According to a new article, women in the U.S are heading to their plastic surgeon’s offices to have foot surgery so that they can fit into their high-end designer shoes without pain. I’m thinking the epicenter for this drive for bizarre and absurd perfection is somewhere around Beverly Hills. But perhaps I’m being too cynical. Although, something about this craze sweeping Duluth, Minnesota just doesn’t sit right. I’m sure in Duluth it’s about making one’s snow boots fit as comfortable as possible.

Apparently, there are several options for your hoofs to consider, one is called the Cinderella procedure, which makes your feet thinner. How they do this is beyond me, and frankly I do not want to know. Then there is one that shortens your toes. Yes, you heard me, they shorten your toes so that they will fit into the shoes better. And the last – utterly horrifying – procedure is called a foot-tuck fat pad augmentation. In short, they suck fat from your stomach (I’m thinking they should suck it from the person’s head!), and inject it into the balls of the feet. This supposedly provides more pain free cushion when you’re standing in heels all day.

I have a few suggestions of course for those contemplating these procedures. Firstly, wear flats. That’s for starters. They’re cute, you won’t run the risk of looking like a two dollar hooker, and you won’t run the risk of having your newly shorn toes bleed all over Sunset Blvd. Secondly, may I suggest a full frontal lobotomy? That way, you’ll be blissfully at peace, and you won’t even be able to find your feet, let alone put them in a pair of overpriced stilettos that you’ll never wear. And thirdly, and most importantly, seek psychological help! If you’re contemplating cutting off your toes – I shall repeat, CUTTING off your appendages, or altering your feet in any way so that you can wear a certain type of shoe, sister, you need help.

I’m all for enhancing or changing one’s appearance through natural methods: diet, exercise, the latest hydrating potions. Hell, I’ll even get on board with spanks and various smoke and mirror techniques that allow us to look a bit slimmer and more toned – in fact, where the hell did I put my spanks? I could use them right about now. But I’m thinking when one is contemplating sucking fat from their stomach and injecting it into their feet, they’ve lost sight of the overall goal of life. Then again, I hate heels (although I can admit they make a woman’s leg look damn good….well, some women’s legs), I find them tortuous, and I don’t care how much padding you inject into my feet, I’m never going to find them comfortable. 

Not to mention, how the hell do your feet look after all these procedures? I can barely get my man to rub my feet now - he hates feet - let alone if I put my toeless stump on his lap and said go to it sweetheart, rub away. That's just cruel.

[Oh, and Happy Birthday Dad x]

Sleep deprivation is a funny thing. Actually, I take that back, it’s not funny at all whilst one is experiencing it, but the effects can be quite humorous if you choose to look at it that way. Currently I look like a pale-faced zombie that has been without rest, nutrition or reprieve for thousands of years (I don’t think zombies need nutrition…or rest for that matter, but you know what I mean). And the even scarier fact, it has only been 12 days of this new life without sleep. My partner – as he’s younger, prettier and browner than I, isn’t fairing so badly. When I’m awake, which is about 90% of the time, I feel like I’m essentially sleepwalking from location to location. Coupled with that, my eloquence is out the window, completing sentences is a challenge – I can see them in my head, but then what comes out is every other word resulting in a sentence that sounds like a command you give a dog – ‘you water sit?’ In fact, if this blog makes any sort of sense whatsoever, I consider it a major coup.

My family - who has been here visiting - just stares at me and smiles, knowing not to upset the crazy lady who is working on minimal sleep and could blow at any moment. As they’re all women, they’re very good at commiserating and essentially lying to me so that I some how believe this is going to be over shortly. I of course know better having been around them and their kids for a number of years. I am thinking it is better to know now that I will never sleep deeply again – I’m a realist, I can take it. I’m also writing everything down lately as if I have some degenerative mental disease.  Note to the global community, never say to a post natal woman, ‘I told you that, don’t you remember?’ The answer is an unequivocal NO and in the state most women are in post birth, it just sounds patronizing and we will hate you. :-)

Then there are the hormones. Oh such fun it is to be a woman. As if I wasn’t weepy, tempermental and irrational before. My man, thank god, is like a postnatal baby mama whisperer. My entire family at the moment wants to clone him for his utter usefulness and abnormal intuition on how to deal with women – how I got so lucky is beyond me. When he can sense my hormones are on the upsurge and something innocuous has suddenly become the most pressing and distressing thing in the world sending me into a weepy fit of tears (this can be something preposterous like not being able to open the lid of the formula tin. I mean seriously, can we not make this is a bit easier???)  he looks at me with an expression of utter calm, talks in a low, slow voice (I’m thinking they do this with wild animals as well) and then simultaneously texts my sisters with his other hand summoning them with some sort of distress bat signal. He also wakes up at night with me, changes diapers and has developed some new method of burping the child that to my shock works damn well. Knowing how valuable he is to this whole operation (and my overall happiness) I’m considering having his feet cemented to the living room floor. You don’t want to lose things that work in your life. As I said, I’m a realist. 

