Not Such a Joy

I'm wondering what happens if you b'witch slap a granny at the local diner. I realize that you may be surprised to hear that adorable, gentile, innocent, law abiding Earnestine May was tempted to take down a sweet little granny, but it happened tonight. I mentioned in my last, all to brief, blogette that I am no longer allowed to wear flip flops. Some explanation is needed before we get back to GRANNY.

About a year ago, during a girl's weekend getaway we were all getting pedicures when my pedicurist (is that really a word) commented in a jovial way "oh baby you have those fat little ankles." I've never been much of a fan of having any part of my body called fat, but I knew my ankles were a tad swollen. So I took the comment in stride. I've taken a couple of tumbles over the years. Okay lots of tumbles - NOT due to drinking, but a new PDA was involved in one of them. So I've gotten used to a bit of swelling here and there. When pedi-lady made the comment, one of my friends rushed in to my defense. "Oh Earnie May, I don't think you have fat ankles!" In a very sweet and loving tone she made sure I knew she liked my ankles. (Thanks sweetie - you have always been my champion!)

As a result of this, I started paying a bit more attention to my ankles. Uh oh. The toe painter was right. Both of my darling little outer ankles were swollen most of the time. How could I have missed this? I had fallen in love with cute colorful flip-flops and flat sandals. I built an amazing collection of them in every color of the rainbow. I kept my toenails polished in lovely colors and once a year, with my granddaughters, I got teenie weenie little flowers painted on my big toes. Had I been so smitten with my shoes and polish than I missed the golf balls inhabiting my ankles? As I looked back at a few pictures taken - there they were. The gopher from Caddy Shack was probably after me. He would take one look at my ankles and know there must be golf balls inside!

Finally, I went to see a doctor and sure enough I got diagnosed with some big doctor word that meant "poopy ankles." Seems some of my tendons are swollen to twice their size. And what's worse than poopy ankles? Being told that you have to wear an athletic shoe ALL the time. Are you kidding me? What about my darling flip flops and flat sandals?! Oh nooooo - they are not in my best interest. Along with the darn poopy ankles it seems my arches have fallen and flip flops are a huge no no!

So now me and my ankles are going to physical therapy. Additonally, the doctor is doing a torture treatment involving lots of needles (don't ask - it's just not worth going into.) Technically I am banned from my sandal collection for all of eternity (my own personal version of hell.) Female relatives with whom I share a shoe size are circling me like buzzards!

So enter Granny Joy (of all the possible names on the planet - the fates named her JOY just to irriate me.) Earnest and I were eating at a local diner. And I do mean local. The place is called Joe's and it's billed as the place "where Irving meets and eats." Tonight Granny Joy was having her birthday party at Joe's. I don't even know Granny Joy, but I was sitting in a booth across from her when she got up to go potty and guess what? She was wearning one of MY favorite pairs of sandals. They are black leather with a toe strap and sterling silver embellishments (they look positively ravishing with some of my black Chicos clothing and stylish sterling silver jewelry. I used to get so many compliments when I wore them. And not only did Granny Joy have on the sandals, she had the most lovely pedicure and cute little red toenails. I began salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs. I've been so depressed about my ankles that I haven't seen the inside of a my favorite pedicure shop since July. My toenails, well let's just say, when you wear cruddy shoes, you stop caring caring about your toenails and they stop looking darling.

So now this grey panther has showed up at one of my favorite diners in MY sandals. I didn't know her name till after dinner. All of sudden, singing breaks out. Strains of happy birthday, dear "Granny Joy" fill the restaurant. Her grey panther buddies are all pointing at her. Earnest knows I'm about to come unglued. He gives me that "now - now" look. I pursed my lips and said in a soft but firm tone "what happens if I b'witch slap her?" I couldn't believe what I was saying. I was getting ready to take out someone old enough to be my mother. I'm thinking "bring it on old lady. I'm taking you down." Somehow I manged to maintain a sense of decorum. The party broke up and Granny Joy left. She walked right by me wearning MY sandals and she didn't have a swollen ankle in sight.

Yes - I'm going to rehab. Hopefully, grey haired ladies won't cause me to foam at the mouth again. They will be sending me to Cesar Millan's Dog Psychology Center in South LA. I'll have to get my shots before I go. I must have gotten rabies from the darn gopher...

She heard me!

She must have read my post yesterday. She let me wear a Chicos outfit today. I'm still not allowed to wear flip flops or any cute little sandals for that matter. More on that subject soon...

Where is the complaint department?

When Cheryl Richardson told us to "write, write, write at the Hay House Writers Workshop I attended at Sea my boss came home and took her way too literally. I've had my fingers attached to the keyboard of my beloved Mac so much lately that I think my fingerprints have come off. You might ask "gosh Earnestine, if you are writing so much how come you haven't posted anything lately?"

It isn't that I don't love you - I do. It's just that my boss has been really cracking down on me. She's not letting me write fun stuff. Instead I "write, write, write" content for her soon to be published new MayDecember Secrets Website. I think it's just "wrong, wrong, wrong." My public needs me, but you've been dissed for her sacred project.

I haven't been able to shop for any Coach purses either. We had to go the Apple store on Sunday. It happened to be very near a Coach store and guess what - the boss lady wouldn't let me go in. It was also very near Chicos and I wore Chicos long before anybody knew what Michael Phelps mother looked like (now Debbie's got her own line of Chicos clothing!)

So the boss lady bought some silly back up drive. It does have a cute little Apple mirrored logo on it, but I could have had a lovely new bag for the price of that drive. She's become obsessed (helloooooo - Prozac.) I noticed that Cheryl Richardson was also wearing Chicos the first day of the workshop. I think she just told us to "write, write, write" so there would be more Chicos and Coach bags left for her. I think better advice would have been "write a little, shop a lot, write some more, go shop a lot more, eat some mac cheese, get a pedicure, write a tiny bit more, and then take a nap."

And while I am lodging complaints, I have another big one. Where the heck has all the mac cheese gone? She used it to seduce me into writing in the beginning. Now she's so busy typing (with my fingers) that she won't stop and turn on the stove. I guess she could buy the microwave stuff, but I think I heard her grumbling about somebooty that had a growing problem. Maybe she was referring to one of her clients.

I know the purpose of my blog was to share with you the adventures of an earnest writer aspiring to write a book and get published, but I didn't know it was actually hard work. So let me be clear - this part stinks. It's not much fun, you don't get out much, and most of the people you talk to live in some place called the blogosphere.

Just you wait, one of these days somebody is going to call and want to interview her in person. Then she'll be begging me to go shopping with her. She'll be wanting a pretty, new, hip, modern, adorable, luxurious Coach bag. Then she'll go into Chicos for a sophisticated, sexy, upscale, yet casual, colorful, slinky outfit and you know what...

...I'm a ho - I'll go.