Miz Shoes has kindly named me the recipient of an Arte y Pico award. I confess my Spanish is limited to phrases Minstrel Boy pens for me so I can order dinner without creating an international incident, so while I’m not completely clear on the whole Arte y Pico zeitgeist I’m still thankful Miz Shoes thinks that much of me. Thank you, dahhhhlink. You’re much too kind!
Unfortunately, that’s where murky understanding turns to mud. Rules for passing this honor on are:
* Pick 5 blogs to which you would like to award this honor.
* Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
* Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
* Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link.
I love you, Blogosphere, but if you think I’m sharing my tiara you’ve never seen a beauty pageant. I’m in it for the fame, the glory and the double-sided tape stuck under my armpits, keeping this strapless number from becoming a belt. Name five blogs? And have them steal my hard-fought victory, not to mention my mascara? I can’t do it, not while I’m still competing at the peak of my ridiculous form. So instead of dumping ground glass into your pumps, I’ll entertain you with a medley.
Recently, Greasy Tony flipped his last burger. Yes, Tony’s gone to the Great Grill In the Sky, via Tuscon and Tempe, Arizona. This may come as a surprise to anyone who lived in New Brunswick during the sixties, seventies and eighties, because the hand that rocked the cheesesteak seemed ageless and ancient. Perhaps you visited town but you hadn’t really lived here until you’d stumbled into Greasy Tony’s after bar closing time and ate whatever Tony thought your slurred request meant.
My brother Todd and his friends should have had a plaque on the wall, so often did they patronize this fine eatery. I personally will miss watching Tony slap roaches on the counter with the same knife he used to chop “vegetables,” but these memories will someday be lost on the winds of time. What is not lost is the true Jersey spirit in which Tony said, “No charge for extra grease.”
A few weeks ago, the phone rang. My sister Daria hissed at me urgently from an outlet store ten miles away.
Daria: WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR FEET?
Tata: Depends on the shoes’ width. My feet form amusing triangles -
Daria: FLIP FLOPS! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR FEET IN FLIP FLOPS?
Tata: Six and a half? Seven?
Daria: SEVEN IT IS! What color do you want? They have purple, blue and silver.
Tata: Both. All of them. What are we talking about?
Daria: Vera Wang flip flops are 50% off and I have a coupon!
Tata: You’d better get all three. What if my feet aren’t feeling all matchy-matchy?
This is an almost criminally inadequate rendering of the purple version of the flip flops I am currently wearing, and this tries the patience of my co-workers because when sunlight catches the little silver plastic bauble – it’s true – angels sing. Yes, when I’m wearing casual summer footwear I have a celestial soundtrack. We all do; it’s just that I can hear this theme music. It’s a talent, I guess; helps me avoid sharks. A few weeks ago, a woman I barely know asked what my blog’s about. I don’t know. It’s possible you might know before I do.
Don’t touch my bouquet, sweetie.
