I did my hair on Wednesday. For those who know me in real life, you’ll know this merits a blog post because I almost never do my hair. This is not an exaggeration. I can count the number of times I did my hair this whole year using less than one whole hand’s worth of fingers.

It’s not that my hair is impossible, per se. From what I’ve been told, my hair is thick and has a lot of body and, with the right tools, can look rather lovely.

The problem is me. Not only do I have very little idea how to style my hair, I have a lethal lack of inclination to do so. I’m a stay at home mom who does housework most of every day, why would I bother to do my hair and try to keep it out of my face every day when I could just throw it up in a ponytail and be done with it?

Even though this remains true, I’ve decided to conquer this particular shortcoming of mine. 2012 is going to be the year I learn how to do my hair.

Why? Well, that’s a complicated question. Why does any woman learn how to make herself look prettier? Because she likes the end result, because she likes the way others feel about the end result, because it self actualizes some inner expectation she has for herself. Sometimes the answer is a combination of all three.

For me, I suppose the answer is that I’m tired of not being able to do this for myself. That and I might be carrying around a teeny tiny daughter, and I want to be able to teach her girly stuff someday if she wants to learn.

I don’t want to be intimidated by doing her hair, or feel like I’m all thumbs when she asks me how to put on foundation or straighten her hair.

I want to feel confident that I can be a resource to her, and help her avoid unfortunate hair mistakes. That is, of course, if she’ll listen to me.

Then again, I could be carrying another boy, in which case this endeavor is somewhat less altruistic and more self indulgent. I mean, I’ll be happier when I feel like I can make myself look as nice as possible, and I think my hair is the last piece of the puzzle.

So. 2012. This will be the year I learn to do my hair. And possibly publish another novel. And finish my zombie apocalypse novel. And have another baby.

It’s gonna be a good year.

Did you know that pregnancy can make your feet grow?  And that that will, in return, reliably reduce you to tears while shoe shopping?

I’m a tall girl, but my feet have always been a manageable size 10.  Sure, my pants are consistently too short, but my feet were still a nice, normal size, and shoe shopping was one of the few kinds of shopping I enjoyed.

Until I had an adorable, squishy little baby (incidentally, who was called Squishy).

Now I have size 11 feet.  I have an adorable baby and feet that are too large to fit comfortably into any of my shoes.  After getting fed up with my toes rubbing against the inside of my ancient tennis shoes while I walked, I decided to find some new shoes.

I got my feet remeasured, and was aghast to learn my feet had grown to an unruly size.  Not to be deterred, I figured that surely I’d be able to find size 11 tennis shoes.  I mean, how hard could it be?  There are taller women than me running around all over the place, I doubted they all get their shoes custom made.

That was when I ate my humble pie with a side of ice cream.

You guys, no one makes shoes in size 11.  You get to size 10 and then you get nothing.  We looked everywhere, and my despair grew with each successive store where sales people made horrified faces and told me they had nothing for me in-store but could always order something (which, dude, how not helpful is that?  Like I’m just going to guess about how my feet will feel by trying on shoes that are too small?  Or, worse yet, just ordering without trying them on?).

Every time I walked by rows and rows of shoes that were off-limits to me and my giant freak feet, I cried.  I mean, I can deal with being tall, with the short pants and no leg room in cars or on planes, but to be deprived of shoes now too?

After watching me dissolve into tears for the fifth time, Wes decided I needed to go shoe shopping at Nordstrom.  Nordstrom, where they sell pretty shoes to pretty people and make you feel like spending twice as much is a good deal because of the famous excellent customer service.

On Saturday, I got all dolled up (putting on eye shadow and eye liner counts as getting dolled up) and we strolled into Nordstrom fully expecting to leave there with shoes and self esteem.  That the shoe salesman botched the sale boggles the mind.  Perhaps it’s because he:

1. Told me he’d rather be watching the World Cup than helping me find shoes.
2. Brought out only one freaking pair of shoes for me to try on, then told me he had nothing else in my size (which, seeing as he was so enthusiastic to be doing his job right then, was probably a great big lie).
3. Tried to convince me that, even though I told him the shoes he brought out didn’t feel good on my feet, I should wear them around for a week because he was sure I’d grow to like them.
4. After I assured him, in no uncertain terms, that I disliked the shoes, he brought out another pair.  When I slipped them on and told him they felt tight, he looked at me like I was stupid and said, “Yeah, they’re 10′s”.  I suppose when you taunt big-footed women with shoes they can’t have because of their giant feet, they’re unwilling to buy things from you.

With nap time for Aidan fast approaching, we ran over to Lady Foot Locker, where the saleslady (named Jazzy) brought out ten different boxes of shoes for me to try on.  She enumerated the features and strengths of each pair, and was patient as I tried them all on and walked around the store.

I finally settled on a pair of Nike shoes that feel like heaven on my feet.  So the shoe problem has been resolved.  I remain in shock over the abysmal customer service I received at Nordstrom, but I’m so happy with my new (very purple!) shoes that I’m willing to stop complaining about it.  Now that I’ve written about it on my blog, of course.

Do you remember that post I did last week wherein I mentioned my gigantic glasses of many years ago?  Well, Blanche commented that I can’t very well blog about my ginormous glasses without sharing them, so I did what any good self-effacing blogger would: I scanned me a picture of those suckers and, let me tell you, I am THIIIIIS glad they invented contacts because man.  I’m lucky the sun didn’t set me aflame with glasses like that.

Was that enough suspense building?  I hope so, because I present to you with the utmost shame and cringe…My 5th grade portrait:

Oh look at me, just casually hanging out on this stair railing.

You’re welcome.  I hope you all feel better about yourselves today.