Loose Ends

There was a time, a fairly recent time, when I believed that everything happens for a reason. Now, I believe that some things happen for a reason, and others are overlooked and slip between the cracks. That's why I want to tell you about my friend and inspiration, Stacey.
I met Stacey a couple of years ago,  when I was in beauty school. A lot of the "clients" you get in beauty school generally fall into the categories of elderly, poor,  or both. Because, really, who else wants a $4 haircut besides those who only have a couple bucks in their pocket, and can't really see the bald spot you gave them?
I'm still not sure what possessed  Stacey to walk in that day,  but I won't ever forget how she set her sights on me. My station at school was directly behind the reception desk, I was the first student you laid eyes on when you came in and decided to put your  hair in our hands. This was especially hard for me, because I had quite a bit of disdain for most of the clients who walked in there expecting five star steak and lobster treatment on a Kraft Mac and cheese budget. Did I mention that I have a bad attitude in general? If you know me, shut up, I know you know. If you don't, then buckle up buttercup. Anyhow, I was going about my disgruntled business when I heard the following exchange.
Stacey : Can I get someone who's about to graduate?
Receptionist :We can't do that, it's a school, everyone is learning. We have a list of available students and we assign clients accordingly.  If you have a specific student in mind,  you can request them by name.
Stacey; What about her (pointing at me) with the drag queen eyelashes? She must have some kind of balls if she can walk out of the house like that."
At this point, I was almost offended. But I was wearing falsies that only a tranny could love, and I kind of sensed a kindred spirit.
The receptionist explained that you could only request a student by name. At which point, I turned and pointed at the "Sarah" embroidered on my uniform top.
Stacey: Brain fart! How can I forget? Sarah, I want Sarah to do my hair
The rest is history. I saw Stacey a few more times while I was in school,  and when I graduated,  we exchanged contact info, because she swore she would follow me to whatever salon I was working at once I was licensed.
Now,  for anyone who has ever been to cosmetology school, you know that your "regulars" always promise to follow you to the moon and back,  but it rarely happens. Months later,  after I had passed my state board exam and had been working for a little while, I got a text. It said, "Hey Sarah, maybe you don't remember, but my name is Stacey, you did my hair at the beauty college a few times. When you get a chance, could you give me a call? “
I was stoked. Not only was I scoring the elusive post beauty school client, but I adored Stacey. We really were pretty similar. The same age, same warped sense of humor, both trying to build a respectable life after a slightly checkered past filled with a few demons. I called her that afternoon. It wasn't quite what I was expecting.
She informed me that just a month prior, she had been diagnosed with non Hodgkins lymphoma, stage 3. She was undergoing treatment, which of course was making her quite sick, and preventing her from leaving the house overmuch. Could I possibly make a house call? Her exact words were "I look like a down on her luck crackwhore. Roots for days, and you know how hairy us Mediterranean women are. Bring your full arsenal “
I didn't hesitate. I showed up at her house the following weekend with a large rolling suitcase packed with waxing supplies,  and enough bleach, color, toner and styling products to keep a small Texas beauty pageant going for a month.
I had never been to her home and never met her family, which consisted of her gigantic husband, a former player for the LA Avengers before they folded in 2009, and her two sons,  13 and 9. At this point, she just looked tired, and her prognosis was relatively positive. She showed me around their home, the highlight being her near restaurant like kitchen and a pantry that's almost half the size of my apartment. She had turned her passion for cooking and feeding people into a small, but successful catering business. I spent at least 8 hours there that day, doing her hair, giving the boys haircuts, and eating the most amazing mustard glazed,  whole roasted chicken that has ever graced anyone's taste buds. Which of course,  she wouldn't divulge the recipe for. I left that day thinking how cool it was to make a new friend, especially since we all know that is no easy feat after 30. I couldn't wait to take my boyfriend and stepson to meet them. I didn't hear from her for a few weeks, and decided to call her up to see how she was doing.
I immediately felt sick when her husband answered her cell. But he assured me that it was just a particularly nasty round of chemo keeping her down,  and could I possibly come by soon to do Staceys hair?
It had only been just shy of four weeks since I had last seen her, ad so I tried very hard to hide my shock. Stacey has a very average build, not thin,  not heavy. The 20 or so pounds she had lost left her somewhere between Victoria Beckham anorexia and the improbable Barbie figure. (she told me that if I were going to describe her, to be sure to mention her 38DD breast implants)
Gotta love this girl because the first words out of her mouth were "The fuck? Don't just stand there. Just because I'm dying doesn't mean you don't work for me anymore. Get to it.“
I had to laugh even though the word  “dying “stole my breath.
Over the next two months, I went over there about once a week. I watched the toll her illness was talking on her, her husband, and her boys. The first time I finished shampooing her and held huge handfuls of hair, I was stunned, sick to my stomach. Her response?  "Just think of how much of that expensive, high class bleach you're gonna save."
A side note :Experiencing this first hand is nothing like the movies. On the one hand, it's surreal, but at the same time, it's as blunt and real in a way that only the truth can be.
I would love to say that this is going to be one of those amazing, potent stories about a battle fought hard and won.
I went to see Stacey today. Surprisingly, she still has quite a bit of hair, enough to wash, dry, and curl around her face. Her eyebrows are gone, which perturbed her to no end. She says  "If I had known how much tweezing, waxing,  and threading I could have saved, I'd have started praying for cancer by the time I was twelve years old"

