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Barbie Ink

March 5, 2009 by 4olives

Have you heard about Mattel’s lastest creation?

This new “Totally Stylin’ Tattoos” Barbie?

Parents across the country are said to be outraged.

I can’t help but feel completely outraged myself.

How can it be the teenie tiny butterfly stickers, that come with this new Barbie doll, that parents find so outrageous?

Call me crazy but wouldn’t it be a tad healthier to be inspired to get a teenie tatt, than it would to be inspired to LOOK like the impossibly proportioned Barbie?

I find it down right nuts that there are some parents out there who feel that it’s okay for a young girl to be surrounded by piles of these mini models in their rooms, but add a heart sticker to the back of her bony shoulder and ooooohhhh SNAP, now we’ve got a problem!? Did these parents think for a second about the Barbie doll itself before it was brought into the home? Did the parents look at the thing and ponder who she is, what she stands for?

I mean, what is a girl to think when her first learning toy is tall anorexic blonde who rolls a pink corvette and chills in a plush mansion?

And the rents are plexing on some stickers stuck to her?

I’m so confused.

I was a bit of a tom boy growing up, so Barbies weren’t my thing. I had a My Little Pony and rocked a Care Bears hoodie, but that’s as far as I went with the frilly stuff. Once I was given a Barbie spa as a birthday gift, but since I didn’t have any Barbies to put in it, my brother and I added it to his GI Joe training camp he had set up in the backyard. It was pretty sweet, but it broke after a few sessions.

I did have one friend who collected all of the Barbie items … we’re talking the whole 9 … the mansion, the car, the horse, the vacation hut, hundreds of outfits and the microscopic purses to match each one. Every birthday, every holiday, was all about raking in the Barbie goods and her parents didn’t hold back. I distinctly remember thinking it was all really lame.

I remember asking myself, who are these rail thin, busty blondes with giant smiles smothered in lipstick? None of our moms looked like her. None of our teachers resembled that. Not our friends or our big sisters.

Who is this Barbie?

It’s funny, as I’m writing this, I’m thinking about how many women look Barbie-esque these days … I just pictured those trainwrecked “real housewives of the OC” … ugh … and they’re everywhere. Times have changed. Is it because of the doll?

I believe that she is part of it, yes.

Girls have been playing with Barbie since 1959, but thanks to technology and the advancing medical field, her look has become much more visible and much more attainable.

I believe Mattel’s Barbie doll helped fuel the fire of the distorted self image that women and young girls walk around with every day. Is Mattel soley responsible for girls starving themselves, getting boob jobs, nose jobs, blonde highlights and extra long hair extensions? No, but it was and is certainly instrumental.

Which is where the parents come in. It’s the choice of the parents whether or not to let their children collect Barbie dolls and watch whatever trashy reality show is on the tv. It’s the parents’ decision whether or not to talk to their kids about what it all means.

The fact that mothers and fathers would make a decision to allow Barbie into the playrooms of their children and NOT BE DISTURBED AT ALL BY THEIR DAUGHTER HAVING THE IDEA THAT SHE WILL ONE DAY GROW UP TO LOOK JUST LIKE HER PRECIOUS BARBIE … but be thoroughly disturbed by their daughter one day growing up and getting a “totally stylin’ tattoo” is absolutely MAD to me.

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Wicked, so wicked

February 9, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

I went to the Orpheum Theater in San Francisco Friday night for the opening of Wicked the musical. As a theater neophyte, I cannot break down for you in proper lingo what makes this production so special, but what I can tell you is that Wicked, was so wicked cool.

The night began as expected … I was totally unprepared; changing in the car, trying to put on mascara in the dark as we weaved in and out of traffic on a rainy 101 freeway. We arrived 20 minutes late for press call, but right on time for the red carpet; a low-key scene which consisted of San Francisco socialites, clusters of black beret-wearing smokers straight out of a Shag painting and shutterbugs that flickered like fireworks at the pair behind us (Mayor Newsom and his blushing bride).

