Miz Shoes was obliged to go for some blood tests this week, and advised the snarly young woman who was doing the blood draw that the best bet for getting blood from this particular stone would be a butterfly. The sullen tart didn’t argue and proceeded to stab Miz Shoes in her inner elbow. Repeatedly. Poking around trying to get a vein that didn’t roll. After a minute or two of this, Miz Shoes suggested that the vein in her wrist, although she knew it would hurt like a motherfucker, might be a better option, as having been tied off for several minutes now, it was standing out like a rope.

The nurse-like blood taker was happy to abandon the useless elbow, and WIPED OFF THE NEEDLE WITH AN ALCOHOL PAD AND JAMMED IT INTO MIZ SHOES WRIST! The same fucking needle. The next day I called my doctor’s office to suggest a review of policies and procedures, not to mention universal precautions. Sometimes, it is hard to remember that I do not live in a third-world country, where needles are a precious commodity. I did point out to the office manager when she apologized for any inconvenience Miz Shoes may have suffered, that we weren’t talking about inconveniences, we were talking about health-care regulations. Blood-draw needles are not, Miz Shoes pointed out, made of gold-plated latinum. The reference went way over the office manager’s head, but the veiled threats about regulations and laws didn’t.

Mix Shoes has had a few rough days at work, at physical therapy, at life. Tonight, upon leaving work late, and having worked straight through lunch, I made a stop at the bodega on the ground floor of my office building. They’re new, and they sell wine and beer, which means they may last longer than the usual six months that restaurants in that particular space last. It was with little hope that I stopped in on my way to the train.

I don’t suppose you’d sell me a glass of wine to go, in a styrofoam coffee cup with a lid, would you? Well, bless Miz Shoes soul, they did. I had a lovely ride home, sucking down my generic red plonk through the sippy lid. For an added treat, the RLA took me to the Middle Eastern joint for supper, where I indulged in carbohydrates, to wit: gaymeh and tardig.

I am now thoroughly fuzzy brained, and thoroughly happy.

Tomorrow night we will be dining with cousins who have escaped the current snowpocalypse. They insisted on Joe’s over on South Beach. I am probably the only person in Miami who would rather not eat there. Yeah, the food is good, but damn. I have no patience for the pretentiousness. Or the monstrous waits. Well, there is always the bar.

Miz Shoes is terribly sorry about letting this blog languish unloved, unread and unupdated for so long. Things have been in flux around the Casita des Zappatos for months now, and it has had a negative impact on this blog.

Around September Miz Shoes decided that she had had enough of her bad self, and went on a diet. Miz Shoes has lost 35 pounds, and the clothes that were once destined for Mild Burning Symptoms sale have come back to the closet and her fat clothes will be sold off. Also, shoes. Miz Shoes is determined to thin the herd there, as well.

In October, we lost the Noble Dog Nails, only to gain Rosie the Pony. Rosie (or Rosalita, to be formal) is a red Doberman and it is hard to remember that this is just a puppy when her paws are like demi-tasse cups and she weighs close to 60 pounds. But a puppy she is, so shoes have been eaten, hats have been eaten and Jojo, the Dog of Very Little Brain, has been terrorized. Rosie tries very hard to be good, but she’s still a lot of rambunctious puppy.

Next, Miz Shoes was given a lateral transfer at work, meaning that there is actual work to be done most days, and those heady times of hanging around updating my blog and knitting while at the office are long gone. The good news is that Miz Shoes is enjoying it.

In December, we took our vacation with the Girl Cousin, who may now be known as SisterCousin, because it sounds funnier and has an unhealthy closeness to our actual familial tree, itself somewhat intertwined in ways that are illegal in most states. Those relationships occurred in the Old Country, where life in the shtetl made choices slimmer. She refused to indulge my lust for the pink Minnie ears, despite them sporting BOTH a tiara and a princess veil. We had to make do with matching picture frames.

Over in the studio, Miz Shoes bought, stained and assembled The Mysterious Miss Cherry Blossom, an Ashford Country Spinner on which to make art yarn. Sadly, there has been little time to indulge on her.

And that, dear readers, brings you up to date on Miz Shoes life and hard times. She promises to do better in the coming months.

I’m blowing out of here for a week. The Girl Cousin and I are going on vacation together. (With our husbands, it isn’t girls on the town… at least, we aren’t planning on that.) In talking over our trip, we realized that we have somehow managed, despite our years, to have never gone on vacation together before.

Believe it or not, this came as a surprise to us. We always spent our summers with our mutual grandparents in Newport, RI. We have shared memories of Grandpa’s vegetable garden, of Grandma’s raspberry bushes, of the Big Rock, of the corner candy store, of our cousins across the street, of our Aunt Annie’s terrible, horrible cooking. Except, we went in alternate months, because our parents couldn’t leave the store at the same time. Shared memories, yes, but not shared vacations.

So here we are, about to embark on a trip to, of all places, Disney World, and for Christmas week, of all times. Christmas IS a shared memory for us. Having sore feet and legs on Christmas Eve is something we know well, and so do not fear the Disney lines. We used to work the wrapping table at the store during the holidays. Between us, I think we got it down to less than thirty seconds a box and no more than three pieces of tape. EVER. More than three, and you faced the wrath of Max.

For the past month, I have been torturing her with pleas that we need to buy, and wear, matching Minnie Mouse Princess ears. Neither one of us is exactly sure how serious I am.

You’ve been warned. We’re off to see the Mouse. There may be ears involved. Pictures to follow.

Thirty years ago today, I was living in up-state New York, in Saugherties, and the then-significant other and I headed down to Kingston to get a hotel room, because the Dolphins were having a winning season, and the only way to catch the game was on cable. We didn’t have cable, hence the field trip.

I was sitting on the bed, watching a nail-biter of a game, when Howard Cosell came on and said that John Lennon had been shot. Then he came back on and said that John was dead. I grabbed the phone and called Jayne, The Coolest Person in the World, and we sobbed over the phone on each other for what seemed like hours.

It was unthinkable that John was shot. It is still incomprehensible.

I met Yoko Ono six years ago at a White Party event (where I was wearing a mermaid costume…one of my finer moments). I wanted to tell her how my heart ached for her, how I admired her grace and her strength and her passion in keeping their message of peace alive in this day and age. I think I managed to ask if her hat were Phillip Tracey. It wasn’t. But it could have been.

This may be apocryphal, but it is still my favorite John Lennon quote: “I would have been a fisherman if I could, but I can’t because I’m a fucking genius.”

He was, and will always be.

And with that winner, Project Runway has not only jumped the shark, they have kissed, petted and humped the shark. Wearable? Really, NinaGarcia, that was the best you could say about that sad, monkeyshit brown mess? I quit Tyra, and I can quit you, too.

When you, NinaGarcia, said that the object of this competition is to sell clothes, you gave it away. Project Runway has sold its soul to the devil of mediocrity and the free market proletariat. To make money for the masters and not excite the souls of the rarified aesthetes? After tossing around the word aesthetic all season like a ping pong ball at a tournament in China?

MKors, you are better than that. You cannot in this or any other world make me believe that you responded well to that shiny black leather coat worn open over the mildew-stained granny panties. Or the intentional hat-hair.

Who would have ever guessed that poor, tragically-styled Jessica Simpson would have been the voice of reason, sanity and fucking taste? Please read that sentence over again and recognize to what depths this show has sunk, dragging the loyal viewers along. But no more. MizShoes quits.