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Posts Tagged ‘high heels’

Size One Zillion

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:55 AM
Tuesday, January 8, 2013

The title of this blog, by the way, is my shoe size. More or less.

I thought about titling the blog “If the Shoe Fits” and then adding an asterisk, where, down below, the thoughtful reader would find some kind of witty footnote remark, like ‘then I obviously didn’t buy it in Europe” or “then it’s probably some ugly boat I’m trying to pass off as footwear.”

Bottom line here? My feet are… not what you would call small and dainty.

Unless you are Andre the Giant! He might think my feet were small and dainty.

But to most others – including my husband, whose feet are basically the same length as mine, just wider – my feet are more of the “large and in charge” variety.

For a man, that’s the kind of cool status ‘tell’ – like big hands – that makes the babes excited and other guys jealous and makes the guy who HAS the big feet or big hands super easy-going and confident, because, hey, let’s face it, whatever other shit life and chaos this guy has going on, at least he’s got a big penis.

Not so much, for the ladies.

For the ladies, it’s like “big feet, big – uh – okay, that’s gross.”

Or, put more delicately, “big feet, big – um – socks?”

Only that would be a lie, because I can tell you that nobody cool (like Puma or Polo) makes decent women’s socks that fit big women’s feet. Trust me. I fall for it EVERY time.

I see a set of women’s socks hanging there in the store, like a dazzled fish spotting a shiny lure in a murky sea.

I read the label: it says it fits sizes 6.5-11!!! It will fit me!! I’m only a size 10!!!! (10.5 if I was pregnant within a year or so of sock-shopping, but let’s not even go there.) Yay!!! Cool socks!

Cool socks, indeed. Cool socks that, after one or two washings, I have no choice but to slip quietly into my 8 year old son’s drawer so at least SOMEONE in the house can enjoy them comfortably, or – if they have pink or girly stuff on them – donate to charity.

I think I could probably have my own Goodwill sock line. BatSheva. Socks for GrownupGirls with giant feet. Has a certain ring to it, no?

No.

No, it doesn’t.

Sigh…

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva “Goodwill Sock Hunting” Vaknin)

A (nearly) true-to-life portrait of me, on the very first day I was born.

Clothes that Suck

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:59 AM
Wednesday, December 12, 2012

So by now we all know I’m pregnant. Which means… ladies, altogether now:

SUCKY MATERNITY CLOTHES!

Why do maternity clothes suck? Let me count the ways. (and btw, I apologize for the lack of SPACE between each listed item, below. HOW DO YOU F$*#(&%#$-ING USE WORDPRESS TO CREATE A PROPER LIST WITH NORMAL SPACING???!!!!?? ARGHHH!!)

Ahem.

  1. 1. Cap sleeves. Didn’t like them when I was four, don’t like them now. What do the designers think happens to a woman when she gets pregnant – that her fashion sense and style automatically reverts to Laura Ingalls circa-1820?
  2. 2. The belt below the bra. I mean, come ON! Really? Really?? Just because my belly is growing larger, doesn’t mean you now need to amplify it’s existence by strapping a ribbon or a belt below my boobs to help the belly-part of the shirt poof out even that much more. Don’t you have ANY imagination? [PS - and what is up with women wearing those types of shirts when they are NOT pregnant??? Ladies, don't you realize that shirt is making you LOOK 5 months preggers? Don't get lazy, find another style to suit your beautiful if not stick-skinny body! Don't give in to the bra-belt hype!]
  3. 3. Shitty construction. And by that I mean: my 6 year old could have slapped a few pieces of material & sewn them together in a more lasting and secure way than these people do! Why does the fact that you only wear these clothes for a few months mean the seams need to start coming apart and the whole thing starts to lose shape after 3 weeks?
  4. 4. If it doesn’t have shitty construction… it cost about a million dollars. Seriously. A million. This prowling, selfish industry is out to bankrupt us, my pregnant sisters! Because if you want to wear something half-way decent WITHOUT cap sleeves and WITHOUT a belt below your bra and WITHOUT the thing falling apart in 2 days… you have to empty your bank account to afford it. What is up with that???

After 3 kids & now into my 4th pregnancy, I realize the only way to go is to buy clothes in bigger sizes that are cute and fashionable and cut in a way that allows for tons of room in the belly arena. Too bad that is also expensive, time-consuming, and altogether nearly-impossible for a shopping-impaired person like myself.

Don’t get me wrong – I love to shop – but I simply don’t have the 3-4 hours it takes PER STORE to look, try on, and find those affordable gems that will look great, fit perfectly, and last forever.

Sigh…. gotta go throw on my old, non-maternity baby doll dress as a shirt with my over-priced maternity pants.

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

FYI, you can click on the image if you want to read all my really pithy explanations of why maternity clothes suck so much without having to squint (for my over-40 and reading-impaired readers).

 

Fifty Shades of Ridiculousness

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:46 AM
Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Dear readers – I know I dropped a bomb on you yesterday, but I’ve no time at present to talk about all the pros (bigger boobs) and cons (doctors wanting to brainwash me with scary genetically problematic statistics) of having another baby at age blorty.