My last couple visits with Stacey have been brief,  and quiet. Today was different. She was sitting up in bed with her laptop and various bills and paperwork surrounding her, with a rather thick pair of reading glasses that swallowed her tiny face. She was setting up all of the  household bills for auto pay. "I  can't believe I've still been paying bills by check all this time. At least this way, Sergio won't even have to think about it.  Poor thing is gonna be so busy with the boys and their activities"
I sat there for a minute before she answered the question I couldn't bring myself to ask.  "They say I could have six months or so left. Fuck that. I can't do another six months. They can't do another six months. The sooner it's over, the sooner they can get on with their lives. Ain't no one got time for that!"  I know I was supposed to laugh at that, but I couldn't. It wasn't the words she said, it was the way she said them. Matter of fact, so clearly a mom.  Taking care of everyone until the end. It was strange, she hadn't been this lively in a while. It's like God knew she needed to handle her business.
She surprised me again when she asked me to help her into the kitchen. I couldn't fathom why, but when I got her settled,  she started rattling off a list of things to get from the pantry. I hadn't been in that pantry since my first visit months earlier. I almost choked when I flipped the light on. It was like walking into Costco. Cases of bottled water, soda,  juice, etc, dry goods,  canned food,  snacks,  toilet paper, paper towels stacked floor to ceiling. Like she was stocking up for the end of days. Which I suppose she is. The chest freezers in the utility room were stocked just as heavy. I gathered everything she asked me to, and took it into the kitchen. After following her instructions for a minute,  I realized that she was teaching me her secret recipe for that mustard glazed chicken I loved.
'Seriously,  cheer the fuck up while you cook. Depression makes food taste like shit, and you're responsible for feeding all of us tonight. " I can't help laughing and flipping her off.
" Bitch don't kill my vibe. And by vibe, I mean don't burn the sauce. " she tells me. I say something about how I wish we had known each other longer,  like before she was.... And I trail off.
" Before I was what? Dying? When did you turn into such a whiny little Bitch? It's OK to say it. I know I'm dying just the same as I knew Santa Claus wasn't real by the time I was four. Baste the chicken. "
Eventually, dinner was ready. We all sat around, eating and talking about wildly inappropriate topics, it reminded me of my own family around the dinner table when I was a kid.
Eventually, it was time for me to get home. Stacey had nodded off on the couch. I helped Sergio get her in bed. I said my goodbyes and went home. About an hour later, I get a text from Stacey.
"I read your blog. Who's dick do I have to suck to get a mention? Post mortem fame is overrated "
Here you go,  Stacey, no dick sucking required.