We checked in, and then quickly checked out. The line for the bar snaked all the way through the lobby and back to the press tables, YIKES. After learning we had 30 minutes to kill before we’d be allowed to our seats, we made a mad dash in the rain to a hotel across the street. I threw back a glass of champagne, the bf a glass of scotch. It was raining when we entered, but 8 minutes later, torrential down pour … naturally. The bf’s jacket kept my hair dry but we were soaked to the bone when we ducked back into the Orpheum. The lobby was more crowded and definitely louder, a combination of cocktails from the bar and a buzz that was not being fueled by liquor … but by excitement as the clock was ticking quickly toward show time.

I was very pleased when we were finally bustled into the theater — our seats were orchestra level — FABULOUS! (Big ups to PR director Erin Garcia, thank you!)

I forgot how much I love the Orpheum … the smell, the wood-carved ceilings … it’s a very magical place.

The only way I can describe act one of Wicked is like a big fat heart attack that one can only hope to have.

The closing of EVERY SINGLE scene felt like a huge grand finale. We’re talking heart-stopping moments … one after another. It was INCREDIBLE. The crowd roared and applauded uncontrollably. It was exhausting and enthralling to watch each performer pour their heart and lungs out right in front of you, for HOURS on end. It was brilliant.

I’d never seen Wicked before and purposely didn’t read anything about it, so I had no idea how the story was supposed to begin or end. When the last scene in act one closed, I actually gasped and cried out loud, “Oh no! Is it over?!” (Dork.)

The bf and I fumbled through our playbills as the crowd shuffled around us. When we realized that there was another full act, we were pleased.

We bolted back across the street in the rain (which was, at that point, down to a sprinkle) and into the hotel bar. The corner stools we sat on the first time around were occupied by a hooker and her cross-dressing pimp, so we snagged seats between a sulking business man surrounded by newspapers and empty glasses and an over weight drug dealer-looking dude who smiled at me, revealing his gold grill. After a quick Goose rocks, another scotch for the bf, we were off — back to the Orpheum.

I couldn’t wait for more Wicked. I was dying to see where this story would go. How could the friendship turn? How could a good girl go so bad? Who would get the guy??

It was easier to breathe during act two, there were less special effects and a lot more story. Each of my questions were answered as the tale unfolded with love, lessons about life, and a ton of humor. 3+ hours, and I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want it to end.

Curtain call drew a much-deserved standing O from the audience.

Again, I am NOT a theater person … not much for musicals either, and this production was absolutely outstanding! I would go see it again tonight. It was funny, witty and just wicked cool … SO worth the money, imho.

www.rileysride.com

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What a Difference a Day Makes

January 20, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

Change.

If I was playing that game where you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind when you hear a word … and the word given to me was “change” … my response would go something like this:

Clothes.
Coins.
Campaign signs.

The designers of the Obama/Biden campaign might deserve a Pulitzer, it was nothing short of brilliant … and the word change, no doubt, played a role in its brilliancy. But, please note, those campaign signs that we saw everywhere, every day for 2 years, was NOT the first thing to come to mind.

Until today, the word change was only a word.

A catchy campaign slogan. A one syllable verb that, for me, represented the idea of getting the Bush administration the hell out of DC.

What a difference a day makes.

If prompted to play that same game tonight, my responses would definitely be different because I had an experience.

This morning, I experienced the C-H-A-N-G-E that was printed on millions of paper signs. I watched it come to life … in the form of head nods, smiles, and prolonged eye contact between strangers that would, on any other day, be flat out weird.

I SAW CHANGE in the faces of random people on the street, at the gym, in the coffee shop, and on the elevator. Witnessing strangers holding one another’s gaze long enough to exchange an approving gesture is something truly incredible. The times in my life that I’ve seen two people who don’t know one another, swap a stare and a nod, it ended in a fist-flying fight.

This is definitely a different day.

