I need some red shoes.

Life would be better with red shoes on my feet.

Red shoes just say things for you.

"I have opinions."

"I'm an in-charge kinda lady."

"I will kick your ass is you mess with me."

They're stylish and daring. Sassy and chic. Dominating yet oddly submissive.

Red shoes say, "I may be on my back, but I'm totally in charge."

Blood red heels are the types of shoes that demand attention. Wearing a patent leather pair and slowly crossing your legs would totally hide the fact that you're wearing a bathrobe (note to self, test this theory).

Add them to a power outfit, like a jet black suit, and you're a force to be reckoned with. I bet I could stroll into a courtroom and punch the judge without facing any kind of consequence with the right pair of red stilletos and some black pants.

Throw them on with an innocent looking blue dress, and send the world around you into a slight tizzy. The dress would say, "Aren't I pretty?" And the shoes would say, "Look at my boobs!"

Yep. It's about time to get a pair of sexy, red heels. Even if I only wear them around the apartment with my running shorts.

Today is my dad's birthday.

And we had sushi to celebrate. Here are some haikus about it.


Fill up my tummy.
With raw fish, soy sauce, and rice.
Then add more soy sauce!


Dad ate some tuna.
Then Dad ate some smoked salmon.
Then Dad exploded.


What? This stuff is raw?
Why would you eat stuff's that raw?
Oh, cause it's sushi.


Ate way too much fish.
Now in a sushi coma.
It's time to pass out.


Wasabi is hot.
Nasal passages, behold!
Good bye to all clogs!

Which one do I look at?

Many offices are adopting a more casual dress code.

Being a sandal lover, I'm a huge fan.

But some people have taken their companies' relaxed standards for granted, wearing items that are far too inappropriate for any work environment. Unless you're working on a porn flick.

Since it's gotten warmer, I've seen an obscene amount of cleavage running about. And not just subtle swells above a shirt top. We're talking full fun bags peeking out of club tops.

Okay, maybe not club tops. But when a woman's bra cups are no longer covered by a shirt of choice, there's a problem.

Especially in a business meeting.

People should be allowed to dress however they want. Seriously. But outside of work.

We have to be logical here. Breasts are a distraction. They're designed by nature to be a distraction. So men and women, gay or straight, can't help but gawk when a swollen pair of chest bunnies bounces by.

So ladies, there are better, more subtle ways of showing off your curves. How about a cinched-at-the-waist top? Or a fitted and tailored shirt? Or just put a T-shirt on under your tank top. It can even be a little tight. Anything is better than parading around your tan lines.

Skin is for the weekend. So be warned, if I see you showing off your girls to the office, I WILL motorboat you.

There's a Chevy in the family.

All my life, I've been taught to hate General Motors.

"Camaro? Pssh. Cheap piece of over-priced fiber glass," my dad would say.

"Corvettes? Yeah, they might look pretty. But they're front-heavy and spin out of control easily. See how pretty you look spinning into a tree."

"Firebirds? Are you a redneck?"

So, naturally, when Dad showed me a photo of the '66 Corvair that he recently purchased, I was a little shocked. So shocked, it took me over a week to come to grips with reality.

My dad is a hypocrite.

He adopted a dirty Chevy. My new sister* is a product of GM.

We're a Mopar family. We're a Ford family. We can appreciate vehicles of the European persuasion. But we'd never spend hard-earned cash on a Chevy.

Or so I thought.

My childhood, my teenage years, they're all a damn, dirty lie.

Because the newest hunk of metal in Dad's garage is just that, a hunk. And not a beefy, beautiful man. It's a rusty old Chevy.

... I wonder when he'll finish restoring it so I can take it out on dates.


*They're not just cars in the family. Oh, no. Each vehicle is held in as high regard as the kids. Believe me.

I'm not writing every night.

The thing about getting older is that one has less time.

Less time for friends. Less time for resting.

Less time for extra curricular writing.

The good thing about not writing every night is that I have more time to plan my next tale.

The bad thing about not writing every night is that I'm not writing every night.

And when I do, postings become redundant collections of words much like this one.

Wanna know the truth? Writing is easiest when there's uncertainty, unhappiness and strife around me. And I'm just not feeling that right now.

Yep. Things are pretty good. They could only be better if I had a wicked accent.

It's the sun's fault. Part 3

A bottle of SPF 50 sunblock sat on a desk between two men.

"You are not allowed to have any contact with Jason prior to the initial hearing," Bruce Greyson, Esq. told his client as he adjusted his sunglasses. "None at all."

The Sun in his human form, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. He placed his elbows on the attorney's desk and thought carefully before he responded. "You mean I can't shine down upon him?"

"No. And I strongly advise you not shine on any of his property, either."

The lurking Wind heard this and raced towards the heavens to inform the Clouds of what Greyson had said. They immediately cast deep shadows over Jason, the plaintiff's, home, work and self.

"What about the plant life surrounding his home?" the Sun asked. "It's going to die."

The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper out from under a pile of papers. He slid it towards his client. "I've already filed a motion to protect you in the event that any of Jason's property is damaged by lack of light."

"What?" I can be sued again if his grass dies?"

The attorney nodded. "It's completely unfair and backwards."

"Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. Literally." the Sun mumbled to himself.

The attorney collected the remaining papers on his desk and slid them into a file. "I'm not going to lie. This case is ridiculous. But we have to take it seriously. This is a country where restaurants lose millions of dollars if some jerk spills her own coffee. The jury isn't going to rely on simple logic.

"The prosecution is trying to fill the jury box with light-skinned, red-heads who've all had serious burns. The prosecution is also going to say that you beam down harmful, UV rays despite the harmful nature of prolonged exposure and humans."

"But parts of the world need those rays! They kill harmful bacteria and clean the ocean and ..."

"I know, Son. I know. And we're going to use that in your defense. But you have to remain calm. They're going to try and prove that you're reckless, uncaring and in cahoots with sunscreen manufacturers. We're going to try and argue that you aren't getting any more powerful, but that the Ozone is getting thinner..."

"She's been working very hard trying to lose that weight," the Sun added.

"She what?"

"Nevermind."

The lawyer shook his head as if trying to remove the idea. "This is the first case of its kind. No one has ever taken a celestial body to court. We have to be careful."

They spoke for another ten minutes, then the Sun had to return to his rightful place in the sky as the clouds protected him by protecting his enemy.

Hey, foot, wake up.

Psst. Hey, foot, it's time to go. Time to wakey wakey.

Seriously, you need to wake up because the rest of this body can't get to the car without you. And the work day is over!

So let's get that uncomfortable tingly feeling over with and head for the stairs, huh?

Any minute now.

Foot's gotta wake up.

I can feel it ... COME ON!

Really? You're gonna act like this? Feet don't get the luxury of snoozing another ten minutes. Stop it!

I wanna leave and you won't let me.

[shakes foot]