BFF's?? Or, Why We've Grown Apart

I wish life was simple like kindergarten . Black and white, no gray. If you were new in school, you went and sat down with some other kids who also chewed with their mouths open. BAM,  next thing you know  tether ball is happening. Got a crush?  Throw sand in his eyes and call him names until he follows you around in  your polka-dots, Mary Janes, and  pig tail cuteness Or was that just my experience?  I'm sorry, Gary what's-your-name,  (my first boyfriend in kindergarten) I was just cutting my teeth. But I digress,  Loyalty,between family, friends, lovers, etc, ais a question that should never have to be asked. Loyalty is not a hobby,  it's a way of life. You should never have to look around and wonder,  "When the shit goes down, who will be there?"  Loyalty is an unspoken bond. I feel that if you and I were friends,  and were tight, like ride or die,  stuck like  glue, end of times tight, neither one of us would have room to question the validity of our relationship We would go down in a blaze of glory Thelma and Louise style if need be. Why?  Well,  duh, because of that whole ugly incident in the parking lot of the honky tonk. Sorry, I amuse myself at times.  We could go on the ultimate road trip,  let's do all the things we talked about when we were seventeen,  and run from the law because I just shot a man,  Thelma!  Yeah, I know we've all seen it. If you don't mind, allow me to enjoy my cinematic love of it all.  Unfortunately,  I am no badass, shot taking,  pistol toting Susan Sarandon, and  I have no desire to ever drive off a cliff o  jump out of a perfectly good airplane  or No one wants to sacrifice everything for the one they love,  and if you do,  you may want to reevaluate your priorities. Two does not equal one,  no matter how you slice it. You should never have to compete just to stand shoulder to shoulder,  you should never have to hear your secrets fall from a strangers mouth. You should never have to feel as if your heart is breaking, when you helped that person pick up the shattered remains of their own. Instead,  focus on the sweet simplicity of holding hands or going out for coffee. Or the seemingly mundane intimacy of knowing what cereal they like,  or what TV show they're currently addicted to. Any relationship, whether platonic or romantic,  is a lot like skydiving. Whether solo or tandem. alone or in pairs, you pull the cord,  leap, and hope the wind catches you before the ground does. The  important thing isn't who pulls the cord,  but who throws caution to the wind, grabs on, and rides it out with you.

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Shameless

This is going to be a quick one and it's mostly for the ladies. So check it out just a quick thought:  When was the last time you looked in the mirror and were happy with what you saw? Even if you're wanting to lose a few pounds, or you're not thrilled about the gray hairs that are suddenly creeping up, and oh shit, are those crows feet? Can you look past those things and still think to yourself "I ain't mad at that" Self esteem....one of  our most precious and endangered resources. Love yourself first, everything else will fall into place. Easier said than done, yes?
There are a few things that you will need to change in order to feel beautiful. First, look at yourself in the mirror.... Naked. Yep,  do it. Stop avoiding it. I did it.  For way too long,  I let society, my own fucked up psyche,  and a string of unworthy assholes tell me that I was fat, ugly, and not good enough. It's not easy to  come back from that. But it is completely doable. So stand there. Take a good look.  There will be a point when your view is obscured by the tears welling up and streaming down your face.
If you really want this its entirely possible. It will hurt, but pain tells us that we are still alive, do it.
Look at every dimple, every stretch mark, every scar. Look at it as a reminder. To us and everyone else, that we have lived this life,  and I that we are not ashamed now , nor shall we ever be. Now here comes the important part. And probably the most difficult. Look yourself straight in the eye and say to yourself, "I love you. And I will never stop loving you no matter what comes, good or bad.  I love you and I have your back, always"

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I Didn't Break It (and other tales of misplaced blame)