Everyone knew that January 20, 2009 would be a historic, exciting day … but to actually see people WANTING TO SHARE this day with one another was completely unexpected, to me.

Stangers giddy, hugging and smiling? This is extreme.

It makes me believe that people truly are ready to take the word change and put it into action in some way in their own lives. The look that I saw on the faces of so many people this morning makes me think that we might be ready to create this “better America” that we’ve heard so many candidates preach about.

This kind of change goes far beyond a new administration in the White House. This kind of change is B-I-G.

Our president, Barack Obama, did what he said he was going to do … he inspired CHANGE in America … if only for a day, in my book that’s huge. I felt this energy on November 4 of last year, but today, I SAW IT come to life with my own eyes.

If this day is any indication of what President Obama can do … deriving good spirits and a fresh tone out of a discouraged population drowning in an endangered economy … I can’t wait to see what he can do in four year’s time.

www.rileysride.com

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Scrabbulous Scrabblefaction

January 15, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

Vampire.

Jukebox.

Qualify.

Zygosis.

Knights.

Weapons.

Xeroxes.

VERY FEW THINGS ARE AS FABULOUS AND AS SATISFYING AS DE-RACKING ON A TRIPLE WORD SCORE.

You Scrabble heads know what I’m talking about.

Last night, my friend and I had one of our best boards yet. It was magical. Every pull was perfection, words branched out in each direction, covered the board equally and intersected with ease … making for mad points.

Scrabble is the only game in my house that doesn’t require an outlet and gets some serious play.

It’s one of the only games I’ve been playing for decades and haven’t gotten the slightest bit bored with. I play quite a bit, sometimes it’s a casual game over drinks and Family Guy reruns, other times it’s a balls-to-the-wall competition with teams and cash. It’s always fun, and SO gratifying when the (Scrabble) stars aline.

I think the game is so addictive because victory is just as attainable as it is impossible. You can have the most expansive vocabulary catalogued alphabetically in your brain, but if you get a bad pull — you lose. Or, let’s say, your opponent throws down POSE, you intersect it with OZONE and then pull T, X, J, U, A — beautiful!

Well … it’s beautiful … until your opponent spells off of POSE and then POOF, your JUXTAPOSED dreams go up in flames.

It’s all about luck and timing.

Last night, my friend and I had both. And it was more than beautiful. Both of us scored into the 500s, can’t remember exact numbers — there was some wine … 😉

I’m in the best mood ever today, because we rocked Scrabble so hard … is that ridiculous?

We left the board filled out, in all of its glory, on the table … we didn’t have the heart to break up all of the grand words and poetic intersections.

NERD ALERT: I’m considering a stop on the way home tonight to pick up some super glue so that I can permanently stick the tiles down and hang the board on my wall.

www.rileysride.com

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Monday Fantasies

January 12, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

I HAVE A SERIOUS CASE OF THE MONDAYS TODAY.

Ugh.

I’m swamped with work and I’m convinced that some mad man broke into the diner and extracted the caffeine from all the coffee in the building. I’ve had 3 cups and NOTHIN’ … I could crawl into bed right now and pass out ’til tomorrow.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt this rough around the edges after the weekend, and I have no excuse. I stayed in town and watched football all weekend … there were no late night shenanigans or big benders, I’m just tired. I need one more day to get some stuff done and get my head back in the game.

A few weeks ago I gave a shout out for government-mandated siestas and today, I would like to add one more thing to my fantasy request: the 4-day work week.

10 hour work days, 4 days a week … permanent 3-day weekends.

You with me?

Think about how different you would feel right now, if you knew siesta was in an hour and your weekend begins on Thursday evening.

Personally, I’d have no problem putting in the extra time, I’m already here for 9 or so hours, what’s a few more? It would be so worth it come Wednesday … knowing the weekend is almost here … oh my, how fabulous that would be.

I got an email from a former co-worker who is now living overseas, basking in his I have the best job ever glory. I’m sure he didn’t mean to pose his note this way, but like I said, I’ve got a case of the Mondays, so that’s how it felt this morning.

