June 2007 Archives

I was at Saks with my mom.

Earlier, We had gone to the Pierpont Morgan Library, our favorite, along with my friend, KT. With my mom, shopping works one of two ways; either we are focused, mind on the game, and we both score, and go home happy; or one of the other of us is distracted, not in the mood. On those days shopping is pointless game.

We had walked a lot, and all three of us were tired. We had ventured into Saks to see if we could find our inner shopping selves. The answer was no, until, of course, the shoe department. There, suddenly, my mom burst into a frenzy.

"I'll try these, oh! And these," She coo'd to the salesman. And these little Miu Miu flats stopped her dead for some reason. "And THOSE!" Hers eyes lit up. "Do you like them?" She asked, holding them.
"Yeah, those are super cute." I was being nice. I did like them, but I didn't LOVE them, like she did.

My mom has the tiniest feet, though. And when she tried them on, they fell right off again. She sighed, the way she always does when trying on shoes. She girds herself for disappointment.

"Oh well mom, nice try. They are cute." I said, slipping them on for fun. They fit. Their silly snub toes reminded me of elf shoes. The dark bow and laces, plus all that leather gave them a medieval air. I kind of liked them.

"They fit you! Do you want them?" My mom has a way of asking if you want something that dares you to say now. She kind of inflects her voice up at the end of the question, suggesting that she demands that you say yes.

"Um. Ok." So there they are.

I rarely think to give shoes as gifts. I guess it's because I never remember my friends shoe sizes, and taste-wise shoes are a kind of personal thing. And, like most intimate relationships, shoes even in the right size, don't always fit.

Yet for some reason people buy me shoes all the time. I have no problem with that at all. Perhaps it is because I have small feet, my friends see a pair of shoes they would like, on sale, and get them for me. Or perhaps it is just because they are generous people, as is my friend who bought me these.

Orange patent leather is not for everyone. But in a flat I think it works. The shape is classic enough that with the right pair of jeans, and a nice black sweater, they are the perfect colorful accent. Especially for that first cool day of fall. I love them when I am sick of my summer sandals, and the last pedicure of August is chipping away.

I made the mistake of wearing these home in a downpour once, and ever since then they have given me slight blisters. So now, I like them with a thin black sock. For some reason it makes them more slipper like, and the color combination is great for halloween. I know I wish I could wear that outfit right now, but it is dripping hot. They'll have to wait for fall.

One of the fun parts of this little project is finding shoes I have completely forgotten about.

I love these, and if they weren't half a size to big, I would wear them daily. They are vintage Nine West, and were a gift from a friend who is a stylist. My friend has one of the best eye's on the planet for vintage finds, and she brought these home for me from some road trip.

I remember being at her house the day she gave them to me. A girl she used to babysit for stopped by. The girl was now in high school, at a very fancy school, I think in the Pacific Palisades. Anyway, I was demonstrating that the shoes were too big, when she arrived. I could see from the glint in her eye that she wanted them.

The conversation, which started out friendly, turned tense, as the girl asked to "just try them on for a second. They are so cute!" I let her try them on. They were snug, but she wasn't walking out of them. But I wasn't giving up that easily. I knew, with some pads, and maybe tights, I could get these guys to fit. Once a pair of shoes is in my sweaty clutches, no one is getting them, without at least a sporting try from me. Hand outstretched, I took them back, and tucked them into my bag.

I wish I could give them to her now. I don't ever wear them, though I wish I could. But I do like owning them. They are a reminder of a good and generous friend, who knows a good pair when she sees them. Probably a lesson in there somewhere, about karma.

I just love the "bow" on these. So charmant. If these shoes were a person, they would be Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face. They would traipse all over town, full of earnest regard for empathicalism, and look cute despite themselves. Any shoes that subscribe to empathicalism must, of course, be not just adorable, but also comfortable. And having worn these uptown and down, I can attest they are.

The summer I bought them, I had a madness for riding my bike (mentioned in Pair #5 as well) as well as for wearing a small pleated St John's Knit skirt my mother bought me when I was 16, paired with a very pretty little striped red and white tube top, with ridiculous sheer purple wide straps, that sort of flopped on to my shoulder. These shoes rounded out the look perfectly, which in my head, was insouciant and French. And, at the time, high high heels were all the rage, and I felt rebellious in flats.