 Sometimes, life blows. I mean to say that it can often make you want to drink yourself into oblivion, throat punch someone, and/or set houses on fire. What separates the women from the girls, the men from the boys, or more specifically ME  from about a third of the population is this: I don't drink, ( haven't in nearly 2 1/2 years), I can't afford to bail myself out after the arrest that would surely follow me assaulting someone, and EWW I would never be able to wash the smell of a structure fire out of my hair. Basically, self control is what's keeping me (and possibly you) afloat. It seems simple. But sometimes its like trying to chew and swallow a mouthful of peas. I hate peas, you can substitute something else. You keep chewing, and chewing, it just keeps growing in your mouth, after gagging a few times, you finally manage to swallow. Ugh. Gives me heartburn just thinking about it.  I have been told that I have my fathers keen sense of the obvious and my mothers audacity. If you've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Kirby, let's just say its a deadly combination when left unchecked. As I continue to mature, slowly but surely, I try my damnedest to filter myself. I try to hide my evil on the inside. Because, quite frankly, most of you simply are. Not. Ready. For. This. So, i try to use my powers for the betterment of society (look at me and the big words Check out the big brain on Sarah) Allow me to illustrate.
 I was in Target earlier today. The lines were pretty long, but I didn't mind, I had nowhere important to be. A youngish mother, maybe mid to late thirties and her teen daughter were behind me. Oh...one more disclaimer.... I have no children of my own. I have a 13 going on 35 year old step son, and the limited amount of
 time that I have been blessed with in his life in no way makes me an expert in parenting. Which is precisely why this is about common decency and not child rearing. If that doesn't satisfy your urge to tell me why my opinion is incorrect due to lack of experience, dont let the door hit you in the ass, doll face.
Anyhow, mom and the teen, who I will call Pumpkin from here on out, are behind me, and here's how it unfolds:
PUMPKIN: Stop acting so fucking stupid, mom. Just because you were a whore and don't know who my dad is doesn't mean I'm gonna be knocked up at 16.
Mom: (quietly) Pumpkin, we do know your dad. I don't know why you say that.
PUMPKIN: then why doesn't he pay child support? Everybody I know gets checks from their dad. We don't get shit! If he was my dad, he'd pay for stuff. I fucking hate you. You make me sick.
At this point my eyebrows are raised so high that they're on the back of my neck. This line needs to MOVE.
Mom: can we discuss this later?
PUMPKIN: When? You're never fucking home.
Mom: I'm sorry, I have to work. God forgive me, I have to keep a roof over your head and clothes on your back.
Mom almost sounded like she was growing some back bone...almost.
 PUMPKIN: you look like shit when you cry.
Then she stomps out, and yeah. Mom is crying a little. She catches me looking, shrugs and says " Teenagers" with the saddest, most artificial laugh I've ever heard. By this time, I'm entering my debit pin and grabbing my bags. Mom is pulling out coupons, paying part EBT, part cash, part debit card. You know what really got me? There was a single tear caught in her bottom lashes, right above a dark circle that screamed "IM TIRED!!!" That one fucking tear. It really broke my heart. My life is hard, but I'll probably never understand what it's like to walk a mile in her shoes.
So I walk out. There's Pumpkin. Smoking. And texting on a very pricey phone. I typically hear two voices in my head. One says "Go home, Sarah" and the other says " Don't pass this up, kid." The latter is louder and pushier, which is why we get along so famously. Uh oh. Pumpkin is about to get squashed. (Dont judge me, I rarely come up with puns)  Time for another disclaimer: WARNING: Don't try this at home. Or at Target, Walgreens etc.
Me: (in a panicked, breathy voice)Hey!  That was your mom in there? Behind me? Holy shit, she collapsed, she's not breathing, they called an ambulance.
The color drains out of Pumpkins face, she throws the cigarette down and starts back toward the entrance.... and nearly collides with Mom. Who of course, is fine. Health wise, any how. I wait, patiently, for baby Lucifer to absorb the reality of what's taken place.  And oh, wow, she is one pissed off demon spawn. Like Medusa with tacky eye makeup.
She starts to scream about how evil it is to mess with someone like that, how much I scared her, she loves her mom, bullshit, lies, bullshit blah blah, and my personal favorite" You're going to hell!" I must say, I'm proud of myself. My typical response in this type of situation would be to go toe to toe with this broad, regardless of her age or experience. I told you. Im maturing. I'm trying to WORK on  myself. So, when Pumpkin started running out of steam, I said to her,
" I hope this gave you a reason to think about what a mess your pathetic, insignificant life would be without your mother. Regardless of what some douchebag does or doesn't do for you, your mom didn't break anything. But she was the one left to pick up the pieces. If you want to criticize someone take a long hard look at yourself, Pumpkin. Because from where I'm standing, you look like you got it pretty fucking good."  Mom is standing there with years streaming, and says "Thank you". So now I'm crying. I gave her one of my cards. She texted me a while ago. This was what it said:
"Thank u so much for today. I love my kid, but I'm tired of being blamed for falling in love with the wrong person. I work so hard to do everything I can because its my responsibility, and I still feel like she hates me. Hopefully she'll grow out of it. Today, you made me feel like someone is on my side"
Does this make me a a superhero or a patron saint? Fuck no, I'm just like everyone else, but with a bigger mouth. If Mr Rodgers was alive today, he'd lace up his Keds, throw on a spiffy cardigan, and  turn our attention to the picture frame on the wall where we would get a guided tour of the Personal Responsility factory, brought to you by the makers of Self Respect.

