HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LITTLE BROTHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Our dinner date Friday evening was quite lovely.
As lovely as it could be when you eat the lightest things on the menu and drink diet Pepsi because they don't carry diet Coke.
Stephen did indulge in a Molson Canadian.
I had a sip but it left a putrid aftertaste in my mouth.
No more for me, thank you very much.
At least I didn't have to suffer through the indignity of ogling the dessert menu.
Cheesecake.
Carrot Cake.
Chocolate cake with at least three layers.
My resolve was already weakened from watching harried servers run back and forth with trays brimming with Chalet fries.
I thought of tripping one in an attempt to snag any fries that flew through the air, sort of like a potatoed version of jacks.
But somehow I didn't think Stephen would approve.
Yesterday was spent running errands.
Not because I wanted to, but because Stephen did.
He was in desperate need of new winter boots.
His previous boots were leakier than a row boat with holes all over the bottom.
Leaving him, when taking out the dogs, to wear his "Hillbilly" boots.
I've never seen a pair like before, anywhere, on anyone.
To say they are HUGE is an understatement.
They go up to my boobs.
I can't even lift my feet when I have them on.
Which, thankfully, has never been more than once.
Stephen loves these boots.
He wears them to classes, to walk the dogs, grocery shopping.
He even attempted to wear them to dinner the other evening.
If I wanted to go to dinner with Stephen, while he wore those boots, I'd have suggested McDonalds.
Wendy's.
Taco Bell at the mall.
And while Swiss Chalet is certainly not on the same level as Jamie Oliver doesn't mean I want to go out with Hillbilly Hal.
Thus making him change them before we went to dinner.
Plus, quite frankly, when he's been wearing them for an extended period of time, and takes him off, his feet stink.
Reek.
Fetid.
And somehow the stench of his malodorous feet mingling with the sumptuous odor of Swiss Chalet chicken and fries didn't seem apropos.
To the Shoe Company we went.
In addition to my fetish for purses, I have a deep, unabiding love for shoes.
Putting me in the middle of a shoe store with shoes AND purses, can be a dangerous enterprise.
Trips to Montreal automatically mean traversing through the downtown shops in search of purses.
Or, to the lovely you-can-haggle-down-the-price market.
The one where I was able to get three pair of shoes and for $60.00 in total.
Instead of the $120.00 they should have cost.
There are all sorts of shoes I admire, but certainly would never buy.
Stephen, too, it would seem, has a fetish for shoes.
Particularly high heeled ones.
Ones I wouldn't wear even when I do get to my goal weight.
While looking through all the exquisite shoes, he finds a pair of darkish blue sequined stilettos and comments upon how lovely they are.
I informed him that if he liked them so much, he should get himself a pair.
Because I loved my ankles and my pride too much to subject myself to wearing death-trap like stilts.
And so it was that I did, indeed, get myself a new pair of shoes.
Black Oxford brogues.
I am far more excited than I should be.
Especially given my distaste for conspicuous consumption.
Of course, like purses and shoes, wanting purses and shoes and buying every purse and every pair of shoes I want are two entirely different things.
Stephen on the other hand found a pair of size 13 Sorel winter boots.
Gorgeous boots, really.
No leaks, no holes, no nothing.
He could practically walk through small rivers with them.
And, he also managed to locate a pair of hiking shoes for when the snow decides to take a holiday and let spring and summer in for a bit.
A happy camper he is.
Off with dogs as soon as we got back from our fashion footslog.
They must be wondrous boots because when he got back, the dogs threw themselves on the floor in exhaustion and barely moved until this morning when it was time to eat and pee.
The essentials.
Title Lyric: Stinky Feet by Jim Cosgrove
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