I'm not sure I pulled it off. But I definitely had fun, pedaling up to Pastis, and then over to Black and White, and then to wherever else the night took me. A party in NoLiTa, a bar in Chinatown. It was fun, and we all talked and smoked and drank a lot, and it was about being young, and out, and on the street in New York, at night.

One thing I can not pass up is the opportunity of a sale. Not the sale itself, mind you, but the chance that I might find some gem everyone else has missed. It is as alluring to me as a cool blue pool on a hot day.

It is this insatiable need to rummage and filter that has landed me with this pair of ugliness. I bought them two summers ago at a sample sale I waited in line to get into (!) The sale took place in a small crowded shop in Nolita, and I believe we each at thirty minutes to sift through the debris, try on, and buy. Shoes are usually easy for me- I have small feet and a good eye, or so I think. But in this case, the stress of a time limit, coupled with the disorganziation led to a (minor) fashion disaster.

One of my sample sale strategies is to narrow down a selection quickly. Upon entering a sale, once I figure out the organization (Size, shoe type, etc) I will visit each section quickly, and then focus my attention where ever I deem the best deals to be. But at this sale that was basically impossible, since there was no organization to speak of, shoes were scattered hither and thither, and the deals were ok, but almost not worth it. I think since I was being timed, I felt tested, and leaving empty handed would have earned me a failing grade.

There was a minor need involved in these. I had been wanting a simple, navy or white, pair of espadrilles for a long time.You know, the kind they wear for a day of boating in Nice. I guess I thought that these wedgies were close enough. I mean, they have white in them, as part of the green and white zebra print. Oh, and those green ribbons? they are supposed to wrap up around the leg, Roman sandal style. As if they don't have enough going on. Ugh. Ly.

I wore them once, briefly. On top of being ugly, they are uncomfortable. Now, they live in the shoe storage I have under my bed. I don't regret them, so much as wonder what the heck I was thinking. I turn down better deals on cuter shoes every day. Oh well. At least I had a partner in crime. My sister got the same ones in orange.

Oh the bliss of something new! I have barely worn these. Once, wait, twice. That is all.

It was certainly love at first sight. The shiny happy red patent leather, the soft renaissance gold of the lining, the tiny peep toe, combined with the practical flat heels was too much to resist. I can wear these all over town. In my mind I will be singing to myself about cute my feet look in these scrumptious shoes.

No one can hurt you when you are wearing shoes this cute. Nothing can get to you. The shoes reflect the joy of simply being out. There is you, the shoe, the street. It's so simple. It's joy.

This is probably the most exquisite pair of shoes I own, except for one. (Those I am saving for a very special occasion, because they are just too beautiful to look at on a daily basis.)

So why shoot these against the books like this?

Well, because these Manolo Blahnik pumps are the shoe version of a b-movie librarian- seemingly all business, until she takes her glasses off, and lets her hair down. Then she's nothing but trouble.

Sure, they wear that demure bow in front, in an attempt at decorum, but look closely, and you'll see it's shredded, punk rock style. The deep maroon is the rich color of dried blood, and the three inch heels are positively vampy.

I love these, and wear them at any opportunity. I once wore them to dinner in the middle of January. I last wore them two weeks ago, to my cousin Rosie's wedding. They danced until close to midnight; I had to drag them off the floor.

I love these shoes; they are interesting. Sculptural, comfortable and practical. In a word; Prada. But I don't wear them or love them as much as I should. Perhaps because they remind me of a very rough moment.

Last year I had what I thought would be my dream job. It wasn't. I won't get in to the details. It's not worth it, and I have made peace with the experience.

Once, on a particularly bad day, the kind where you shrink from the phone when it rings, and despair every time you open your email, I told myself, "enough." A few days earlier, I had gotten a card in the mail, a card I anxiously await: The Jeffery shoe sale had started.

Usually I worked until eight or so, but on this occasion, promptly at six, I stood up, turned off my computer and told my officemates "If anyone asks, I'm gone." There are certain jobs where it's not easy to leave for the day, the pressure to see and be seen is so great. This was that kind of place. I checked the hallways for my boss, and with a deep breath, got on the elevator and left the building.