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No Cure For the Common Cold. Or the Common Douchebag, Either.

I woke up sick early this morning, but for the first time in years, I'm not panicking. Maybe it's because I work a job where people actually give a shit about me, (they DO exist!) Maybe it's because I started the enrollment process for the ACA last night, maybe a little of both. I've been listening to people debate the pros and cons all day. Whenever I feel strongly about something and I hear negative reactions, I want to persuade someone to understand my side of things. I also try to be fair and open minded to constructive criticisms directed at the issue. But, allow me to be blunt: when it comes to hearing out the opposition on this one, I don't give a fuck, so keep it pushing, bitches. Health care, even crappy health care, has not been an option for me since I was 19 years old. Since that time, I've had a couple jobs that supposedly offered medical, but there was always some obstacle that made coverage just out of reach. For too many years, I've been stuck in the dilemma that young, (or not so young) single, childless people all over the country face: Barely making a living wage does not have leave room in the budget for insurance, definitely no room for paying cash for an office visit or prescriptions. Yes, there are government programs, but with no dependants, those are as out of reach as rain during a drought. So, every time I feel a cold coming or I twist my ankle, I panic. Go to work sick or lose a day or more in pay. Call in sick or get fired for not being able to produce a doctor's note. Take out a personal loan to get a crown and a root canal or try a more cost effective method of pain control, which is when you just pray that the tooth will hurry up and fall out so the pain will stop. Since I was diagnosed with cervical cancer last November, I've maxed out everything that California Family Pact will cover. I've been coming up clean for almost six months now, but if the cancer does come back, I'm on my own. So, because I can't afford thousands of dollars in treatment, do I deserve to be rendered barren by a hysterectomy or possibly even die? Fuck that. And what if something else happens? You start putting off procedures in hopes that someday you'll hit the lotto before you die from whatever ails you. The worst part, however, is the knowledge that you are working hard and paying your fair share, and you're still getting left behind. Bullshit. So, to all of the dissidents out there, I'm sorry. I'm selfish. I want affordable (not free) health care. I want to go to a doctor when I'm sick, instead of taking expired antibiotics and generic nyquil and hoping for the best. I work, I pay taxes, I take care of my family, and wanting my basic needs met without turning to bank robbery or prostitution sounds pretty good to me. If you dont like it, call our therapist and set up an appointment. Don't trip, your HMO will cover it. You know, the one you've had for years and is NOT being taken from you. If you disagree and are preparing a rebuttal, save it. Tell it to someone else.  Because if you missed it, allow me to reiterate: I don't give a fuck! Purely selfish, I know. I'll make an amends later. 2014 is gonna be my year! Here's to not dying from treatable disease!!

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Shoes

<a href="http://www.hypersmash.com/dreamhost/" id="gd791">dreamhost promo codes</a>When I was growing up,  my mom,  no matter how tight the budget may have been, always made sure that my brother and I had good shoes.  By "good" I don't mean the newest,  most expensive shoes,  but they were always decent quality,  name brand shoes that fit well and would (hopefully) survive at least half of the school year.  There were several reasons for this.  The first was something a pair of cheap vinyl sneakers would betray your trust shortly after the wearer donned them with one unmistakable sign: they would make your feet stink. Life has enough hurdles without being known as the kid whose feet smell like cheese.  The next and biggest reason for quality footwear was that cheap shoes worn now will cause problems that can only  be addressed by a podiatrist and a sizeable wad of cash in the future.  My younger brother actually has issues with his feet that are caused by a noticeably  absent arch that runs in our family.  Sounds contrary to my argument right?  Well I'm certain that if Mom had bought our shoes from the Wal-Mart clearance bin, double amputation by his 18th  birthday would have been the only treatment option available.
  The other day I returned home from work,  and my feet were killing me. My day typically consists of leaving home around 7AM to embark on a route that consists of three busses and 90 minutes to arrive by 9AM-ish at the salon I work at.  I then spend 7 to 12 hours cutting,  coloring,  and styling hair. Sometimes sitting down to pee is a relaxing break.     This is followed by a slightly longer bus ride home where I finally drag in around 8:30PM. And that's a slow day.  Anyhow,  the day in question found me wearing a pair of super adorable   and super cheap flats. My chubby little toes  didn't stand a chance. Blisters on both sides ,  and the ball of my foot felt as if I'd spent all day walking barefoot on hot asphalt. As I sat soaking my feet in Epsom salts,  I thought about what my mom would have to say about the situation. Although my mom lives over 100 miles from me,  I still  gave in to the urge to throw the shoes away. Outside. In the big trash can  at the curb.  My neighbors receptacle,  not mine,  as if Mom was going to show up and "catch"  me with the offending pair of spike studded ballerina flats. Some of you may be thinking to yourself, that I'm overreacting. Well, to you , my sad, misdirected friend, I say get the hell away from me before my mom catches me talking to you. Honestly, I am 32 years old, and I still struggle with the realization that perhaps, mother really does known best.

