My shoe, Your hand.

So about 7 months ago I got laid off. Which I guess I didn't even need to say since all 4 of my readers know this. But I'll continue you on as though there are a plethora of unidentified readers...strangers...people I've never met, but those that feel they know me and want to be my friend from reading my intimate rants.

Ok, so 7 months ago...laid off. The 4 most agonizing days of my life. Whoa is me, whoa is me. How would I ever support myself and my two small mouths to feed?

Luckily, I was called back 4 days (2 business days) later. When I came back, the office was rearranged a bit. And my desk moved, from a cubicle in the west wing, to a mobile station in the east wing. Fine by me, I was just happy to have a job.

So here I am...sitting in the middle of a rather main thoroughfare...with my legs propped up on a squishy cube beneath my mobile (please read that in a British accent 'Mo-Bile') station, slightly protruding into the walk way, but not really.

An odd and humorous reoccurring occurrence has begun to occur. I wear, what some would call, flashy sneakers. And I get it...they grabbed my attention...so I can see how they grab my coworkers attention. But it's puzzling and amusing to me that my coworkers feel the need to reach out their hand as the pass by my desk and grab my shoe, giving it a nice wiggle as if to say "Hey there Maris. I see you. I see your shoes. I like you. And your shoes."

The affection truly warms the cockles of my heart, it really does. But what in God's good name would possess someone to grab another person's shoe. and When I say grab...I mean grab - palm on top with fingers and thumb curling around to the underside (sole) of the sneaker. I know some of you are probably reading this and thinking "Geez, what's the big deal? They are just saying hi!"

Here's the big deal. I go to school at Community College of Philadelphia on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Both mornings I have class at Main Campus - 17th and Spring Garden. Most mornings if there is the perfect storm, and there usually is, of oversleeping, playtime with the kids, procrastination, wardrobe malfunctions, and an obscene shaving ritual...I leave the house at 8:10. Get to the general vicinity around 8:25and begin my search for parking. Somtimes having to take what I can get, even though it's a couple blocks away, and briskly walk to class. (Class is at 9:30, but Mommers always taught me that if you are on time, you're late) I'd say 99% of the time I end up on 19th and Wallace. Put the club on my car. Get out. Lock it 42 times, because every time I lock it I literally forget a millisecond later. Then I turn on my Ipod and begin my trek to 17th and Spring Garden. On this trek I get to play my favorite game "Dodge the poo".

I've often thought about bringing my camera to capture and then chronicle in a blog, solely dedicated to dog poo, the grotesque and utterly disrespectful amount of puppy feces that is left smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk on my zig zag route from 19th and Wallace to 17th and Spring Garden.

Why am I talking about this? Where'd the post go to? I'll connect the dots now. I consider myself an extraordinary athlete...but really its only me that considers that. And in reality I'm mediocre. Therefore, when I play the game "Dodge the poo" I am successful, most of the time.

So next time you reach out to grab a coworkers fancy sneakers and give them a wiggle in lieu of a hello...remember that not everyone is an Olympic athlete...and sometimes they might be privy to a biweekly journey through the streets of Philthydelphia, littered with canine land mines.

Hands to home! No need to reach out and touch someone...unless of course their feather boa and g-string are obscuring your view and you need to place a dollar 'up in that piece' to get them to go away.

xoxo