Picky

During singlehood, one of the first questions I'd ask a new roommate was "So what kind of music do you like?" to which I almost always received the reply, "Oh, I like everything." Which was usually true, and that's fine, and the mark of a open mind, but little did they know about the picky bi#ch they'd just moved in with. I'm so picky I don't even prescribe to a specific genre of music, but rather ten or so artists who I listen to all the time. Actually, not "ten or so," but specifically The Ten. Because, you know, the picky pound-sign-female-dog thing. And on that rare occasion when I find a new artist, The Ten does not become The Eleven. The new artist replaces an old one and I don't even bother to sugarcoat the blow as I remove them from my rotation.

It's not that I only allow ten artists to exist in my life, it's just that old tastes naturally fall away as I get older and wiser and realize the Smashing Pumpkins were only great when I was in high school. I look back on them fondly and might play a tune here or there the same way I'll glance at the photo of an ex-boyfriend. But just as with an old flame, I'm not about to call them up again and rekindle the relationship.

I'm not going to list The Ten, but rather inform you that a ten-or-less mindset dominates all my tastes. Fashion, film, literature, etc. This particular post will center on footwear, which I can never get my pickiness to raise any higher than The Six. So, meet pair #6, the beauties that managed to snag my interest, penetrate my pocketbook, and, of course, replace a previous contender this week. So long, black wedges! Hello, navy & white striped espadrilles!

And Happy Friday the 13th! Let's watch The Shining and play some Smashing Pumpkins.