Because at present, we must talk about the world-wide phenomenon that is:

Fifty Shades.

Of Ridiculousness.

Because, readers, I mean, COME ON.

Yes, I am a human female, I did get sucked into the books’ crack-like romantic premise and promise. It’s heroin-esque depiction of a more perfect world, where a rich-but-totally-messed-up-boy-meets-poor-but fiesty-virgin-girl-who-rocks-his-world-and-turns-it-upside-down-just-as-he-does-to-her-world — via a story in which there just happens to be an overabundance of S&M pornographic sex scenes (oh great, here come the digital blog looking for the word ‘sex’ spammers; comments section- look out!!), but who really cares about those uncomfortable and downright ridiculous porno/spanking/handcuff/”silver ball”/etc. scenes when meanwhile there is a bad boy who is just secretly aching to be tamed, trained, married and made into an honest man & perfect husband & father?

No one. That’s who cares.

I, like most of my girlfriends who read the books, did not sleep for more than a few hours here and there as I sucked down the cotton candy that was the substance of these stories. As much as I was utterly annoyed with the writing and the stupid sex scenes (scenes, I might add, that somehow inspired friends of mine to go crazy with their husbands – okay, ladies, whatever floats your previously uninspired boats!) – I was, I admit, completely unable to put the things down until I was done devouring them.

I mean come on… Fifty!? (the main guy character; his real name, of course, is Christian Grey, what else COULD it be??) Of COURSE he is a self-made billionaire international businessman, aged 28, with his hooded, sexy eyes, tousled auburn hair (come on, what the F-ck does that mean!?) and sexy, ripped jeans.

And of COURSE Ana (short for – duh! – Anastasia) would be a perfectly innocent yet utterly wise beyond her years virgin who of course trips and falls, literally, into Fifty’s arms the very first time they meet? (Again, DUH! doesn’t every girl take mental lessons from our beloved Sandra Bullock as she trips her way through romantic comedy after romantic comedy? Brilliant!)

Okay, the Cirque-du-Soleil porno sex scenes I really could have done without.

But everything else? Perfection.

Perfectly, romantically, deliciously, happy-endingly…

Ridiculousness.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

This picture tells you all you really need to know about the book. Decipher my handwriting at your own risk!

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Flashback Friday! (High Heels)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:54 AM
Friday, May 25, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – High Heels – the BLOG

My oldest daughter (now four) started wearing my shoes at 12 months, just after she learned to walk. Correction: wearing my heels. She really didn’t have much use for my flats after the first cursory tries. Boots – yes, she liked those too… but the heels were her favorites.

She walked better than I did in my heels. I am not kidding. Initially, my husband was upset. “Don’t let her take your shoes!” he would admonish. “She’ll ruin them!”

What he didn’t understand is that you can’t get between a girl and her obsession with shoes. I walked in my mother’s shoes, my daughters walk in my shoes, and someday, their daughters too, will walk in their shoes. Right now my four year old has a pair of “heels” (Hannah Montana brand kids’ heels, I’m horrified to admit), and she insists on wearing them every second of every day. I know it’s not “good” for her feet. But I get it…

My whole life, I never really wore heels except to weddings – I’m already 5’10”, and heels just aren’t comfortable, you know? After a night of wearing them my lower back would hurt, my knees would pop, my feet ache… And I never liked towering above everyone else.

Until.

About five months ago. Not sure what changed. I finally lost the remainder of my 3rd pregnancy weight which was a BITCH to lose. My feet had actually grown almost a half size thanks to said 3rd pregnancy, so I needed new shoes. For Christmas, my mother gave me a fat gift certificate to DSW. Not sure what possessed me, but when I went to the store to buy four new pairs of shoes – I walked out with four pairs of heels.

I’ve been wearing them almost daily every since.

Cause now? I get it.

THAT’S why women wear heels! No – they still aren’t comfortable (though somehow my body doesn’t hurt anymore after wearing them, so I guess the pain from wearing them before was ½ mental and ½ me not being in shape). No – it’s not really fun for me to tower over my husband and everyone else around me except my 6 foot 6 friend who no longer seems like a distant image in the sky when I wear my heels; more like a next door neighbor (though it is kind of cool to stand tall above the rest and NOT suffer from a Napoleon complex)…

It’s what my one year old instinctively knew, what every Shoe Dazzle member knows, and what most of my girlfriends and most women of the modern world have known for years…

High heels are fucking sexy.

My girlfriend, whose husband has been a tenured professor of Gender Studies for over 20 years, told me that it has been proven that high heels put women’s bodies in the same position that an orgasm puts them in.

Hmmmmmmm….

Well, with all the pain, misery, and uncertainty in the world… there are worse positions for the body to hang out in, eh?

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

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Drunk on One Beer

posted by Sheva 11:32 AM
Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I know. Pathetic, right? I’m cool, I’m hip. (Oh lordy – isn’t there a universal rule that if someone has to say they are cool and hip, they automatically aren’t? Shit, when did I get so square??) Okay, fine, I’m not cool or hip. Still, I would like to think I can go out with some girlfriends and keep up with them as we have good girlie fun together.

