Here’s my friend Kate, her boyfriend, and her amazing boots.
I have a room full of clothes, but I am missing some important items.
I have more than five vintage prom gowns. I have saddle shoes. I have two pairs of cowboy boots. I have two fur coats and three fur hats. I have a sequined tube top and a studded bra. I have two leather skirts. I have a girdle, and piles of seamed stockings to attach to it. I have bracelets from Kenya and t-shirts from Brazil and shoes from India and some pretty awesome legwarmers from Canada. I have two purses shaped like watering cans and two purses with working clocks on the front. I have a drawer full of vintage silk scarves, and another drawer overflowing with slips and aprons. I have three capes: one is attached to a minidress, one is attached to a Sherlock Holmes-worthy wool coat, and one is made of orange leather.
Here’s what I don’t have:
- Sandals. Tara asked to borrow some the other day, and I didn’t have any. I hate how most sandals look, and my feet hate how most sandals feel, and my wallet hates how much most sandals cost, and I can’t wear sandals to work, but my feet are really hot right now.
- A plain black t-shirt.
- A plain white t-shirt.
- A sundress. It’s so hot today on the third floor, but I know it’s even hotter outside, and I’ll have to put on clothes before I leave the house. If I had a sundress, I’d be all set. I have short dresses and light dresses and flowy dresses, but I don’t have anything that’s really a sundress. A perfect sundress should have little straps or no straps or a halter top, and be just tight/opaque enough at the top to let you go braless if you can, with a skirt that magically floats around your legs without touching you, but is long enough so you won’t flash anybody. Maybe my sundress standards are high, but it seems like every other girl in the world has a dress or seven like this.
- Pants that aren’t jeans. How did this even happen?
- A real swimsuit. I have one mustard yellow suit from the 1940s, which was kinda cool looking until I actually went swimming in it. As soon as that thing gets wet, it weighs about fifty pounds. I also have a string bikini that falls off if I try to swim. This was funny at first, but I don’t want to get arrested. Finally, I have a pair of gold striped swim bottoms that I pair with a black halter bra. This fits better than any real bikini top I have found. Pathetic.
- A thong. My new rule is that if you are worried about visible panty lines, your clothes do not fit you. Also, I hate being constantly aware of my ass crack.
- Sweatpants. Fuck em.
- A computer. I have a blog and no computer. I use my boyfriend’s computer to write about clothes while he uses my iPod to play Angry Birds.
I made this set on Polyvore with items that are fifty bucks or less. I’m thinking I might make this a regular feature, because even though fifty dollars is more than I usually spend on an article of clothing, some of the stores that are featured here have good sales, and I will use any excuse to make these silly collages.
I went to the doctor yesterday, and he pulled on my toe and told me my foot was still broken. I have to wear my Aircast for three more weeks. Gross. It’s super hot and I want to wear sandals. I don’t own any sandals, but if I didn’t have medical bills and a busted foot, I could probably go buy some sandals and wear BOTH OF THEM AT THE SAME TIME! I miss wearing matching shoes, although it was pretty great when one of my customers didn’t realize that my boot was a cast and thought I was wearing mismatched footwear as a fashion statement. “That is wild!” he said. I love that guy.
I also love my friends at CBD, who give me coffee and sometimes draw on my cup:
So, now I guess I’ll just have to hope my boot survives these next weeks. It’s looking pretty beat up. If I bought a pair of shoes and they fell apart this fast, I would return them. At least this thing is magically healing my footbones while making the rest of me lopsided and unfashionable.
I just wanted to note that vintage clothing store Find has a shiny new website. Find is one of my favorite local stores, and is located dangerously close to where I work. I’ve gotten some really cute stuff there, and sold some of my old cute stuff there as well.
For the past week, my right foot has been in pain. I’m not going to the doctor, though. It only hurts when I walk, and it hurts a little less when I wear heels. Yeah, I walk to work every day in flats. OK, my boss drove me home today.
I’m not going to the doctor, because I know she’ll tell me to wear sensible shoes.
I realize that this is ridiculous. Still, it isn’t the dumbest shoe-related thing I’ve done.
This is: When I was in college, my roommate Greta showed me that my ATM card was actually a newfangled thing called a debit card, and that it could be used to buy clothes over the internet. This discovery led to some serious financial and sartorial irresponsibility.
I bought these, from what I now realize is a website for strippers:
When they finally came in the mail, I needed to wear them immediately, even though the heel was way taller and thinner than it had looked in the picture on the website, even though it was snowing, even though I was going to math class. I put them on and they were perfect. I felt like a dominatrix from outer space, which was exactly how I wanted to look when I was 19. The heels were so high that my foot was perpendicular to the floor. I’m not a graceful person, but I’m not a practical one either, so I grabbed my books and headed to class in my gorgeous new shoes.
I swear it took me half an hour to get there, even though my class was in a building right down the street. I hobbled down three flights of stairs, gripping the banister as my knees buckled, and limped through the snow. I arrived to class very late, which meant that the other students got to watch me as I scuttled to my seat. My feet were on FIRE.
After class, I trudged through the snow in fishnet stockings, carrying my new shoes by their silver-studded, patent-leather straps. I never wore them again.
Clogs are back, and that is gross. I know that sounds judgmental, but look at this ankle-snapping bullshit:
I was okay with clogs until now. My mom has every style of Naots ever made, and they are so comfortable that she has been duct-taping her favorite pair back together for years. I have worn them when walking the family dog, and while they may not be something I want to rush out and buy, I understand the dressy-bedroom-slipper appeal.
However, even these sensible clogs have a dark side: My mother once chased an unruly student down the newly-waxed hallway of the elementary school where she works, only to have her favorite shoes betray her by sticking to the floor. Clogs have no back, so her foot slid right out and she slipped and slammed into a concrete wall (actually, typing this out, I’m realizing that maybe this isn’t a clog problem. The Sullivan women seem to fall down often).
For me, the only good thing about clogs is the whole bedroom-slipper-outside thing, so the addition of a heel is just wrong. How do you keep your feet in these? And why do they have fleece trim? It’s not like your feet are going to be warm with your heel hanging out all exposed to the elements. And what would you wear with these? Is there an outfit that cries out for high-heeled fleece-lined clogs? I guess these would be a nice touch for a Slutty St. Pauli Girl Halloween costume.
I’d rather clean a clogged sink than wear these clogs.
I would like to thank Seychelles for making extremely adorable shoes, and TJ Maxx for sometimes selling them for fifteen bucks or less. I have these supersoft gold oxfords that I wear to work most days. I should really get them resoled. They’ve got really smooth soles, and once I slipped and fell on my ass in the middle of Congress Street and almost died because of my gold shoes! Also, the clackity heel inspires old men who walk past me on my way to work to ask me to tap dance, but that doesn’t bother me.
The other Seychelles shoes I have are these adorable black heels:
They are a half size too small, but they were seven dollars, and I can just wear them when I go out and drink whiskey until my feet stop hurting. (Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this [you are], I want to make it clear that that was an exaggeration.)