He’s a journalist with deadlines like any other job, but his work environment is not like any other and he’s looooooving it. There aren’t scheduled siestas in his new country, but there aren’t schedules either … he is free to come and go, work from home, nap whenever … as long as he hits the deadline. This obviously wouldn’t apply to most jobs, but the idea of creating a 40 hour week with flexibility, is dreamy.

And dreamy it shall remain.

The day that we all clock in on a 4-day work week with mandatory siestas will also be the day that we all have to ice skate home … BECAUSE HELL WILL HAVE JUST FROZEN OVER.

I’ll have my skates ready …

www.rileysride.com

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Eyelashes Are The New Breasts

January 9, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

… According to Vogue magazine.

I believe it was the September issue that examined the new lash phenomenon. The reporter had me cracking up with the lash-boob analogy … writing about how “every woman in the world wants them bigger and better” … but it’s so true.

IT’S ALL ABOUT LUSCIOUS LASHES RIGHT NOW.

A friend of mine called last night to tell me how excited she was for her morning appointment.

“I’m getting them done!” she shrieked.

“Oh, who’s them?” I asked, thinking there’s no room for any additional cc’s inside of her already bursting chest. I don’t have to hide my distaste, she’s well aware that I’m not down with all of her cosmetic procedures.

“My lashes! I’m getting extensions tomorrow!” she squealed in my ear.

I tried to talk her out of it, like I do every time she consults me prior to having something “done.”

3 of my friends already have eyelash extensions. It’s a tedious, expensive process that involves heat-activated bonds just like the ones hairstylists use on the head … except that the glue is pressed a pinhead away from your eyeball — EEK! There’s also a lot of up-keep; frequent appointments for touch-ups and special cleaning regimens — which equals more time and money (no thanks).

I embellished some of the horror stories that I’ve heard trying to convince my procedure-feigning friend that she doesn’t need the damn extensions.

I must admit that when everything goes as planned, the final product is incredibly beautiful and the idea of not having to wear mascara is ever-so tempting.

But I say SKIP THE PERMANENT IMPLANTS and opt for the wide variety of push-up mascaras available dirt-cheap at every drug store across the country.

I was a mascara junkie long before the lash frenzy of ’08 that Vogue devoted an entire 4-page editorial to. I got it from my mom. She doesn’t wear a lot of make-up, just one hefty sweep of mascara and a dab of lipgloss. I adopted her methodology, as a tween trying to be as pretty as her mother, and have been addicted to pumped-up lashes ever since.

To my delight, cosmetic companies have really turned it up a notch since my early lash-loving years. There’s no reason to buy the pricey name brands at department stores. I’ve tried them all, and have had the most success with the drug store brands priced under 10 bucks.

Here’s my top 5:

Lash Stylist – Maybelline
Sky High Curves – Maybelline
Voluminous – Loreal
Glam Eyes – Rimmel
2000 Calories – Max Factor

My friend told me Dior Blackout is her fav. There was a lot of hype surrounding this product over the summer, so I caved and bought it. I was not floored by the results.

I pitched my 5 favs to my friend over the phone last night … she put me on hold to grab a pen and a piece of paper. I urged her to run out to the nearest Duane Reade (she’s in NYC) and try one of them before her appointment today. I also reminded her that she can still rock the glue-ons for special events … they’re TEMPORARY, they look great and require no up-keep. Either she got nervous, or I seriously need to consider getting back into the business of sales, because the last text I got from her said that she made a mad dash for the store and bought ALL 5 on my list to try.

Btw … all 5 tubes cost less than 1 tube of Dior.

I texted her back this morning … so curious to know if she’s ditching her appointment.

No word yet.

The fact that the business of eyelash extensions even exists is a bit disturbing, no?

