Today, like many before it, I’m having a Shoegazm. I scored my magical little kitten-heels in the Village & my life’s never been the same. Historically anti-anything even close to flat, it took forever to find a pair for my pretty little feet. But these, these were meant to be mine o’ mine:
I paraded around in my anything but hushed puppies for months. So much so that the plastic heel wore away to metal. But last Thursday morning, at 7:15 a.m., I slipped across the cement in Penn Station. Nearly wiping out, I spied a shoe-shine shop, already bustling at the butt crack of business. I thought I’d just grab something to stick on there to get me to the office on time. But to my delight, I saw a certified cobbler & his cute little wife tucked deeply inside. Showing off my poor shoe, I explained my situation and lamented my lack of a spare pair. I needed new heels & soles & had meant to complete this errand for ages. “Just have a seat, honey, we’ll fix ‘em,” they said.
So there I sat, just long enough to conclude that shoe-shines are for men what pedicures are for women: People kneel at their feet, they come in pairs & everybody leaves with pep in their step.
And then what to my magical eyes did appear but my shoes, wearing completely new bottoms. & to top it all off, they were far superior to the original ones.
This evening, as I got the camera ready take their picture, I looked at my nearly-new-again shoes with love. As I did, I said to myself that they are my New York ruby slippers. At that very moment, a version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by Eva Cassidy came on the cd player. When times were tougher in Seattle, I held on to my faith in a new life by singing that song to my sad self. I knew I’d get here eventually. & get here I did.
On an over-packed A train at rush hour tonight, when most people were busy being sweaty cranky-pants, two women took the time to tell me just how much they dug my shoes. To which I say, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…”
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Boob subject matter is good, but when you have consecutive posts that focus on cute boys and then shoes, you run the risk of male visitors dropping.
man subject to follow:
(insert Tim Allen grunts here)
So my Jeep won’t start. It’s a 1979 Jeep Cherokee with a 4 inch body lift and 5 inch suspension lift. I run 33s on it for a little extra height. I’ve got a crate 360 I put in 10K miles ago. Good off-road truck with onboard air, 9000 lb warn winch, hi-lift, jerry cans on an overhead rack. I’ll stay out of the tranny details.
Anyway, it won’t start- like I said. It turns over, but doesn’t ignite. So that means it’s either not getting spark or fuel. To be completely accurate, it’s missing spark, air or fuel- or a combination of those factors. It’s hard to work on it by myself because I have to climb up under the hood to see if the carb is getting fuel in it- which you can see if you look down in it while the ignition is engaged. But if I’m under the hood, I can’t turn the key. Likewise, I can pull a plug and see if it’s getting spark, but I can’t be under the hood and in the cab at the same time. So it sits. And I drive the other car.
So my point is, the Cherokee sits because it’s easier to just not deal with it than actually ask for help.
I’m not trying to take over. Sorry if I’ve gone too far. I need a Jeep cobbler that makes house calls.
I hear you’ve got plenty of cars to keep you busy. I’ll send it good vibes & sorry for the shoe post today. I can only write from where I am you know!
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