Minneapolis Pride was this weekend. It was surprisingly lovely - on Saturday I joined my father at Loring Park (he was manning the Multiple Sclerosis booth), and he and I walked all around, looking at the booths. He spotted and instantly feel into deep love of the Utilikilt, which I told him not to buy, "because Dad, you can't come to Pride with your gay daughter and go home with a skirt. You just can't. Mom'll kill me." However, I think he's slowly breaking my mother down into accepting the kilts someday presence in the family manor. Funny, considering this is a man who resolutely avoids pinks, salmons, purples, and anything vaguely "girly."
Sunday I volunteered for the Red Door Clinic and lured people in for the candy, and made them stay for the free HIV and syphilis testing. Really, really fun.
That said, aside from all of the fun and pride and condoms and whatnot, my feet declared war against me. ME, of all people. Don't I lovingly rub them nightly with that peppermint foot cream from Bath and Body Works? Don't I gently use my foot brush regularly to keep them clean and pretty? Don't I exclusively buy them Dansko and Born and other expensive shoes?
Yes, yes I do all that, but apparently it's not enough for the little fuckers. My sandals cut so deeply into my feet from walking around on Sunday, I have two angry gashes that require neosporin (or however that's spelled), bandaids, and flip flops (so nothing rubs against the gashes, neosporin, and the bandaids). Really, they look brutal and feel even worse.
I just don't know what to do with my feet anymore. They insist on cutting themselves like teenage girls and filling up their (expensive) shoes with blood. Maybe I should try counseling, or new peppermint lotion.