Honestly.

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I mean, cripes. Who really thinks these are attractive?

Seriously. It’s like stilettos with great horrible growths. Wicked Witch of the West shoes. Man kickers (ouch). Sorry fiends, but they are just butt ugly to me. So are the pumpy versions:

How these could be marginally flattering to any kind of foot is beyond my apparently limited comprehension.

I know, I know. Men have an inherent weakness for pointy heels, and maybe that affinity leaks over into pointy toes as well. Personally, I see machete-sharp, leather outcroppings jutting from underneath dress slacks (or worse, jeans, ugh) and I think, “Ew. Antithesis of sexy.” Don’t get me wrong: I like to wear sassy, smart shoes and boots. But I fail to see how these monstrosities could be considered even remotely feminine or flattering. I wear a size 5, and they’d make my feet look gargantuan. I can’t imagine them on a size 9 foot. Just write PT-73 on ’em.

But hey. If you want fancy leather cake servers sticking out from under your pantaloons, you just knock yourself out. I’ll be over here, relaxing in my moccasins.

Hoo-ah. Had a great night with Justin and Jake last night. Justin’s still sawing logs, and Jake is relaxing with Dora the Explorer at the moment, so Grammie is taking a few minutes to read and write. Later today is the marathon candy-making jamboree at the Fink house, where I will be joined by Helen, Hannah, Mavis, Jane and Simone. Fun will be had, and chocolate will be taste-tested. Yay for Chocodiles. We won’t have the heavy yellow cake, but Twinkies will do the trick, I’m thinking.

Review: La Vie en Rose

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I’ve listened to Edith Piaf’s music for years, but not actively. I mean, if I heard it on the radio or a commercial, I’d know it was her voice, but I never paid it much mind otherwise. Then I saw La Vie en Rose last night on Netflix. Wow…what a life she led.

French actress Marion Cotillard was positively fascinating to watch; she carried the entire film. I’m obviously not alone in that assessment, as she won the Oscar for Best Actress for the role back in 2007.

Born into poverty, the daughter of a circus performer dad and an alcoholic mother who fantasized about being a singer, Edith was sent to live with her grandmother, who ran a brothel. She later joined her father in the circus, but returned to street life with him when the work dried up. Soon, she herself was performing on the streets for coins, and began to draw crowds. One thing led to another, and when she was taken in by a wealthy club owner who’d heard her as he was walking home one night, her fame was assured.

Then came one horrible tragedy after another. Though she was the most popular artist in all of France, and had taken New York by storm as well, she couldn’t escape immense sorrow and devastating personal choices. One particular 1949 event basically destroyed her for good, haunting her every thought until her death in 1963. It was both heartbreaking and captivating to watch; I recommend it highly to you, mes amis.

In French with subtitles, it runs 2:15, but you’ll never notice the length. You will notice, however, that even though Edith stood only 4′ 8″, the 5′ 8″ Cotillard completely pulls off the ruse of  “little sparrow,” as Edith was dubbed by her wealthy benefactor.  Cotillard  had some cinematic magic help, of course, but she managed to channel the frail, diminutive Piaf to perfection. Color me très impressionné.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give La Vie en Rose:

Observation

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As my attitude has improved at school, that of my students has also inched forward in a positive direction. Inched. But that’s better than regression.

There. Now that I’ve put that in writing, the wheels are going to fall off. But it’s been an interesting experiment. I’ve always said that students will reflect about 50% of your energy, but 100% of your attitude. It really is true. Attitude shapes everything, and the kids know it.

Stay away, snow. Just until Thursday, please.

Nostalgia

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Now where the dinkly doo did all those cool things go? I don’t know why, but last night, I was in quite the melancholy, nostalgic mood. Watching news coverage of the blizzard up in Cleveland while sitting on my couch, wrapped in my electric blanket, eating a cheezer and chicken soup made me all wistful and maudlin. Sometimes I get that way, and I can’t explain it. It’s very much like the feeling I get when I hear certain harmonic progressions or lyrics, especially if they’re sad. I can’t describe it, but it’s pretty intense.

Anyhow, I started thinking of things you just don’t see anymore:

  1. Rotary pay phones (for the ‘snappers, they look like this)
  2. Milk delivered to the doorstep (our Grandmas Johnson and Murphy had metal milk boxes on their porches)
  3. “Service stations” where guys in blue uniforms pumped the gas, checked the oil and cleaned the windshield, at no extra charge
  4. Mimeographed copies (also called “dittos” or “spirit masters”). I loved the smell of them as a kid.
  5. Basketball players wearing shorts that didn’t look like saggy, wet diapers (at this rate, it’s only a matter of time before they’re wearing palazzo pants)
  6. Paper grocery bags by default
  7. Kids using a clothespin to fasten a playing card to their bike wheels so the spokes made noise
  8. Roller skates that required a key
  9. The “dime store” – haha
  10. School milk cartons that had the round pull tab on the top

What do you remember? I’ll bet you miss lots of things from a time when the world was simpler. Like last week.

FO

Like it was yesterday

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That’s how I remember it.

On 8 December, 1980, I was pacing my living room floor while watching a football game, with a sleepy six-week-old Seamus in my arms, when the news broke sometime in the late evening. Howard Cosell said something like, “It’s hard to go back to the game after reporting this.”

Strangely though, I remember nothing else about that night, except the tears that followed.

Those who know me know that the Beatles — John Lennon, especially — occupy a deep, private, important place in my heart. Heck, my soul. Their music spoke to me first in the late 60s, as a confused pre-teenager. I knew their earlier songs because my aunts used to play their records when they’d come to babysit Mavis and me. As I got older, I delved deeper into their stuff, and before long, I knew (and eventually owned) all of their mainstream albums.

But John’s voice and lyrics always held the top drawer space. There is no voice on the planet like his, although his son Julian’s comes pretty close. I can’t believe it’s been 30 years.

Speaking of dying: that’s what I felt was going to happen last night. I was closing up my classroom around 8:45 p.m. to go home after watching the first half of the  basketball game. I forgot about the presence of a big cinder block, which I sometimes use to prop the door open. I tripped over it and went down, hard, on my hands. Everything in my arms went flying. The good news: I can type this morning. As long as I don’t put any downward pressure on my right hand — like, oh, trying to play the piano or move the gearshift in the car — I’m fine. Today’s rehearsals should be interesting. Oi.

Imagine there’s no Christmas music…