I have punctuality disease. Despite what you may think, and of course contrary to most, I run early. It’s not just a habit, or an exercise of politeness – although there may be a bit of both of those thrown in – it has over the years become a compulsion. I plan the journey ahead, I take into consideration all margins of error, walking time (am I with some weak link that is going to slow me up??), traffic, train malfunctions…you name it. And then I give myself an even bigger cushion to make sure I am at my destination with ample time to find it, get comfortable and be sitting there looking unflappable and prepared. I told you, it’s a sickness. In fact, it’s a running joke with my friends that when they invite me over, they pretty much know I will either be early, or doing a few circles around their block to kill time.

I blame this compulsion partly on my type A character – forward thinking is in my genetic code – and the fact that when one grows up in a family of five with a father who chronically runs on his ‘own’ time  - i.e. late – this is often the result. I remember as a little girl watching everyone get ready for a dinner reservation, one eye on the clock, one eye on the flock that was nowhere near ready to get out the door on time. I would of course go up to my Dad and prod him to get ready as we fast approached the time of needing to leave and he’d just smile in a relaxed way to say, ‘you’re six. why on earth are you worrying about this stuff!?’ Then of course we’d pass the point of the reservation, he’d drive like a bat out of hell as my mother scolded him to slow down, and we’d mosey into the restaurant way past the point of respectability – in my opinion anyway. And yes, at six years old I figured I’d have to correct this wrong my entire sodding life. You see, Catholic guilt never did anyone any good.

My disease of course also expands to include others. My man knows if he’s running late, he’s going to have to deal with the look of anxiety and sheer annoyance on my face that I’m keeping someone waiting. I suppose this is where the true nugget of the issue comes in. In my eyes, punctuality is purely about respect. Either you respect the person/establishment you are meeting enough to be on time – and hence respect their time – or you don’t. It’s that simple. This of course is giving exception to things one can’t control: i.e. natural disasters, a jerk-off boss keeping you late, traffic etc – although you could plan better and choose an alternative route. Sorry, I can’t help myself. 

With the new addition in my life, I've can sense that my meticulous timekeeping is now under threat. Trying to get the two of us out of the house with all my stuff, his stuff, and within the window of his feeding times is no small feat. Then again, I've never been one to shrink away from a challenge. [Ha! Try harder universe!!] Just think, I now have the opportunity to raise the perfect punctual man - a true anomaly in many parts of the world. His girlfriends will surely thank me later.

My friend saw her ex the other night for dinner, not for any sense of closure – it had been several years since they split, amicably in fact - or any real reason other than to just say hi to someone she spent a large part of her life with. Her current partner, whom she is very happy with, had no problem with her doing so. I suppose for many, the subject of exes is contentious at best, and is a surefire way to create a nice shit storm of jealousy; For others, not so much.

I definitely fall into the latter category. I’ve kept in touch with some of my exes on a casual level, and have even made good friends with some of their new partners. I suppose to many – so they tell me – this is odd. But for me, it’s never been something I have spent too much time thinking about (aside from now of course, or when others bring it up and tell me how odd they think it is).  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not best friends with any of them or anything, but from where I sit, I knew these people very well, they were good, interesting people (most of them) and I’m from the vantage point that if you liked them as people once, that isn’t just going to disappear. And furthermore, there is also the category of ex that you were better friends with to begin with, than you were lovers – ah hindsight got to love you. And hence, friendship trumps the stupid notion that you have to cut this person out of your life forever - in my book anyway.

Now, the exes that weren’t good, trust me, I don’t waste my time on, they’re just idiots that I was too young or stupid to realize were idiots (or I was into idiots at the time. I mean, nothing like a gorgeous idiot). And then of course, there were the good ones that had moments of idiocy, and I suppose I’m pretty lenient when it comes to that too – I figure, in our youth we are allowed such free passes. Ask anyone that knew me years ago and you’ll get a variety of responses as to the quality – shall we say – of my behavior. The funny thing is, I can look at my exes and say to myself things worked out exactly as they should. Their wives are great, they’re perfectly suited to one another, and it is clear that we never were. Hence, the universe is balanced. Ah Yoda, it feels so good.

Don’t get me wrong, I do understand those that shut the book on their past and never go back there. It’s clean, easy, and seems like the natural progression of things. I suppose I’m just too curious for that sort of thing. I want to know how things turned out for people; the idea of seeing how someone you spent time with and once identified with and how they’ve matured (or haven’t) is fascinating to me. And then of course, what does that say about you and that part of your life? It is kind of like having living photographs if you will of a particular period of your life. ‘That was when I was reckless and free, living in a garage, such a bohemian man!’ Please, get a hold of yourself.

All this said, I also think it is up to your current partner in terms of how he/she feels about you being in occasional contact with someone you used to date. As I’ve said before, my man and I are pretty confident people, and neither of us dips into the jealousy pool that often, if at all. If in fact, he hated that I exchanged the occasional email with someone from high school that I dated, I’d of course honor that. The funny thing is, he has no desire to see any of his exes, and I’m always asking why not? Doesn’t he want to know how they turned out or where they are? I do, and I didn’t even date them. He finds it incredibly amusing that I’m so curious and want to look them up on facebook and see if they got fat and ugly. Cause well, you know, it happens, aging isn't kind to everyone...I didn’t say I was always mature about everything.