Sometimes, it's all about the shoes.

Things I could talk about in this post:

1. How disgusting my house is.
No, seriously. It's almost like if A&E's Hoarders had nasty drunken sex with TLC's knock-off show Hoarding Buried Alive and they made a love child and I moved into it. I've been cleaning like crazy and barely making a dent. After I blog, I have to clean my living room. My friend is dropping her child off here in the morning and I don't think she'd like it if he was encapsulated in a sea of Lego or devoured by the mutant dust bunny I'm quite sure lives under the recliner.

I'm not so inclined to talk about the mess in my house. Get it? Damn, I'm punny.

2. My children are fighting too much.
Seriously: this shit has to stop. It's ridiculous and unfair. When you have a house full of boys, you might miss out on some cute things like spring dresses and ballet recitals. The consolation prize, however, is that boys don't have that ear-piercing scream that girls ha-- oh, wait a minute: Yes they do. Spawnling and Gutsy have taken to threatening to throw/hit/smack/launch/ricochet-off-the-other's-forehead various objects of various sizes. One will pick up an item when he's angry and hold it over his head while the other lets out a high-pitched screech and then grabs something even bigger to hold over his own head. Then, threatener #1 will shriek like a pigtailed princess and pick up a larger item to hold menacingly over his head. And this goes on and on and the screaming gets louder and louder and higher and higher until one of them chickens out and runs away. Nobody ever actually throws an item - it's all about the posturing. It reminds me of two male birds on a nature program vying for a female's attention, tweeting loudly and trying to scare the other off. The only problem? No mute button. Reality sucks.

Realistically, I don't want to talk about this, either. (Okay, that one's not so funny. My pun quota has been reached.)

3. I have to have surgery next month.
I have an incisional hernia in my stomach. It's a direct result of the emergency c-section I had with Gutsy. I've had the darn thing for eight or so years and it's never been particularly painful. But it's time to go under the knife and get 'er fixed. The more weight I lose, the more uncomfortable it's becoming. I guess the fat created a nice little home for it, keeping it all warm and cozy. Let this be a lesson to all of you: losing weight is bad. The surgery itself is the more invasive kind of hernia repair and I'll be in the hospital for at least three days, followed by a good two or three weeks of recovery time. You can probably see why I don't want to talk about this.

So with that in mind, let's get really girly and materialistic for a moment and talk about my new shoes!

A couple of days ago, I went out with a friend of mine who is positively shoe-obsessed. No, I'm not kidding. I'm not saying she "likes shoes" or "she enjoys shopping." Those are grossly inaccurate statements. She hates all shopping unless it's for footwear. I've been shoe shopping with her once before, and it was like watching an olympic sport: she, the passionate athlete, seeking out not just the gold medal, but all of them. As many as she can buy win, be it made of leather or suede, be it buckled or zipped, high-heeled or flat. She is a puma and the shoes are her little bunny rabbits, unknowingly about to get pounced on with her wild little claws.

I guess I'm back to comparing things to nature shoes - uh, shows.

I don't often buy things for myself, but with my new job I've been forced to invest in a few office-y things like dress pants and shirts and stuff. I went out last week with my stylish sister to acquire those items, but held off on the shoes due to time. I'm glad I did, because there is nobody but this particular friend that I'd rather hit up a BOGO or two with. That type of passion is contagious.

Anyway, I tried on a few pairs and just wasn't feeling it. And, of course, the ones I really liked weren't to be found in my size. I was losing hope. And then, as I walked down the last aisle....

THERE.

THEY.

WERE.

I never believed in love at first site until I saw my husband held my firstborn in my arms saw these shoes staring back at me longingly from the shelf. God, they're beautiful. They're funky. They're versatile. They're comfortable. They have pink butterflies inside them. They have freaking rhinestones on the toes. They feel like a pair of illegal massage parlour girls working their happy endings upon my feet.

Not that I would, uh, actually know what that feels like.

Anyway, I am totally digging my shoes. I'm possibly digging them just a little too much, but escapism is nice sometimes. Maybe I can wear them while cleaning my house, or running away from my screechy little gremlins, or during my surgery.

No. Not during my surgery. If I wake up with blood on them I'm going to be pissed. The surgeon would owe me a new pair. And I don't think he'd would be nearly as fun to shoe shop with.