All The Small Things

Thursday, another day of rearranging furniture in heels. For the record, heels are potentially the stupidest thing ever invented.

My toes are squooshed in this rediculous pointy-toed disaster that is supporting my weight while simultaenously bequeathing me a lifetime of backpain.

One wonders at the engineering marvel that is the strappy stilletto, and wonders why we have not yet managed to solve the problem of renewable energy. Surely some of the minds currently applying their undoubtable talents to making a 2 inch spiked heel stay on my foot with nothing but a thin strip of ribbon could be put to better use? Perhaps we could leave stilletto designing as a task for next years Big Brother housemates, and get the others cracking on a darling pink sequinned solar panel with matching handbag and iPod skin?

Anyways.

Tomorrow is Friday. New Shoes Day in Sassville. I am off to purchase some blunnys. (Do you love the bumpkinness of that? Blunnys. Say it like Shannon Noll would and thats what I'm talking about.) I require these quintessentially australian farmer-type shoes to pot about on the farm with GM.

I shall also need to buy some tracksuit pants, or jeans that can get dirty. Make a list would you? Thanks ever so.

 

What does it say about me that these items have been missing from my wardrobe for at least the last four years? I own, in total, 4 pairs of flat shoes. 1 set of ballet slipper style flatties, 1 pair of dressy thongs, and a pair of slip on canvas shoes with a funky print, and a set of sneakers that used to belong to my little sister (I only have these because someone asked me to play tennis once, and she let me keep them when I borrowed them). Thats it. The other (20 odd) pairs lurking beneath my bed are nearly all stillettos.

My clothes are dressy, or cute, or fairly new, and not suitable for pulling calves in. I do not wish to get afterbirth on my new jeans. I do not wish to get afterbirth on my cute shoes. I do not wish to have cow poo spurted diahorrea style over anything that currently calls my wardrobe home.

Except maybe the "Staff" Rugby Jumper that I scored at my last job... that will save me buying a jumper at least. You needn't put jumper on the list. But I do need some bread, and red onions. Ta.

The whole "what do I wear" thing isn't really something that I struggle with that much these days. I knows what I likes, and I wears it with aplomb. But I'm supposed to go out tomorrow night with GM and a bunch of his mates, and I'm at a loss. He doesn't (phew) but the rest of them tend to favour big belt buckles, jeans, flannel, and of course, blunnys. Its our first public event, and I'm embarrassed to say that I'm quite nervous about it. But hey, I know them all anyway right? They know I dress like a citychick comparitively speaking. And they already like me, so thats half the battle of meeting the new beau's friends.

I think its more that I'm worried about what they are going to think of GM and I getting together. You know sometimes when people start dating their friends make comments like "he/she isn't good enough"? Well I've been getting a fair bit of it in town in the last few days, since the words gotten around that we are together. "Why on earth would you want to go out with GM?"

Because he's sweet and gentle and charming and funny and clever and I like him and he likes me and its easy to be together and I enjoy his company and I think he's just gorgeous and when he smiles I can't help but smile back at him and he holds me like I'm breakable and I know that he understands that my heart is a gift not given lightly and he treats me like I'm precious and valuable. Thats why. Of course, you can't say that to these people. They have an idea that he's just a stupid farmboy with a penchant for writing off cars, and they make it very clear that they think I could do better. Thats so rude.

I know we've discussed this before, and here it is - the situation that I said I would hate. God, I'm so predictable!

Is he the most suitable match for me? From the outside, probably not. I drive like a granny, he's written off a number of cars. Six to be precise. I'm an officious, articulate, paperwork loving computer nerd in stillettos. He's a dairy farmer who favours flannelette and uses his words sparingly. But from the inside of this relationship, we share very similar core values. We like the same things as far as music, tv, movies go.

He's very much more intelligent than others give him credit for. I think that they forget that he was educated in Melbourne for a number of years, taking full advantage of everything the city had to offer. He isn't a yokel, he just loves and chooses to live in the country, and he is very, very good at what he does. He's driven to be the best at his chosen career, and I can relate to that. He's very willing to share his world with me too, and these things make me think that yes, we are actually quite well suited.

So in the last week or so I have been learning the difference between the cows that you eat, the ones that you milk, the ones that you breed with because they have little baby cows, the ones that you "lop the heads off and sell", and the sort of cow (ie: not a cow, a bull) that you buy in straws.

There have been many, many, many too-much-information moments. However, I quite enjoy learning new things, and I'm sure it'll all come in useful one day. Until that day, I shall store the graphic mental image of how you give a cow a C-Section. And what you do if said C-Section is done from the wrong side and you have to take the guts out and then the calf, then wash off and replace the guts before stitching up the hole.

Yes. I know.

I'm sorry I had to hear it too.

What can I say, I'm a caring sharing sort of gal.

And on that note, I think this little thesis on the country love and life and footware is quite long enough. Goodnight!

*skips off to the farm humming something about a milkmaid*