ATTACK OF THE KILLER SIDEWALKS (orig. published on myspace, April 6, 2006)
It's 11 am. Do you know where your hip professional shoes are?
Yesterday I noticed a coworker wearing some hiiiiigh platform gold sandals with a strap studded with rhinestones running down the middle of her foot. I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was having an 'Amelia Bedelia at the Office' moment; perhaps the first time she wore them, some construction worker yelled at her, "WORK IT, GIRL!" and she took his advice to mean, Oh, I should wear these to work... Anyway, I was staring at the shoes, so I obviously had to say something. I did the natural thing and made up some wild story about how I had a very similar pair of shoes in white, but I hadn't worn them yet because my feet would be killing me by the time I got to work. Suddenly, she comes alive. She leans her head in to me, squints one eye expressively, and with punctuated emphasis warns me that THIS CITY WILL KILL YOUR SHOES!!! Another coworker pipes up: "It's true! It just isn't safe to wear your shoes out on the sidewalks." They're both nodding ferociously, knowingly.
I admit to fabricating the possession of the white twins to my coworker's shoes, but I am serious about how serious these women were about the death of my shoes. We could easily have been talking about snipers, muggers, peeping toms, or rapists. I mean, whats more important in life? the integrity of your virtuous body or the safety of your wedges, peep-toes, and sling-backs? I think we all know the answer to that one. Bullet wounds heal, but when the wedge of your 9 West Mystic white sandal (no longer in production) splits, theres nothing for it. Its gone.
Well, I know that city streets are no place for young heels, thus, rather than navigating the grates on the way to the metro and back, I keep them tucked into my cushiony bag for safe travel and wear comfy flats to and from the office. Early in my DC career I read somewhere an off-hand comment about 'those tacky women who still wear sneakers on the metro when there are so many other fashionable options.' Ever since, I've felt self-conscious about donning my New Balances for the journey and have sought out the perfect cute, comfy flats. Last summer I accomplished this feat. They were Pink Studio Cuties that I bought at Berks in Rhode Island. (Thank you, LLM). They were yellow with little blue flowers and a yellow leather strap across the bridge. I wore the heck out of those shoes. I loved them to death. I loved them so much I revived them twice with the help of prayer and miniature airplane glue. I wore them months after they should have been thrown away. The base of the shoe was flapping open so much that my friend said to me, "Hev, your shoes are talking to me." I bet they were. I bet they were just sucking in their last breath and yelling out, "FREEEEEEEDOM!!!!!" a la William Wallace. And I did finally retire them, but they set a very high bar for future comfy flats. Tragically, PS stopped the cutie line and I couldnt replace them. Then, last week, I got a surprise package in the mail. My sister Sarah had found a pair of P.S. Cuties in pink in my size and had sent them to me. I have been happily sporting them to and from the metro all week. We're in love.
So today I took forever getting dressed because I am meeting Los's coworkers for the first time at a happy hour. It is very important that I look: (1) smart; (2) laid-back; and (3) beautiful. Soliciting Los's assistance was... well.... he tries. I just get a lot of dismissive "looks great!"s. Later we're walking to the metro and Los looks down and sees my PS Cuties and - I swear - gasps, horrified, "You decided to wear THOSE???"
Me: No, the other shoes are in my bag.
Him: (sigh of relief)
(But, um, wait a minute whats wrong with the new loves of my life?) He says, Oh, nothing, they're fine.
Me: (accusatorily) You hate them.
Him: (guilty look) I dont hate them, I just...
Me: You just dont like them.
Him: Ummmmm, no.
Me: WHY?!?!
Him: I dunno.
Me: Is it because theyre pink?
Him: Maybe.
Me: So did you like the yellow ones?
Him: ugh those shoes were so ratty. Please tell me you've thrown them away.
(And no, I will not tell him I've thrown them away because, in fact, their shoe corpses are still in my personal drawer at work).
Me: Next you're going to say you hate my green moccasins, too. (my faithful weekend companions)
Him: (guilty look) Yes.
To punish him for being honest, I spent the entire 10 minute walk to the metro listing every pair of shoes I own or have owned since I've been dating him and making him tell me whether he likes them or not.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Prittyprittyprittypritty peggy sue.... (orig. published on myspace, April 5, 2006)
Well, today I left work about 2 hours early to scoot (literally, one-tiny-shuffle-forward-at-a-time, in traffic for 30 minutes both ways) out to Annandale to meet my new "friend." I have volunteered to teach a brain injured woman how to ride horses. At first I thought this was going to be totally easy: show up at the stables, ride for free because I'm a volunteer, make small-talk with brain injured woman. Then it got more complicated. And more complicated. And more expensive. And then I managed to completely blank on my criminal history check meeting with the sponsoring organization - TWICE. The third time, I was 30 minutes late (shocker) and they nearly gave up on me. But not today! Today I was early. I've made up my mind I'm doing this: screw the traffic, the cost, the aggravating small print, the fact that the sponsoring organization thinks I'm a bad person, the fact that they can only meet with me during prime working hours so that I have to use up my annual leave for the meetings, the fact that my "friend" is older than my mom... screw it all. I like horses, I like volunteering, and if I had a major brain injury, I'd love it if some young'un with a car would take me out on a Saturday for a ride in the country. I'm doing my part!!
