My Chocolate is Gross Face photo

What Is Thicker Than Blood?

Me to my toddler daughter: WHOA! What happened? Are you hurt?

My daughter steps closer and so does my freaking out.

Me: WHAT HAPPENED!?!?! You’re bleeding! OMG, are you bleeding?

I reach out to touch her forehead as she stares at me.

Me: Blood? Holy crap! Are you okay? ARE YOU OKAY? YOU’RE IN SHOCK!

I rub my finger and thumb together. Slightly confused at her lack of crying but fairly convinced we’re in SILENT CRY BUILDUP mode, I do the ultimate test.

Me: Oh wait, it’s just chocolate.

Gross.

The chocolate taste in my mouth that is.

My Chocolate is Gross Face photo
My Chocolate is Gross face. (except white chocolate mostly because it doesn't look like blood)

PS. I am making some changes on my site to increase it’s speed because 97% of websites were faster than mine. (oops.) Part of the process is disabling some of my plugins including my mobile plugin. If you access my site on your phone or iPad or another mobile device, and you’re having problems with reading and accessibility, please let me know. Also, if you notice any of the other changes and think, WHERE IS ____? I MISS IT!, email me alex{at}lateenough{dot}com. I want to my site to be convenient and snuggly, not just fast.

PPS. Over in the sidebar towards the bottom is Google Friend Connect (GFC). If you use GFC to follow this blog, please switch to my RSS feed, ‘new post’ daily email or my weekly newsletter. Google is disabling the feature in a few months for any blogs outside of Blogger, and I don’t want to miss you.

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Feet Phobia

When I was a teenager, I hated feet. I hated mine. I hated yours. I thought that all feet were ugly and weird, and I hoped that someone would remove them in the night and replace them with shoes. Perma-shoes.

I remember my first pair of open-toed shoes. As I sophomore in high school, I bought a pair of Birkenstock. (I was a dirty, Republican, atheist hippy who wore hiking boots every day JUST IN CASE a hiking trail appeared. Hippies are always prepared.  Mostly for snacking.)

I put them on and stared. I could not imagine wearing them to school. Because everyone would see MY TOES.

Now my feet aren’t particularly hairy or vein-y or ugly.  Their only oddity is my second toe is larger than my big toe, which weirded me out until I read that it’s a sign of royalty.  QUEEN OF THE BIG TOE. Awesome. It’s like the worst kingdom I could ever imagine. I just hated feet.

I entered the halls of my high school hoping that my long floral dress will hide the gang of ten. But no one ran away screaming except me. And so began my open-toed shoe obsession. Although I merely see it as an extension of my general shoe obsession. I have flip-flops and cute satin strappy heels, and I wear whatever I want to as long as they are adorable.

But I still find feet vaguely offensive.

When someone’s Facebook profile or Twitter avatar is feet, I spend an inordinate amount of my day looking for reasons to unfriend him.

I display a mixture of awe and contempt for people who become podiatrists or pedicurist. If there is a hell, I will be scraping foot calluses and painting toenails for the rest of eternity. So how they can endure it now is a great mystery of life.

When I sit on the couch with my husband and he moves his feet towards me, I flinch. I’ve tried to love his tingers (toe + finger). They can write and pick things up off the floor with the agility of hands and a lot less effort. They are amazing and really appeal to my lazy, freakshow side.







But I don’t want them doing my hair.  Or really anywhere higher than my knees.

Scott wanted to do a picture of his feet near my face and I said: But I’ll look like this.

And he said: Exactly. And started prepping for the photo.

Until I cried out: BUT I’LL BE DYING ON THE INSIDE.

The only exceptions to my feet phobia are my children.

Their little toes can climb up my body and poke me in the ear, and I will giggle and pretend to eat them. PUT FEET NEAR MY MOUTH! EAT FEET!

If I got into a time machine and took my thirty-two-year-old, baby-toe-nibbling self and told my teenage self this foot fact, Teenage Alex would’ve broke out THE LOOK from above (with less forehead wrinkle) and responded: DUUUUDE, that’s disgusting. You’re crazy. STOP FREAKING ME OUT! Also, did that tree just move?

And hiked away.

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