She knits and she writes, like a woman possessed. This lady makes me laugh loudly and often.
My favourite Jennifer quotes include:
I have completely lost all blog traffic. Is it my breath? Please. Be honest.
Why isn’t there a tv show called So You Think You Can Write? I need someone to tell me I suck.
Does fish sauce go bad? How can you tell?
Remember the feeling a split second just before you kiss someone for the first time? When you’re drawing close & breathing hard? Yeah. That.
Occasionally, she makes me cry, more often than not when she writes about her day job. The thing is that Ms Monroe is a member of one of the noblest, oldest and most mysterious of vocations – she is a birth doula specialising in the delivery of wonderfully made births. For those of you who are not familiar with the term, a doula (occasionally called a birth attendant) offers emotional and physical support to a woman and her partner before, during and after childbirth. Doulas are trained and experienced in childbirth and are usually mothers themselves. They are not midwives and they are not nurses. Had I known about doulas when I had the Noisy Boy, I might well have had a completely different (and less traumatic) birth experience. So when I read that one of her mothers has had an amazing birth, I stop and smile and wipe a wee tear away. Babies do that to you.
Anyway, enough of the soppy, floral stuff. You are all ordered to check out her writing on Twitter and on her blog Barely Knit Together forthwith as soon as you finish reading this blog post (if not before). Also, is working on a novel which you should all encourage her to finish via copies @ replies on Twitter. At the time of writing she has 25,000 words down. I have promised to buy her a pair of Zombie Stompers on publication.
Warning: this will not be the kind of “crazy for shoes” post you’re used to from our lovely blogess host. No, I unfortunately, have what you might call shoe ‘ssues, or perhaps just all around problematic attire habits.
It’s not that I don’t want to get all sexpotted up on occasion. I like war paint and plunging necklines as much as the next gal. No, the problem is something more like…inertia.
I admire fancy shoes, am in fact drooling over those zombie beauties from the previous guest post, and dream of being Carrie in Sex and the City with her adorable little dresses and super high heels. I imagine striding into a room and having all eyes turn toward me, as I take control and…
Fall in a heaping jumble of limbs and backpacks. Yeah. ‘Cause I don’t carry a purse, I carry, well, we’ll call them bags. And the limits of my grace ended on the stage, where I used to perform with a ballet company. I was angelic on it, catastrophic off of it. It’s the difference between Pavlova and one of Pavlov’s dogs. Add on to that my general disdain for discomfort, and you have a recipe for something no one should be forced to accompany in public.
If I had a dime for every time my daughter threatened to call “What Not to Wear” on me, I could buy Manolo Beatnik, or whatever the hell his name is.
This is not to say I don’t own any high heels. I do. I own one. And I mean one, singular shoe, not one pair, because I can’t seem to find the other one. It’s as fancy as I’ve ever gotten, and it was a special treat for my hubby before he went to Iraq for a year. Can’t have him going off remembering me in my Converse Chucks now, can I?
I’ve included some pictures so you can fully embrace the horror that is my shoe wardrobe. Although, I am quite fond of the oxblood Sketchers boots with fishnet stockings. And the shoes that look as if they’re covered with pages from a graphic novel? They are. I did it.
The shoe person I am:
So go, take heart. Know that you are goddesses among women with your smart heels and sexy calf shape. As for me, I shall lumber along in my clunky, thrift store shoes, and be thankful I don’t have to study law to support my habit.