Turns out, she's adorable. I mean, she is SO cute. (I've got to come up with a new word. I can't keep saying "cute" all the time as if I have no other means of expressing my affection for something... like I have the vocabulary of a 13 year old valley girl). Her name is Peggy. She's in her mid-50's. She was all gussied up for the visit: matching silk capris and jacket, Hepburn-worthy scarf tied around her neck, hair rolled and bouncy curly. She had set out a spread for her guests: three bottles of pink lemonade, three miniature cans of ginger ale, three cups with ice, three coasters - all lined up perfectly like snack-time soldiers). Peggy used to sell computers, she tells me straightaway, while she's still shaking my hand. But then she got in a horrible accident at her sister's wedding in 1982, involving an assailant, a knife, and unforgiving oncoming traffic. Her family thought she'd die. "And I can prove it!" she says, eyes widening, as if I would think she was making that up. She let go of my hand and with both hands pulled her shirt out of her tidy blue silk capris and lifted it nearly over her head to reveal a long, deep, hideous scar that stretched the length of her torso. I knew the story already (I was prepped); the flashing was a bonus. The scar wasn't cute. Not.At.All. But I thought her need to take her shirt off in the first 3 minutes of our introduction kind of was. That she trusted me. That she wanted me to know her story.
Another thing about Peggy: she curses like a sailor. She has a sweet voice, she says one nice thing after another, gushing like a kid ("Oh, I LOVE horses! I'm SO excited! Thank you SO much!") and then the next minute she'll bring up some grievance she has with society and the curse words start flowing ("MetroAccess vans are s--t! What a piss-poor operation! They made me wait 45 minutes at CostCo when I had to pick up my medicines! They're a g-- d--- disaster!". Ha. Then she has all kinds of old lady things she says, like, "I don't like to do things early in the morning cuz it takes me a while to get my rear in gear!" Gotta love that. Peggy, it takes me a while to get my rear in gear, too. All day long, a perpetual effort to get my rear out of neutral.
We're going riding on April 29 in Rock Creek Park. Peggy has requested that she get a horse with a little "spunk" and "get up and go!"
Well, today I left work about 2 hours early to scoot (literally, one-tiny-shuffle-forward-at-a-time, in traffic for 30 minutes both ways) out to Annandale to meet my new "friend." I have volunteered to teach a brain injured woman how to ride horses. At first I thought this was going to be totally easy: show up at the stables, ride for free because I'm a volunteer, make small-talk with brain injured woman. Then it got more complicated. And more complicated. And more expensive. And then I managed to completely blank on my criminal history check meeting with the sponsoring organization - TWICE. The third time, I was 30 minutes late (shocker) and they nearly gave up on me. But not today! Today I was early. I've made up my mind I'm doing this: screw the traffic, the cost, the aggravating small print, the fact that the sponsoring organization thinks I'm a bad person, the fact that they can only meet with me during prime working hours so that I have to use up my annual leave for the meetings, the fact that my "friend" is older than my mom... screw it all. I like horses, I like volunteering, and if I had a major brain injury, I'd love it if some young'un with a car would take me out on a Saturday for a ride in the country. I'm doing my part!!
Turns out, she's adorable. I mean, she is SO cute. (I've got to come up with a new word. I can't keep saying "cute" all the time as if I have no other means of expressing my affection for something... like I have the vocabulary of a 13 year old valley girl). Her name is Peggy. She's in her mid-50's. She was all gussied up for the visit: matching silk capris and jacket, Hepburn-worthy scarf tied around her neck, hair rolled and bouncy curly. She had set out a spread for her guests: three bottles of pink lemonade, three miniature cans of ginger ale, three cups with ice, three coasters - all lined up perfectly like snack-time soldiers). Peggy used to sell computers, she tells me straightaway, while she's still shaking my hand. But then she got in a horrible accident at her sister's wedding in 1982, involving an assailant, a knife, and unforgiving oncoming traffic. Her family thought she'd die. "And I can prove it!" she says, eyes widening, as if I would think she was making that up. She let go of my hand and with both hands pulled her shirt out of her tidy blue silk capris and lifted it nearly over her head to reveal a long, deep, hideous scar that stretched the length of her torso. I knew the story already (I was prepped); the flashing was a bonus. The scar wasn't cute. Not.At.All. But I thought her need to take her shirt off in the first 3 minutes of our introduction kind of was. That she trusted me. That she wanted me to know her story.