The whole nip-tuck-inject-enhance thing makes me uncomfortable. I don’t think I could do it. Even though there are 16 different things on my body that I can think of, right now, that I’d LOVE to change. The idea of actually making an appointment and going under the knife — or under the needle — is unimaginable. I’m also afraid that if I did one, I’d go nuts and do them all.

I’M NOT GOOD WITH MODERATION.

I’d end up looking like Lisa Rinna, who by the way, recently confessed on momlogic.com that she sees a freak when she looks in the mirror. Yikes. Sad.

I think I’ll go ahead and stick to my magic drug store mascara … and other ways of image lifting rather than image changing.

Still no text from my friend yet … she’s probably lying back in a chair as we speak. I can picture her being so patient and still as some talented stylist carefully glues on her new luscious lashes.

I can see her exiting the salon when it’s all done … walking onto a breezy New York street, turning heads left and right.

She looks GORGEOUS.

Just as gorgeous as she did when she walked in …

www.rileysride.com

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I Really Hate WoW … (right now)

January 8, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

It’s a quarter after 2 in the morning.

The BF disappeared into the dungeon hours ago, said he’d “be right back.”

I can hear the freakin’ raid talk through the walls.

I AM REALLY HATING WoW RIGHT NOW.

End blog.

www.rileysride.com

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Won’t You Be My Neighbor

January 7, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

I got a knock on my door last night around 8 p.m.

My adopted dog, Frankie, took his typical I’m from the streets of Yonkers, I will crush you stance. His hair stood up as he growled and exposed his fangs resembling a tiny row of Tic Tacs.

I made my way down the stairs, Frankie at my feet, snarling louder with each step. I scooped up my hood-rat dog to calm him down and peered through the glass on my front door. I recognized the man standing on the other side as a person who I’d seen in the realtor’s office when I signed the paperwork to move in. I flicked on the light switch to illuminate the porch and opened the door.

This was not the man I thought I’d recognized. Oh no … please don’t shank me and steal all of my belongings.

I felt Frankie stiffen in my arms, his ears slicked back tight like he was ready to flash on this stranger trespassing in our territory.

“Uh, hello,” I said with the inflection of a question.

I noticed he had a bottle of wine in his left hand. What the hell is this? Some sort of angelic courier service? Am I dreaming?

“Hi, my name is Stephen. My fiancee and I just moved in next door. I am a wine distributor for Blah Blah Company. Wanted to say hello and drop this by,” he said in a friendly tone … he posed the bottle between his two hands in a very formal, presentation-like manner.

Wine distributor? … I’m thinking. My new neighbor is a wine distributor? SWEET.

Frankie collapsed like dead-weight on my arm … a sign that he relaxed … likely responding to the relief he sensed in me.

“Thank you Stephen, this is so cool,” I said. I took the bottle with my free hand and gave it a once over. “Nice.”

“So, my fiancee and I are going to have a little tasting at our house next week, nothing fancy, if you guys are around … ” he said.

“We’re always available for a tasting,” I replied.

“And don’t worry, I only sell in bulk to businesses, not looking to bank off the neighbors,” he joked.

Hhhhhhmmmmm. I hadn’t thought about that at all, but a good sign that he’s waving the I promise I’m not sheisty flag.

We exchanged pleasantries and said goodbye. I went upstairs, let the vino breathe for a bit, and then enjoyed the neighborly gesture right down to the last sip.

I’m thinking this morning about how a neighborly act, like the one Stephen and his fiancee are doing, just isn’t commonplace anymore. Growing up, my two next-door neighbors were like family to us. We shared wine, food, laughs, and annual camping trips. Now we are all too busy and these days and you just don’t know who you can trust. (Or at least that’s what I tell myself to internally justify why I don’t make the effort.)

Today I’m thinking that’s not a bad idea to test the waters, take the time, and find out who you can trust. Out of the 15 or so doors that Stephen knocked on last night … perhaps 1 or 2 will develop into friendships and that’s pretty cool. And it’ll be really cool the day someone gets locked out of their house, needs a cup of flour, or an extra hand with a bulky piece of furniture.