In moments I was on fourteenth street, feeling free, and a little naughty, like a kid playing hooky. I got to Jeffrey just before it closed. I walked around, eager to try, buy, fall in love, fall in like, anything. As I ignored the impatient sales force, I meandered around touching these, looking at those. I spotted this pair, held them for a moment, put them down, picked them up. I didn't love them at first, but they came with the lovely sale sticker on the sole, and after some deliberation, I asked to try them on. I thought they were too cerebral on the shelf, but on my foot they were sexy, strong, and the bow made them a little bit girlish, in the right way. I gave the sales person my card, and we were off, home together, and sadly, back in the real world. But for those few moments, the worries of the day were gone.

Munoz Vrandecic. Say that ten times fast. According to some not entirely trustworthy web-tel, these are named after the husband and wife team who make them, by hand. He's a professor of Architecture, and she's an artist. Everything is all natural, handmade, etc. And they live in Spain. Don't you hope that's true as much as I do? It's a romantic story.

They probably should have ended up on Ebay. They are the meanest, sharpest shoes in my closet. That beautiful upper has no give, and the gorgeous straps and hardware bite my shins. I have worn them only once. On that occasion I recieved the worst blisters known to man. My feet were in tatters for days, and I was relegated to sock and sneakers in deepest darkest August.

Yet I keep them. Because these, to me, are more art then shoe. And besides the wonderful details, like the gold hardware and wooden heels, they also smell great. Piney, like a damp forest with a hint of leather. And I got them on sale. Of course.

So they sit in my closet, taking up space. But don't they look nice? I do dream about wearing them, and when I do, I am fierce. A predator in short shorts, and a sharp button down, clomping down the streets of Manhattan, in search of prey.

Shoes don't have to have high heels or say "Manolo" to make a girl feel good about herself.

Take these. I'm not much for working out. In fact there have been long stretches of time where the only sneakers I owned were slip-on Vans or Nike Dunks. Cute with jeans on a Sunday morning, but not practical for exercising.

I bought these running shoes about five years ago, in a fit of fitness-mania. A week after I bought them, the hysteria ended. And, for the next four years they sat in the closet, taken out only occasionally, during the brief moments of insanity when I joined a gym for a month or tried to jog. But about a year ago, perhaps a little less, that all changed.

It started with tennis. RC and I noticed that the courts down under the Williamsburg bridge were pretty nice, and empty on weekday mornings. I hadn't played in years, but then again, I must have some sort of muscle memory from sleepaway camp or something, because my strokes weren't so bad. In fact, I wasn't so bad, and it was really fun. The thing was, I had no stamina.

And then, something else. I am going to be really honest right now. My best friend got engaged last Labor Day. And a group of us went to try on bridesmaids dresses together. It was supposed to be fun, but it wasn't. I felt flabby. For the first time, I was shy about taking my clothes off in front of my friends. I didn't like that feeling at all. It's not that my friends were judging me; they are not those kind of girls. It's that I was judging myself. And though I really didn't want to face it, I knew there was only really one thing to do. Get a routine.

This led to elliptical workouts and track sojourns (turns out there's a nice one of those near our apartment too.) Now I am a full fledged excercise lover. Ok, liker. Ok, tolerator. These shoes took me from one activity to the next, with little complaint.

I don't think I've lost much weight, but I definitely feel better about my physical self. I'm leaner. And I have these shoes to thank. I've recently retired them, for a newer model, which is why they look so shocked to be outside. But they deserve their moment in the sun.

A few years ago I did something drastic, and went to graduate school. For a degree in business. Yes, dear reader, I am a Master of Business Administration. An MBA who blogs about her shoes. (I'd like to think there is only one of me, but I bet if I googled "MBA Shoe Blog" I would get a thousand hits.)

I bought these Louboutins at one of my biannual trips to the Jeffrey shoe sale, in the early winter of my first year. They are strong, comfortable, womanly, classic, and beautiful. Louboutin is just the perfect name for them, round and serious and bold. I bought them filled with hope that I would wear them to high pressure interviews for high profile jobs.

