RIP Ninja Shoes - Updated with the Actual Story

I promise to get this post up later today...I'm actually leaving my house this morning. I know! As in interacting with the outside world. This is a pretty big deal for moms who work from home.

In the meanwhile, pray for my shoes.

UPDATED:

This is the story of why I can't have nice things.

A mere month ago, Michael came home with a present for me. Travel slippers/ninja shoes. Tomato/Tomato (turns out that phrase doesn't lend itself to the blog format). And I loved these shoes. I hugged them, I kissed them, I called them George.

They were the perfect house shoe. They kept my feet cozy-warm and, Michael's favorite part, were far more stylish than the orange fuzzball slippers that up until this point were the mainstay of my daily uniform.

And they turned me into a ninja.

So naturally, I never wanted to take them off. Ever.

Going to bed? As a ninja!
Need to feed the dogs? Ninjas are animal lovers.
It's Tuesday and the garbage needs to go out? You've never seen anyone take garbage out so sneakily.

Turns out, taking out the garbage was more precarious than I initially anticipated. You see, ninja shoes and concrete driveways are not lovers.

One trip to the sidewalk and my ninja shoes were showing signs of fatigue. The traction bottom of the slippers were being torn away by the abrasiveness of the concrete.

But because I am lazy indestructible, I continued to wear my ninja shoes outside. Ninjas need to move the sprinklers around the yard, get the mail and pick up dog poop so nasty turd-eating dogs don't gorge themselves to sickness - ninjas draw the line at cleaning up poop-riddled puke. They'd rather set fire to the house and start over.

And pretty soon, there was no traction, grippy stuff at the bottom of the ninja shoes. And guys, do you know what?

Ninjas totally need traction.

Before (full of sticky traction goodness):

After (traction eaten by malicious driveway):

Vigilance is Important for Parents - and Ninjas

People would not describe me as having a strong backbone. I am, in fact, a little jumpy. The list of things known to scare me out of my pants is embarrassingly long and includes (but is in no way limited to): horror movies, dark alleys, snakes, aggressive looking bugs, friendly looking bugs, rustling leaves, balloons and my own reflection.

I am also living proof that at some point in evolution there was a third human response to threats. Flight, fight or stand there stupidly and drool while you are eaten alive.

Nobody gets more enjoyment out of these reactions than my husband. I'm the little sister he never had.

Last week, the following series of events occurred:

I'd like to say this was the first time this little dance has occurred, but alas, he probably does this to me once a week.

But unbeknown to him, he has now equipped me to be practically immune to his sly attacks on my unsuspecting bathroom-going self.

That's right. The ninja shoes.

When I'm wearing my ninja shoes, which happens to be always, I take my role very seriously. One of the tenets of ninja-hood (that I made up) is: Be Vigilant.

Ninjas are never taken by surprise. Not even when leaving the confines of the bathroom into the presumable safety of their house.

Last night, during our bedtime preparations nature called.

My paranoid vigilant self knew Michael would be outside the door ready to attack.

So I was ready for him.

What really happened:

You're lucky, my friend. Very lucky.

Just know...a ninja never rests.

Almost as Cool as The Bean

Michael bought me a gift the other day.

He is one of those really obnoxious thoughtful gift givers. You know the one. They always buy the most perfect thing ever. You didn't even know you needed the thing until you got the thing and now you can't live without the thing.

I am the exact opposite.

Buying presents gives me dry heaves. I panic, wanting desperately to be the thoughtful gift giver, but buckle under the pressure of not finding the most perfect present ever. Seriously, people should have to register for every occasion where a gift is required.

I procrastinate, over think, talk myself out of everything, throw up, then buy absolutely nothing because I become gripped with the horror of buying the wrong present.

You know what they always say...no present is better than the not-absolutely-perfect present.

Last year, Michael took a trip to Germany and came home with, what quickly became, my most prized possession ever.

Lufthansa airplane socks.




Things you should know about me: if it is below 78 degrees, you will find me in a fleece, heavy pants and socks. And I will be under a blanket.

I was the first woman to go through pregnancy without complaining about the heat. And I was nine months pregnant in June. In Atlanta. In one of Atlanta's hottest Junes ever.

I wore the crap out of those Lufthansa socks. They died a noble death, doing their job to the bitter end. But ultimately, my toes won out and the Lufthansa socks simply gave out.

le sigh....

OK; back to the story.

So the other day Michael informs me that he has a present for me. My heartbeat quickens.

Oh! Didn't I tell you? Gift receiving is even more traumatic than gift buying for me. Yep...one giant ball of sanity over here.

What if my reaction isn't exuberant enough and the person is disappointed? And I don't mean them to be because I really do love the gift, but I'm bad at showing it because I'm emotionally stunted. What if I really don't like the present and they can tell? Because as soon as I saw what it was I stared silently for 15 seconds too long, then overreacted about how cool the present was and used words like "SO cool" "REALLY fabulous" "TOTALLY excellent" and opened my eyes wider and wider on each adjective so they understood just how AWESOME the present was. What if it's really a bomb that will go off as soon as I open the box. Whatifwhatifwhatif...

The holidays are a tough time for me.

Michael. Present. Right...

I open the bag and am frozen with fear. What is the appropriate level of enthusiasm for these:


I have an important distinction to make here though. Mine are all black.

This is a critical piece of information because as soon as I slid into these bad boys, it was clear that Michael did not buy me Magellan Travel Slippers as he claims.

Oh no.

He bought me ninja shoes!

I then spent the next hour running around the house being a ninja.



Michael says it looked more like this:


Whatever. He better watch his step and sleep with one eye open. You never know where the invisible ninjas may be lurking.

Totally invisible.