All jokes aside, I honestly adore my mother. The reason I'm writing this is because I feel that there is a strong similarity between how she felt about our shoes,and the the invaluable things she taught us about life.
Much like shoes, we should look for people and things in our lives (including ourselves) to be genuine. Anyone can spot something esthetically beautiful. However,will it stink after a time? After a little sweat, will you wish that you had invested a little more money, or even just a little more of yourself? All that glitters is not gold. Scratch the surface to discover what lies within.

 My mom has always told me that I'm beautiful. More importantly, she also always told me that I'm smart , funny, and unique. She's never been one to brush my mistakes under the rug or allow me to make excuses for any poor choices I made. Because, again, just like shoes, pretty on the outside but deceptive and poorly constructed on the inside leads to nothing but misery Some shoes.just by merit of a large, expensive ad campaign, will cause consumers to run amok, camp out in front a Foot Locker, and brawl in mall parking lots just to drop two weeks salary. Unfortunately, popularity does not equal value. In order  to have a solid product, you have to start from the bottom up. It takes time to make sure that the seams line up and all the loose ends are secure before finishing. If you don't take care, your end product will begin to fall apart, regardless of that gorgeous Italian leather upper.
Once you've constructed a shoe that an old school cobbler would drool over, it's time to lace up and take your new footwear for a spin. Keep in mind, every new shoe needs to be broken in. Once you've set your sights on exactly what you desired, its only half the work. Try it on, walk around, try different terrain. In the beginning, things may be awkward and stiff, but if you've chosen the right shoe, it won't be long before you're comfortable and they fit like a second skin. However, if you continue to be uncomfortable, even if it's just a seemingly small irritant, you may want to reconsider your choice. Too often,we ignore the molehill that may become a mountain. That pain, a strange tingle, is a warning sign. What starts as something just rubbing you the wrong way will eventually become a blister. Further ignored the blister becomes a painful, weeping sore. Often, we tell ourselves that its just easier to disregard it, because it's just too much effort to throw out the offending shoe and select a new one. We may also come to believe that since we picked it out ourselves, that we deserve to be stuck with our faulty choice. The thought of trying again and sifting through other options is just overwhelming. So, instead, we grit our teeth, suck it up, and eventually, the blister becomes a callus, a permanent and constant reminder of what used to be.

 Occasionally, we will try on a pair of shoes that just don't look like anything we would ever consider putting on. For some reason, we try them anyway, and are startled by the fit. It's as if they are custom made for us. Sometimes, we decide, for whatever reason, to put them back on the shelf, insisting to opt for the beauty and the pain at least one more time. Sometimes we just have a learn the hard way. You can only hope that you realize the error before the calluses take over entirely. We must learn that a perfect fit is often hidden under a less than beautiful exterior.

 After years in good shoes ,bad shoes, and everything in between, you might have a sudden urge to take them off altogether. Kick them off, walk barefoot in the grass or sand. Flex your toes and stretch. Appreciate the feet that have carried you all this way, Up, down, backwards, forwards.
You may never get the pair that are "just right". Maybe they don't exist, or haven't been invented yet. But the important thing is quality, not quantity. A pair that makes you content at least,is far better than a pair that makes you want to run and hide them in the neighbors dumpster, after all.
Right now, as you're reading this, go to your closet. Look at how many pairs of shoes you have but don't wear. Because they're scuffed, ill fitting, or lost their luster once you got them home. Clear them out. They're weighing you down. Mom used to tell me I make my life harder than it needs to be. She was right. But I'm trying to throw out all these damn shoes so that I can walk barefoot in the sand with her.