Life, being what it is, hasn't turned out that way. I would love to describe myself as being high profile. But I'm not, unless being high profile means "not getting out much." But I do love to wear these shoes. They make me feel like I could be high profile, someday.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being reliable. Nothing at all, especially when you are cute as these little guys.

They are woven leather cork wedgies, and on the sole there, you can see they say "Made in Brazil," which gives them a little tropical flavor. I got them at a vintage store, I can't remember which or when. What I do know is that they are always ready for a party, and they make a satisfying clack on the pavement.

Despite their bright plumage, they are versatile. If I am wearing a new dress, and nothing else seems to go, these inevitably will. (Even if they are not the most obvious choice.) They are the Paul O'Neill of shoes; always gonna hit it out of the park in a crunch. They are usually the last pair of shoes I reach for, after the ones I would like to wear in my dreams, and the other pair that are newer, and don't quite work. One memory of their usefullness stands out in particular.

It was midsummer, and oppresively hot. I had a birthday dinner early in the evening, and another party later on. I was wearing a swishy summer dress, these shoes, and going through a period of riding my bicycle everywhere. As the end of dinner approached, so did a thunderstorm. By the time the check was paid, the deluge was happening. Sheets of water poured down, illuminated by occasional flashes of hot lightening. Everyone was vainly tying to catch a cab. I didn't have far to go- just from the East Village to the Lower East Side. I took a deep breath, and ran to my bike.

Soon I was flying down Avenue B. "Don't get wet." A guy called out to me. I shouted back "It's too late!" And it was. I was drenched but it was also strangely liberating. And shoes stayed put. No sliding, or shrinking. I spent the rest of the night dancing.

Ok, I know the picture is silly. But so are the shoes. Very silly.

These are the kind of shoes that no one in their right mind would ever actually buy. One wonders what the designer who thought them up was thinking. I think it went something like this.

"Oh. Wow. Shit. I was wondering what was dragging on my car on the way to work today. Fuck. A piece of construction material. What should I do with it?"

And then, the eureka moment.

"I know! I'll throw it in these perfectly normal beige leather pumps! I'll just cut out some inserts, like this...oh my boss is gonna LOVE this. And it's such a popular shade of green! They are like hiking boots for a python! Sexxxy."

"You know what? Fuck it! FUCK IT! I am a genius! I am going to make the HEEL green too! Oh wow! These are going to be AMAZING. And so practical. Like for work and stuff, because of the beige."

This designer was, I am sure, promptly escorted from the building. But not before someone sent them to W magazine, which is how they came to be mine. They are very small, and no one could fit into them, so voila! My friend who worked there brought them home for me. And you know what? I wore them ALL the time for a while. That was in 2003 or so, and the green heels looked really cool peaking out from my long flared jeans. It just goes to show that sometimes crazy is just crazy. Like this blog.

Sigh. Swoon. Melt. Crush.

I fell hard for these Marc by Marc Jacobs pumps in 2002. They were just so perfect and cool. And like most crushes, this one was unrequited. I stalked them. Everyday, for a week, I would get off the subway a stop early, just to walk past the store. Palms against the glass pane, I would peer into the closed shop, praying, hoping, for a glimpse.

Finally I gathered up my courage. That day, the day I vowed they would be mine, I got dressed up, wore my best jeans. Like all crushes, this one made me into a fool. I tried them on. As I traipsed towards the mirror, I stepped out of them, tripping. The clerk looked at me, concerned. I took them home anyway, knowing they were not only way out of my budget, but way too big. A half size too big, to be precise.

Once they were in my sweaty hands, I tried everything to make the relationship work. Insoles and pads littered my floor. But you can't force something that isn't meant to be. The shoes weren't having it. Trying one last time to make it happen, to salvage us, I wore them out one spring night. No blisters, not even a red mark. They wouldn't bother with that. I fell, hard. (Or maybe I was pushed? I wouldn't put it past them.) I was left with a badly bruised knee, and a broken heart.

Now they sit, glowering at me from their cubby. These shoes don't play nice with others. They are untouchable. And unwearable. And I still harbor the hope that someday, we can make it work.