Oh. My. God.

Why is it that trendy shoe stores hire the least competent, most time-wasting morons on earth? Is there something in the trendy shoe store management guide that dictates that staff must be time wasting twats?

Two days ago I went to Aldo’s to find some sensible low heeled black shoes. Let me add that Aldo’s has a policy of making one girl stay at the front register at all times, so that when the store is manned by two people only one can go get shoes at a time. And the lucky one who stays at the counter gets to call her friend and gossip.

Fizz (holding up 8 (8!!!) pairs of sensible black shoes): I’d like to try these pairs on in a 9, please.
Salesmoron: Okay!
{The girl goes downstairs to find the shoes and…nothing. 20 minutes pass. Customers are piling up, asking the woman stuck upstairs why she can’t go get their damn shoes. Finally the girl reappears. Holding three boxes.}
Fizz: That’s…it?
Salesmoron: Yeah, the rest are sold out. I brought you two tens and a nine in brown.
Fizz: I…but…riiiiiiiiight.

I am fairly convinced that the girl spent her time in the shoe storage area talking on her cell phone. I mean, 20 minutes to locate three pairs of shoes? That means my ideal pair of sensible black shoes is back there somewhere, waiting for a competent sales person to pull it out!

On the other hand, I finally caved and went to a non-trendy upscale shoe boutique and got myself a pair of Uggs. (yes, I know: comfy! sensible! warm! expensive!) The lone guy working there promptly attached himself to me, returned with the specified shoes in a split second, and removed all the shoe padding for me. WHILE there were other people in the store. Ugg buyers are not a dime a dozen, apparently, nor should they be trifled with.

The latest weekend post

My weekend went like this:

Teach dance

There was a lot of eating out, and a lot of dancing, and I am still freakin’ exhausted.

But: kudos to my student, H, who performed some duets with me at a party on Friday night. She had her first taste of improvising with audience members, and enjoyed it. 🙂

Holy social ineptitude, Batman!

I realize that I attend an institution known for its geekiness, but three things that happened today at the gym really put me over the edge.

1) This is the easy one: please don’t clip your toenails in a public locker room without catching the clippings. In fact, please don’t clip your toenails in public at all.

2) What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is not. My friend K and I sat down to stretch, and K set the three magazines she’d brought with her on the edge of her mat. Girl comes up, sits down next to the mat, picks up a magazine and starts reading it. Huh? We let her read, and K politely asked for the mag back as we got up to leave. The girl wasn’t bothered at all; she made no apology whatsoever!

3) That locker thing again. If you’re JUST starting to put your stuff in a locker, and the owners of the two lockers on either side of you return from their workout, the correct thing to do is to MOVE LOCKERS. Yes, you can pick up your towel and move it into a different locker. I know. I’ve done it before. And lady, you took the LONGEST time to change of anyone I’ve seen. Ever.

I am beginning to think that maybe joining a private gym would alleviate all these problems? Or do they attract people with even more issues?

Happy late birthday!

A belated happy birthday to our dog, D. He celebrated one year with us on February 5th (yes, we bought him on superbowl sunday). We made him a cake in his favorite color (pink), and Mr. Fizz even made a little birthday hat for him!



And heck, since I’m photo happy today I present to you:

Our back porch, after the first snowstorm of 2006

And our street

Yo! Homeowners!

Yeah, you! There is a city ordinance requiring you to clear the sidewalk in front of your house of snow. Many of you seem to interpret this in one of two ways:

1) Clear a path the width of your snow shovel.

2) Clear a slightly wider path but leave a layer of snow and ice on it.

Neither of these are acceptable! Clear your damn sidewalk or move the heck out of the city!


Yeah, okay. So Mr. Fizz annoys me sometimes.

But, in the spirit of Valentine’s day, I should also add:

Mr. Fizz, I love you more than anything in this world, and I love spending time with you – especially when that time is spent planning our future. So happy valentine’s day, and here’s to many more together!


Please check your fetish at the door

I performed at my usual restaurant gig last night. Made it through the set just fine and got a reluctant audience to start tipping (seriously, it took me dancing up to a guy with his wallet out and saying, “This is the part where you give me a dollar if you liked my show!” The guy grumbled that he only had a $5, but he gave it to me anyway. And THEN everyone got the idea).

As I’m dancing around collecting tips, I notice a guy walk into the dining area with a wad of $1 bills. Yay, I think, dancing over there. I shimmy up to him and notice the first sign of trouble: he is not going to shower me with the money. No, he is going to divide it up into bunches of a few dollars, and place these individually into my costume.* I let him place the first bunch, and then he bends over at the waist, so he’s face to my belly button, breathes, “belly ring”, and reaches out to touch my navel ring.

WELL! I back up very quickly, give the audience my patented “this guy is a weird-O” look, and move back to the stage. Mr. Fetish waves his remaining dollars, looking hopeful, but I resolutely ignore him, collect the remaining tips, and finish my set. Predictably, there is no sign of him when I finish changing after my set.

So: Ew.

*For those of you who care, yes I accept tips in my costume, generally in my belt. This is just the way the restaurant works: if your tips hit the floor, you have a much reduced chance of ever seeing them again. And no, generally I don’t have any trouble at all with the patrons; they’re a very family friendly, tippy crowd. I like them.

Run in fear

I am TA-ing an intro to bio class this semester.

During the first class, the instructor drew a time line on the board from 4.5 billion years ago to today. He asked the kids to point to when the dinosaurs lived, and damned if some of them didn’t point to two billion years ago.


True story: when I was little, my family lived in an old farmhouse. It stood on the top of a hill, surrounded by newer houses built as the farmer sold off his land. We moved out of this house when I was five, and I don’t have all that many memories of it. Except for the basement. The basement was dank and scary, and its walls were built out of big rocks. I was absolutely convinced – as convinced as a five year old can be – that Anubis, the jackal headed god of the dead, lived in our basement.

This is a roundabout way of telling you that back when I was small I was a little unclear on the concept of time, as evidenced by the fact that I firmly believed that our house – which my father told me was 100 years old – had been around when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I knew dinosaurs died out 65 million, but 65 million and 100 years ago were SO close! SO CLOSE!