.
So I visited the Pavilion of Shoes earlier this week and tried on a few pairs. And PEOPLE. There is a PROBLEM.
Let me back up a little and tell you something about myself: I have nice legs. I do. From about mid-thigh on down, I have some shapely motherfucking stems. They are not skinny, but there is definition between the calves and the ankles. I may have lost the genetics game when it comes to other nonfantastic body parts, but goddamn it I have good legs.
(Whew, that got a little defensive, didn’t it? Hi, low self esteem calling, are we reaching?)
Anyway, these boots…they do not fit at the top. What the hell? I know I do not have elephantine chunk-trunks, so why is it that I couldn’t zip up one single pair of tall boots without cutting off my circulation and creating a weird leg-bulge above the boot? WHY?
I tried on some Nine Wests, so I’m not just talking about El Cheapo pleather designs. Are they supposed to, like, stretch over time? Are leg-bulges trendy, and I just didn’t read about it in Us magazine? Are the only people who are able to wear tall boots shaped like Mischa Barton?
Maybe there’s a reason to avoid pavilions, after all. I need a Shoe Hut. A Shoe Hut for the Big-Calved, apparently.
-
My product review site:
[