I want to be more neighborly.

I’m crazy-busy … rarely home, but that’s not an excuse to not reach out to the folks who sleep a stone’s throw away from me. Who’s more busy than president-elect Barak Obama? Fresh off a 2-year plus campaign, working day-in, day-out with his transition team … and yet Obama fought for a brand new inaugural event, one that would include his neighbors.

Have you heard about this?

Our president-elect is throwing a block party in DC because he doesn’t want to exclude the people with whom he and his family will be sharing a community with, on January 20th. No other president has ever done this. I think it’s old school and SO COOL.

So in a nutshell, I am feeling inspired this morning. Stephen, my new wine-distributing neighbor, and our president-elect have reminded me how important it is (no matter how busy I am) to make an effort to be a good neighbor.

I may not be knocking on doors tonight, singing the Mr. Rogers theme song, but I’m officially inspired and will be keeping my eyes open for an opportunity to extend a neighborly gesture.

www.rileysride.com

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BlogCatalog

January 6, 2009 by 4olives

Entertainment Blogs - BlogCatalog Blog Directory

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My High Top Sneaker Freaker

January 6, 2009 by 4olives

www.rileysride.com

I took my nephew and two nieces out shopping to snag some post-holiday steals. Got them up wicked early and cooked breakfast at the house … thought I was being real strategic in planning a morning trip to the mall, mid-week.

We arrived at 10:03 a.m. and the mall was already crackin’.

Ugh.

I shuffled the kids into the nearest cafe. I knew I would be ordering an espresso, there would be no free time — and no free extremities with 3 kids — to be leisurely sipping a latte while hunting for heavily discounted treasures in a mall that feels more like a giant can of tightly packed sardines.

I got in line behind a herd of too-cool teens. They were in no hurry. I struggled to keep a smile, tried desperately to remain in role model mode and not roll my eyes, as they giggled and pondered out loud about whether an XL iced peppermint coffee or an XL mocha-loca-choca-something would be more “DEE-licious.”

Come on tweemos! You’re killin’ me.

I’ve got clearance items to get my paws on! I’ve got bins to dig through and 3 kids whose attention spans will expire before I hit the east wing of this monster shopping center! Let’s go!

Btw … I say tweemos with love. I was once a tween forever-indebted to The Cure and black hair dye. I get it. I’m not poking fun. In fact, both of those things still live in my life, just on a much milder level. All of my Cure favs are all loaded into the iPod and every 10 months or so I lather up in an onyx temp dye. (There’s something hot about the darkest hue in the dead of winter.)

Back to the cafe … my little ones were being so patient. I realized it was because they were fully entertained. They stared up, wide-eyed, at the big high schoolers … studying their every move in awe. Finally it was my turn. I ordered a shot of espresso and slammed it like a junkie at a methadone clinic.

“Thanks!” I called out to the barista with a purple fauxhawk. She gave me a wink. I smiled in return, scooped the kids and we were off.

I decided to aim high, the mall wasn’t going to get any less crowded, might as well hit the flagship department store that is notorious for deep discounts. It was a zoo. Not just any zoo. It was hell. Lines snaking through the racks with no sign of where they began or where they ended, babies screeching, salespeople scrambling, clothing hung sloppily everywhere — some piled on tabletops hiding the neatly folded stacks that were probably buried below … other merchandise just dumped on the floor.

Just as I was wondering … who are these people who drop a shirt on the ground in a store and walk away … I became an eye witness.

He was right in front of me … a man in his late 30s/early 40s … alone, carrying a giant ball of sweaters and trousers. I tuned in just in time to watch a burgundy cable knit, strewn on the tippy-top of his clearance tower, slowly slip and fall beside his feet. He looked down at the pile of chunky yarn on the floor and without an expression, casually walked away. Wow. Did that just happen? Without so much as an attempt, or even a glance around to see if anyone was watching his careless antics? I don’t get it … a quick bend-and-reach and that sweater would have gone home with him. So maybe he didn’t want the thing. Perhaps he grew irritated and changed his mind, but damn, pick it up…

“This is crazy,” my niece said as she maintained a firm grip on the back of my hoodie.

