This is not a shoe blog: Because in order to stop talking about knockers, I need to talk about shoes

The rain clouds have cleared and the sun is calling me away from my laptop. Or at least, away from my work on the laptop. It's Friday, so that means a happy hour of shoe perusal will light me up more than a pom mojito and hefeweizen chaser.

And why not? My work today has centered on posts about bedtime routines, Mischa Barton's cellulite, sunscreen and getting your roots done in a timely manner -- how much more demanding can my day get? Clearly, it's time to knock off the hard work (not to mention the knocker talk of previous posts) and end this week once and for all. So, on to shoes and to four foot-focused questions that have really been on my mind this week:

First, with the birth of Jamie Lynn's bundle of love and adorably inevitable dysfunction, I'm wondering what flip-flops y'allses are wearing this summer? You know, around the $3 million crazy compound or park or trailer park or whatever. I picked up five pairs that are cheap, cute and can be trashed recycled as easily as any Spears sister (oh snap).

 
Second, no matter how cute they might be, is there any way in hell you think you could feel good about wearing Playboy brand shoes? Is there any little possibility -- no matter how cute -- you could wear these wedges without feeling like you also need to apologize incessantly, get a Brazilian and then take a long walk on the beach while enjoy your favorite thing, the smell of fresh rain?

Third, in the words of the ever-articulate Jessica Simpson, "Oh. Mah. Gaw." It is official (this is me talking now, not that other Jess), Re-Run from What's Happening officially comes in a shoe. Or will in the next few days at a muffin-top-XXXLowRise promoting teen retailer near you.

Fourth and final and speaking of Our Lady of Romance and Inappropriate Fathers, how is it that she's so not good at singing and stuff and still makes such sweet, sweet shoes? You do think she  produces all her own preliminary shoe sketches, don't you? Don't you? (How long do these lovelies need to whisper my name before I finally allow them to come home with me and live on my closet floor?)

Now you stomp it out: What shoe snark are you pondering today?

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Just one more post about boobs. Swearsy.

I'm not sure if it is some kind of boob divinity or coincidence that I've been so focused on breasts here on the interwebs (right, like this is a new thing) and Lil E has moved his focus northward as well. Whatever it is, it is officially the way in our cozy little home.

Or at least it has been in the last week. Soon, I am sure, his boobcentricity will go the way of Elmo, off to some lonely corner where stuffed animals and Thomas trains and (God help us) pacifiers collect dust and await the arrival of other expensive child things that you've hunted down in Target and airports and grandma's house fourteen times too many. For now, though, where it's at does not include eye contact.

Lil E has not only noticed boobs in general like some three-year old epiphany, he's (erm) seemed to notice mine.

I know, I know. This is weird.

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How you know your friends know you too well

First, she's not only seen your boobs, she's seen the Before Boobs and After Boobs. And she has definite opinions on both (all four? what's the proper numeric assignment on that?).

Second, she needs up-to-the-minute (and preferably texted) information on all things boy-related. This isn't optional and it can be accompanied by snorts or shiraz (either is good). It is a full-on teched-up sixth grade giggle fest, minus the headgear and padded bras (well, on some of us).

Finally, she sends you links like this one. In the middle of the work day, following one conference call and before a deadline. No words, no messages, no witty repartee. Just a link because that's all it takes. She knows you will get why. She knows you will laugh and poke fun and let the sarcastic comments fly but then will surely begin to crave the lovely luciteness, even just for a bit of fun at BlogHer. Or to trade off when one of you finally installs a pole in the playroom, convincing the kids of your intense admiration for the dedicated men and women in the Chicago Fire Department and yourself of the fabulous ab workout pole-robics really is (no, really). Or just to throw on and wrap around and around your calves while posting on...I don't know, natural remedies and inappropriately-named cocktails and toxic baby whatevers. She also knows you won't actually order them (even though the idea of owning a pair of Promiscuous brand anything is overwhelmingly tempting) because you can so feed your newfound bra-lust with eighty bucks.

Yes, she knows you well. Too well, maybe. And that's why you not only heart her back, you're blowing off the rest of the day just to page through Zappos until you find the perfect link to ping back (like these, for when boots are just too...oooohhhh hot...and platforms are still the protocol, which can totally happen when you are a working mom in the big city).

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