A Crock

Unfortunately - my old favorites Crocs is falling by the wayside for me. I have gone to the other side and now live semi-permanently in Fitflops. What can I say? But I still love my Crocs - I wear them outside when I do my garden work.

Since I still have a very little teensy weensy soft spot for Crocs inside my heart I have super feelings that erupt when I see Crocs being abused. They are okay to use as planters in the yard, filled with cement they make wonderful door stops and my favorite is the Croc tree for succulents I have designed. But - but - but.........when someone wears socks with Crocs that is just a crime! How can anyone be so silly (I want to say STUPID) as to wear socks with Crocs. you know those white high top crew socks.

I was appalled to say the least. OMG!!!!! People like that should not be allowed out in public. Such a shame!!!

Crocs VS FitFlops

Move over Crocs - get outta the way - take a hike. My allegiances have moved completely over to Fit Flops. Yes, they are more expensive BUT they are worth it. And they are not as clownish as those comfy Crocs - sorry. My dear old Crocs have been relegated to pool deck wear and yard work shoes.
Now Fit Flops come in slides.

http://www.fitflopsandal.com/womens_fitflops/

Goodnight Chet

Items lost, hero's put to rest. Things stay the same and change. Familiarity makes us feel confident, loved and sure of ourselves.

The voice of Walter Cronkite will forever be etched in my mind. An icon forever. Someone will take his place and life goes on. Slowly he will disappear from our memories like leaves falling off trees. Like dust in the wind. Spring brings new life and new buds.

Wedgies, clogs, water buffalos, high top sneakers and - my favorite Crocs. http://www.crocs.com/ Falling into the great pit of oblivion. A fad no longer fashionable. Something else will replace them and they will become just a passing memory. I have since moved on to 'fitflops'. http://www.fitflopsandal.com/ They will not collect dust beneath my bed but will forever keep the 'under the bed monster' away from me.

A mainstay that hopefully will never go away are 'Kinos'. http://www.kinosandalfactory.com/sandals.html

What is the correlation between a hero - Walter Cronkite and a pair of shoes? Security, freedom and a sense of knowing who you are and what molds you.

Second Hand Lions

One of my favorite movies is The Second Hand Lion with Michael Caine and Robert Duval. A couple of cranky old brothers saddled with a great nephew. I love their wit and look on life. Their facial expressions also make me laugh. So I was very surprised when I found myself hiking though the underbrush on Anclote Key with two similar characters.

The boat dropped us off on the beach and I (always prepared for adventure) took with me my faithful Crocs. You can walk in water with them - they dry in seconds and keep the feet off the hot sand and boardwalk. The brothers left their sneakers on the boat. LOL. I giggled to myself. The fools I thought.

We hike up the beach to the boardwalk (about a half mile in length) and start our trek to the lighthouse. The sun beat down on our bodies and also the wooden boardwalk. Did I care? No. But the brothers were barefoot and not fancy free. Apparently they have never walked on hot burning coals. They complained the entire length of the journey. I giggled.

They did they two hop-step down the wooden (HOT) walkway. I offered them a plastic bag but they snarled. I took my time and enjoyed the scenery. More loud complaining. I giggled.

At last we made it to the lighthouse and I began snapping pictures. I caught the boys at their finest.

Crocs Shoe Fetish

Something stinks in the rose garden. I can feel the vibes. I try to be an organized individual. When I take off my glasses they are always put in the same place. Scissors go in the scissors drawer, car keys are hung by the front door and my house shoes (Crocs skutes) are always left right next to my bed. Today, they were no where to be found. I smell a rat or a Crocs thief.

Hubby refuses to even look at Crocs, http://www.crocs.com/, when we go to the shoe store for my shoe fix. He says they are not a manly shoe. What does he know, he's not a shoe connoisseur. He has two pairs of shoes compared to my 22 (okay 50) pairs.