Another thing about Peggy: she curses like a sailor. She has a sweet voice, she says one nice thing after another, gushing like a kid ("Oh, I LOVE horses! I'm SO excited! Thank you SO much!") and then the next minute she'll bring up some grievance she has with society and the curse words start flowing ("MetroAccess vans are s--t! What a piss-poor operation! They made me wait 45 minutes at CostCo when I had to pick up my medicines! They're a g-- d--- disaster!". Ha. Then she has all kinds of old lady things she says, like, "I don't like to do things early in the morning cuz it takes me a while to get my rear in gear!" Gotta love that. Peggy, it takes me a while to get my rear in gear, too. All day long, a perpetual effort to get my rear out of neutral.
We're going riding on April 29 in Rock Creek Park. Peggy has requested that she get a horse with a little "spunk" and "get up and go!"
FREE PEOPLE (orig. published on myspace, April 3, 2006).
I got my "Free People" catalog in the mail tonight. It was as apropos a catalog as I could have gotten. The women in each shot are standing alone in some artistic setting. Their faces are unexpressive in artistic ways. The message: these women are probably thinking something terribly interesting. How could they not? Dressed in their cruelty-free, victorian-era-floozy-rosy-cheeked-prarie-girl-inspired duds... These are the clothes, the settings, for interesting thoughts. I don't know what the message is suposed to be (other than buy, buy, buy), but the one that struck me was how comical it is that the women in the "Free People" catalog all look remarkably like inmates at the Andersonville Women's Penitentiary. Things have been rough on the prarie this year; the rosy-cheeked maidens have gone without milk, bread, and meat for months...
Anyway, minus the super-skinny and trendy clothes part, I, too, am sitting by myself in a completely artistic setting tonight. It's a Monday (that's a day with a mood and a feeling; tuesday and wednesday aren't nearly as evocative). There's a tornado threat sweeping through and it's pouring rain, lightening, thundering (interesting weather). My roommate moved out this morning and the apartment is so empty it echoes. Because there aren't overhead lights in some of the rooms, you can see the shine of the wooden floor and the dustballs illuminated whenever the lightening strikes. The kitchen light conveniently burned out as soon as I walked in the door. My cat keeps trying to eat from my bowl of honey nut cheerios (the only meal I can cook from the light of the refridgerator) and every time I push her away you can hear her meow of protest three floors down, reverberating off the front door. This place is EMPTY, and in so being, is completely ripe with artistry. But I've got nothing. All I can do tonight is look, flip pages, acknowledge the pathetic fallacy, turn on "Nanny 911," weakly permit the night's narrative to come from prime time TV instead...
I got my "Free People" catalog in the mail tonight. It was as apropos a catalog as I could have gotten. The women in each shot are standing alone in some artistic setting. Their faces are unexpressive in artistic ways. The message: these women are probably thinking something terribly interesting. How could they not? Dressed in their cruelty-free, victorian-era-floozy-rosy-cheeked-prarie-girl-inspired duds... These are the clothes, the settings, for interesting thoughts. I don't know what the message is suposed to be (other than buy, buy, buy), but the one that struck me was how comical it is that the women in the "Free People" catalog all look remarkably like inmates at the Andersonville Women's Penitentiary. Things have been rough on the prarie this year; the rosy-cheeked maidens have gone without milk, bread, and meat for months...
Anyway, minus the super-skinny and trendy clothes part, I, too, am sitting by myself in a completely artistic setting tonight. It's a Monday (that's a day with a mood and a feeling; tuesday and wednesday aren't nearly as evocative). There's a tornado threat sweeping through and it's pouring rain, lightening, thundering (interesting weather). My roommate moved out this morning and the apartment is so empty it echoes. Because there aren't overhead lights in some of the rooms, you can see the shine of the wooden floor and the dustballs illuminated whenever the lightening strikes. The kitchen light conveniently burned out as soon as I walked in the door. My cat keeps trying to eat from my bowl of honey nut cheerios (the only meal I can cook from the light of the refridgerator) and every time I push her away you can hear her meow of protest three floors down, reverberating off the front door. This place is EMPTY, and in so being, is completely ripe with artistry. But I've got nothing. All I can do tonight is look, flip pages, acknowledge the pathetic fallacy, turn on "Nanny 911," weakly permit the night's narrative to come from prime time TV instead...
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