cinderella

Confessions of a Non Shopaholic

I am a woman so therefore I like “woman” things, according to them.

I like to substitute actual dessert with shitty, chemical-laced low-fat yogurt bearing the same name of the actual dessert.

yoplaitI like to have old white men with shriveled balls control my family planning.

abortioncrusadersI’ve watched Sex and The City so I know I’m supposed to love expensive shoes, mindless consumerism, and two horrible movies, but I don’t. I fucking hate shoes.

I get the necessity of them. They’re helpful when walking on broken glass, hypodermic needles and tar balls of gonorrhea. They conceal hairy toes, yellowed toenails, and feet stench (not mine…a friend’s). They assist when kicking a ball or a nutsack.

But I just don’t get the shoe-shopping fetish that has been ascribed to women ever since Cinderella screwed her foot into a glass slipper and married a dolt.

The shoes are mostly uncomfortable, yes? I can’t be the only one who experiences the sensation my toes are merging into one when I cram a high heel onto my foot and proceed to trot-wobble around like a newly-born foal. They also seem to be made on the cheap. When I picked up a slingback, it disintegrated into a pile of insulation, sawdust and the tears of the seven-year-old who made it.*

*This is a lie because it would mean I would have to know what the fuck a slingback is and that I’ve also gone shoe-shopping in the last decade.

Shoe-shopping is on par with making a sandwich at the beach without plates, and attending weekend-long dance recitals not starring your child.

The trouble is, I need to go shoe-shopping. Like me, my shoes are falling apart. It became apparent when I mistakenly left a pair of shoes at the gym, and they went untouched for a month. I figured if they were pretty good shoes, someone would have walked away with them–literally.

But they were these:

oldshoes

I’ve worn these for over the last five years. These shoes are the worst shoes because they have no back to them yet I wear them in the winter, during rainstorms, mud tornadoes, etc. because I am a moron. They slip on easily and I guess I can’t be bothered to spend that extra millisecond wedging my heel into a shoe.

I used to have other “dressy” shoes for work, but they’re in even worse condition and/or lost because I can’t be bothered to look in my closet.

I nearly left these shoes, but I do have a wedding coming up.

I do have my “summer” shoes:

wornoutshoes

They’ve taken on the appearance of a roadside attraction in central Florida.

And I own a pair of sneakers for Zumba. They are currently caked in grass snippets because I mowed a wet lawn in them when I had mistakenly left my “dressy” shoes at the gym.

Existential Crisis

I have many existential questions like:

Why do I exist?

How do I know the reality I see is actually reality?

Why don’t more people read this blog?

But the biggest question I had to consider today was: Why am I still single?

Don’t be mislead by the pronoun. I am not the “I” in that sentence although I am the “I” in this sentence: Why did I watch the show ‘Why am I still single?’ That is a question I will never be able to answer.

It is a show on VH1, starring Marcia Gay Harden as Siggy Flicker, a New York-based matchmaker, and Shawn and Marlon Wayans, reprising their roles from the 2004 classic White Chicks, as Siggy’s twin stylists.

I’ve just been informed that this is a “reality” show. This makes me think back to my second existential question.

So Siggy Flicker is apparently the name of a real live person. She helps people with their problems by having them bash apart perfectly-cooked whole chickens. The opening sequence shows the four main archetypes of singledom: The Overtalker, Mr. Ego, The Needy Guy and The Cat Lady. This is the name of my next band.

Siggy will be “helping” Ebonie and O’Neal. Ebonie is very picky and not easily impressed. She is shown making a vision board of her perfect man whom she calls Prince Jamal. It is very “impressive” and not at all like anything I would have done in sixth grade. This is true, in sixth grade I had a very “impressive” picture collage of Ralph Macchio on my bedroom wall. Ebonie’s vision board makes my collage look like a Robert Rauschenberg.

O’Neal is a “recording artist.” He sounds like a seal, the barking kind not the musician, as he bleats into a microphone. So maybe a sheep is a better analogy? I don’t know, I’ve already spent too much time thinking about his “music” career that I now must be lobotomized. He says he’s the “black Brad Pitt.” He talks a lot about his tattooed balls, which I hear is how Brad Pitt won over Angelina Jolie.

Siggy sets Ebonie and O’Neal on a date-vaillance, in which Siggy and her twin stylists secretly observe their date behavior. Ebonie brings up Prince Jamal. O’Neal talks about how the dump he took in the bathroom will require the restaurant to repaint the walls. The two do not click.

Siggy show actual judgment when she bursts in to end the date when O’Neal begins talking about how his balls smell like lavender. I am by no means a matchmaker, but even I know ball scent is a first date no-no.

Siggy now confabs with the twin stylists and people who are identified by the moniker “love picker,” which for some reason makes me think about elementary school when kids would call other kids garbage pickers.

“The worst thing you can do is wear a bindi on your forehead,” says one love picker wearing a bindi on her forehead. She might not have actually said that, but she should have and then immediately went to a mirror, saw her mistake and removed the bindi.

So now it’s time to change the bad date behavior of Ebonie. The twin stylists dress her in a terrible Cinderella costume taken from my school’s 1988 production of Cinderella and plop make up on her face. She is taken to a group of “princes” wearing crowns a half-step up from the paper Burger King crown but 10 steps down from the crown the former creepy Burger King mascot wears. She reads her Prince Jamal wishlist and all the princes leave. The moral: Don’t appear on reality television.

Siggy takes O’Neal to a knitting circle when he can dazzle a group of older women with his knitting double entendres. “Is this a sewing needle or the actual size of my penis?”

The love pickers are out and about picking out potential love interests, and now I understand why I made the connection to garbage pickers. They stop in barber shops, basketball courts, free clinic waiting rooms, urine-soaked alleyways. Siggy separates the chaff from the even chaffier with probing questions like “Where’s the craziest place you’ve ever had sex?”

Matchmaking magic ensues. O’Neal is going on a sailboat date: “I know I’ve got swag. Out of the gate, if she’s hot we f*** in the boat.” Lucky, lucky girl.

Ebonie is going wine-tasting in some Brooklyn establishment that encourages people to suck out wine as if they are siphoning gasoline from a tank to mix with other wines. I know it’s hard in New York, and restaurateurs have to resort to gimmicks to get traffic such as charge $700 for a bowl of donut soup, but this is just gross. Incidentally how I feel about the winetasting is how Ebonie feels about her date. In the bathroom she secretly tapes together the vision board Siggy cruelly made her rip apart.

O’Neal does the “I’m-the-king-of-the-world” Titanic reference and mentions his balls once. His date is perfect.

The show ends with an Animal-House where-are-they-now style ending. Ebonie is still searching for Prince Jamal and O’Neal is engaged.

Lucky, lucky girl.