I tell him how comfy and versatile they are but he will not budge from that perch of denial. I point out other manly looking men who wear Crocs but still he resists. When we go walking on the beach me with my Crocs - I walk in the water (definitely not on the water) breeze through the crushed shells and climb mountains. All with Crocs hugging my happy feet. Last week he cut his foot on a seashell because he was shoeless. His leather Kino sandals are not water proof. http://www.fsicatalog.com/kwsf/default.aspx Kino sandals are one of my favorites but they are not waterproof. This terrific footwear is made on the back streets of Key West right before your eyes.

Back to the issue that something smells pungent. My Crocs were not in their normal position. They were missing. I faulted myself for not leaving them in their normal resting spot. I searched all the places I may have left them. Nothing! Gone like the rain. I'm a mad woman with lost shoes on her mind. Yes, I could always buy another pair but these were my favorite. And they are gone.

And then, I saw them, and him. The old fart had on my Crocs. He who would not be caught in public with any type of Crocs was strolling around the yard in MY Crocs. I yelled and demanded MY Crocs back and half-heartily he returned them. I felt rather happy that he had come over to my side but annoyed that he would not purchase his own. I went about my business and a few minutes later he comes walking by with another pair of my Crocs on (I have many). Now that's just plain wrong. Off we go to the store to purchase his own pair of Crocs. and feet off of mine.

R.V. tips

The importance of 'Hand Signals' when attaching a camper to the tow vehicle.

Contributing factors for disaster -
1. an unfocused hand signaler
2. loose gravel on a slope
3. no see ums.
4. Crocs

I stood there on the slope amidst the loose gravel in the heat of summer with my mind adrift (as usual) bareheaded, barefooted and determined. Slowly my main squeeze (hubby) backed the truck towards the camper. It was hot as Africa and the gulf breeze went north for the summer. Carefully I positioned my hands in the direction hubby needed to back up the truck. He called my name (actually he screamed, but I'm trying to be positive) and told me I was standing on the wrong side. I step over the trailer hitch carefully or so I presumed and land knee first in the loose gravel. I pick myself up, dust myself off and look quick to see if anyone saw my gracefulness.

I stretch out my arms and begin to direct hubby backwards toward the camper. In a split second (which is super-super fast) a horde of a gazillion no-see-ums appear from nowhere and attacked my person. They bite my ears, my lips, my eyelids and crawl beneath my tank top. Wild with pain and frustration I begin to swat at the little buggers.
This is where the importance of the hand signals comes into play. Hubby swerves the vehicle to the right, then the left, then a hard left trying desperately to keep up with my erratic hand signals. The problem is they are not hand signals but me defending my body against the killer attack no-see-ums.
Hubby has not figured that out. He slams on the brake sending shards of loose gravel flying through the air with the greatest of ease. I think he took out a few no-see-ums but most of them were feasting on my B-positive type blood.
I'm starting to panic and I scream a sissy scream not wanting to draw attention to my predicament. Hubby (the one I would very much like to squeeze) starts using unkind words toward my hand directions. He yells, "Stop It'. But I can't! I'm being eaten alive by something that you can't even see.
He pulls forward and begins backing up again. My hands are flying faster than a politicians tongue. I'm dancing the jig, flailing like a wild chicken and still he follows my hand signals. A very sharp turn to the right and a loud crunch. Oops that was a tree. He lurches the truck to the left and hits the water faucet and cracks the pipe and water spurts high in the darkened sky.
Then not too far away I hear the crack of thunder or is that him hitting another tree? And then, a bolt of lightning strikes within inches of my jerking body. He makes another sharp turn with the truck and slams on the brakes again sending up a rainstorm of gravel. I see it coming and desperately try to take a step backwards still trying to ward off the gazillion flesh eating invisible bugs. I love my backless Crocs (http://www.crocs.com/ ) but I'm rethinking their purpose to hand signalers. In slow motion my foot slips silently from my coveted Crocs.
My arms still swatting at the death eaters swing backwards to stop my fall. I hit the gravel with record speed and tumble without the smooth finesse of a ballet dancer down the incline. The water feels cold as Alaska as my body plummets to the muddy bottom and connects with the crabby fiddler crabs. And then, the monsoon rains begin. I sit sinking in the mudflats with raindrops the size of golfballs beating my bruised body still waving my arms at the critters from hell while hubby hooks the camper to the truck.