I grabbed an empty hanger and hung the burgundy, now dirty, sweater.

“Yeah, insane,” the nephew retorted.

“Chaos. Let’s go,” I said, switching my baby niece to the other hip and headed for the exit. We re-entered the mall in a different spot … oh no, where are we?

Before I could get my bearings a loud, synchronized, “VANS!!!” blared from my pint-sized crowd.

I followed their bright eyes to a giant shoe store full of neon sale signs. I immediately zoned in on a pair of Nike dunks.

“Ooooooooo,” I admired. We filed into the store like some hypnotized zombies … this happens to me from time to time when exposed to shoes.

14.99, 25.99, 70% off … say what?!

Now, this, is when I really love the holidays.

The kids’ choices were going to set me back about 40 bucks — score! I surrendered to the high dunks I’d spotted from outside.

My nephew called me out at the register, “Hey Auntie, don’t you already have those?”

“No sweetie, I have the Blazer Mids, these are different,” I defended myself, knowing damn well that I have issues far beyond the typical woman who loves shoes.

There were 3 salespeople behind the counter. A 20-something dude who definitely waked-and-baked, a knock-out latina in her late teens and a 20-something cute girl with an evident, ugly, attitude. Stoner dude was ringing me up. He handed my stack of shoe boxes to attitude girl so that she could deactivate the sensors.

She opened my dunks, nudged the latin queen and shoved a sneaker in her face, “These are fresh, but high tops are soooooooooooooooooooooo over. Like out.”

Latin lovely looked at me with an eek face as if to say … yikes I’m so sorry. My co-worker didn’t mean to be rude. .

I smiled, acknowledging her facial apology.

Latin girl tried to rescue her fellow shoe-slinger by adding a professional, “I don’t think we’re getting any more of those in.”

Attitude chick went on and on about how high tops are phasing out and it “totally blows.”

Spicolli noticed none of the conversation. He was out to lunch … hey, he probably was out lunch come to think of it. He was staring into space, probably dreaming about the food court and his 30 minute break.

I started to get really upset and it had nothing to do with the sour puss and her Debbie Downer ‘tude in regards to my high top sneakers.

I drifted away … the sound of the scanner beeping sku bars helped me count the number of years that I’ve been back in high tops … 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 wait … what?

I remembered being in New York and being thrilled when all of the classics returned to the shoe stores … high top Chuck Taylors, Reeboks, and Nikes. And now they’re leaving again? A fit of anger flowed through my body.

Wait … seriously … why am I freaking out about high tops?

What’s the big deal if I have to go to eBay rather than the local mall (that sucks anyway) to find my favorite sneaks? They’re classics. They’ll always be available. Get a hold of yourself.

We were able to make it out of the mall alive … my little crew decided that after-Christmas sales are “totally overrated” after the shoe store. Later on that evening I started thinking about my high top freak out.

I fessed up to myself about what’s really bothering me … I AM TERRIFIED BY TIME AND HOW QUICKLY IT IS SWEEPING AWAY.

I am not worried at all about aging or about the fads that come and go … I’m worried about the lightning-speed at which the years flash by.

The stupid high top trend simply served as a timeline to remind me where I am and where I’ve been. I officially had my “life is short” moment, in the mall of all places.

I realized that my fear of time and its speed, boils down to this:
I DO NOT WANT TO MISS OUT ON ANYTHING.

I didn’t make a new year’s resolution for 2009, but I did assess a fear that I have and that’s pretty cool I guess. Now I need to figure out how to translate that into a productive action. Maybe that’s my goal for ’09?

Or, maybe I just need to BUY MORE HIGH TOPS?

Kidding.

www.rileysride.com

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