I put this theory to the test the other night when I met three dear girlfriends out for dinner (yes, husband was out of town, future blog on my “Me-cation” coming to a theatre near you). I put on my cutest heels, LBD, got my “hair did” and went to meet them at Gjelina on Abbot Kinney.

I should have already suspected trouble when I realized I couldn’t pronounce the name of the restaurant we were going to. I mean, hip and cool kids need to be able to say the names of the places they frequent, right? For a moment, I thought the gods were smiling on me anyway, because I got ROCK STAR parking in front of the crazily crowded restaurant.

Okay, truth be told, I had to move it because it was loading only, but THEN I found ANOTHER rock star spot across the street! And granted, I had to wait almost ten minutes for the chick to leave, and wave around annoyed drivers the whole time. But I got the spot! It was mine, all mine – kismet! Fate! Divine Providence!

And then the lights went out.

No, not in my car, dear reader. On the whole block. And in the restaurant. All. The power/electricity. Out.

Which meant Geegeelina or whatever that dumb place is called wouldn’t seat anymore diners. Which meant I had to walk six blocks to meet my girlfriends at a bar/restaurant with actual power, yes, in those self-same high heels I was previously so excited to be wearing. And if you read my last blog, you know how much fun walking those six blocks was.

Oh yes, I got a ride back to my car at the end of the night. And I wouldn’t have walked the six blocks at all – I would have left my rock star parking in the dust – if only my friend hadn’t promised me the bar was only “two minutes” down the street. My friend, who bikes all over Los Angeles. My friend, who I noticed was wearing flat sandals that evening. Because her “two minutes” was my ten minutes in heels.

Here’s the rule, people: It’s like dog years. One minute in flats = 7 years in heels.

Finally I arrived, hungry, annoyed, and a little freaked out by the blackout. I drank half of my friend’s beer (at which point I wholeheartedly forgave her for making me – GASP! – walk in L.A.), and then ordered another beer, of which I drank half.

Dinner was amazing that night, and it made up for everything; there is nothing like a getaway with awesome girlfriends, even if the getaway is just to a cozy restaurant in Venice. I had gotten mildly buzzed for a few minutes off the beer minus food, but hadn’t thought anything of it, and didn’t order any more alcohol for the entirety of the dinner.

Next morning? Pounding headache, dry mouth, and sluggishness. I was hung over.

On one beer.

I am SO not hip.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Dude - this place is freakin' da bomb. Or - er - so I've heard...

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F***ING HIGH HEELS

posted by Sheva 2:56 PM
Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I know, I know. I know I said I loved high heels. And I do – I love them. High heels are fucking sexy, I believe was the phrase I used in my Ode to high heels. I’m wearing them right now, in fact.

And yet.

There exists a parallel reality where high heels are also instruments of torture. For example, remember Roxana? That con artist bitch who worked for my husband for one year and during that time managed to steal over $70,000 and almost ruin our business? Yeah, her. She’s still torturing me. In the most recent incident, she used one of my most favorite pair of high heels to do it – my sky-high (6 inch) Stuart Weitzman snakeskin peeptoes with the wicker-like heels, that were a gift to me from my high heels mentor, Betsy Davis.

How, you are probably wondering, did Roxana the Con Artist Bitch use my shoes to torture me? Did she break into my house and beat me on the head with them? (God forbid) Did she steal them in the dead of night, my favorite shoes? Wrong again.

No, she lured me. Lured me all the way to the downtown courthouse on a Monday morning, when my husband was laid up in bed sick and I was the only one who could leave work (in my sky high Stuart Weitzmans), jet down to the courthouse (or 6 blocks away from the courthouse, to the parking lot, rather), in order to race those same six blocks UPhill to the courthouse, in order to make it there before 10am which was the deadline. You see, I was told by the DA that very morning at 9:10am that either I or my husband needed to race down before 10am if we wanted to claim a money order which Roxana had supposedly gotten for us for $30,000 (towards her restitution).

In return for such diligent behavior (ie, starting to pay us back for the money she stole from us), Roxana was bargaining with the DA, hoping for a lighter sentence (something we BTW had no say in – go, legal system!) Hey, I can use $30,000 as much as anyone. I ran down there. I didn’t stop to change my shoes. I even parked in the WRONG block downtown, and walked two blocks until I realized I was in the wrong place, then walked two blocks back to my car to drive “closer” to the courthouse.

By which I mean six blocks away. For any woman who is not a superhero, 16 blocks in sky-high heels (4 in the wrong location, 6 there & 6 back) is, in a word, torture.

Icing on the cake? As I arrived panting to the courthouse, at 10am on the dot, the DA called me. “You didn’t leave yet?” she asked me. “There was a mix-up. There is no check. I got the message wrong, or they left the wrong message, I don’t know. But there is no check. They are working on getting you a check. It may happen in a month.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I wanted to but did not say.

Instead, I limped the six blocks back to my car, and swung by my house on the way back to work so I could change my shoes.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Even if Madonna herself were my heels, walking 16 blocks would still be torture.

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