In Her Shoes

My mother left this world two years ago yesterday. Yesterday I wanted to write something, but didn’t know what to write, so I just worked on a short story wherein a woman’s 25-year-old daughter goes missing. In the story the mother puts on a pair of the daughter’s shoes and vows to wear them until her daughter returns.

This morning I realized that the slippers I brought with me to the Vermont Studio Center were my mom’s. I’ve been slipping into them everyday here after I leave my snow-caked boots in the front entryway.

A Question from the Beach Report

Why, oh, why is there only ever one lost shoe?
And for or other important questions, read THIS.

Dream of the Black Suede Shoes

C'est moi in a 1975-ish production of the "Madwoman of Chaillot" wearing the real-life black suede shoes.

Dream:

I was in a car accident in a strange city. I saw it coming but couldn't avoid it. In the far left lane on a one-way street, I was slowing as I approached an intersection. In my rearview mirror I could see the bright red paramedic vehicle bearing down on me. No sirens or lights, just the faces of the paramedics talking and laughing--then crash. They took out a parked car and sideswiped a car in the next lane in addition to rear-ending my Prius. There was chaos as we all got out of our cars in the quickly fading evening light. I didn't have my phone and went into the CVS to call someone to give me a ride. I was shaking and feeling stranger by the minute. When I came out, all of the damaged vehicles had been towed, and there were notices taped to the light poles with information as to where they had been taken. 

I could walk there, I thought, but the first street I had to cross was so wide, it was difficult to make it across. Finally on the other side, my legs could barely hold me up. There was a steep hill to walk down, and my ankle rolled out from under me and my shoe came off. In the dark, the shoe disappeared, and now I was walking with one shoe. The remaining shoe with its high wedge heal made my gait uneven--that and the panic I was beginning to feel made my body pitch and roll. The street signs had turned to gibberish and I was lost. The only consoling thought was that my car had been severly damaged by the paramedics, and probably they would have to buy me a new one. I liked the idea of a brand new car because my driver's side door already had a huge dent. So maybe the accident was a stroke of luck, I told myself. If they didn't have to replace my car and just repaired it, maybe the dent could be part of the repair. But first I had to find my car and go through all the bureaucratic channels, and how could I do that? I was falling apart, heart pounding, arms failing like they were coming unhinged, my crippled stagger nearly sending me to the pavement with each step. And then there he was. The Someone. Our eyes met and held. I nearly stumbled into his arms, but he backed away, a disgusted growl rising from his throat.


Somehow I made it to somewhere. I called my friend Julie and she gave me advice, and I slept in the apartment of one of her friends. The next day, I set off again to find my car, and as I crossed a busy street full of pedestrians there the Someone was again. He was wearing a beautiful cream-colored trench coat and I grabbed the front edge of it. "Why didn't you help me?" I asked, pulling the coat, pulling him near me, pulling his face closer to mine. "Why didn't you help me? I was in an accident." He shook his head. "I should put you out of your misery right here," I said to him as traffic swerved around us. The light had changed and we were in the middle of the intersection. I was still clutching his coat, but I wasn't afraid. "Would you like me to do that?" I asked. I saw all the agony in his face then--his eyes swimming in pools of pain, his mouth twisting. His body relaxed into mine. Was he nodding? The muscles in my arms were infused with super human strength, but before I could push him into the path of a car, I woke up.

The odd part of this dream, I suppose, is not that I dreamed of  murdering the Someone. Stories like that are in the newspaper every day. To me, the remarkable part is the shoes. The shoes in the dream were involved in a real-life drama decades ago.

I was performing in a production of "The Madwoman of Chaillot," and at a cast party, I drank too much brandy. Luckily, I had carpooled to the theatre with a fellow cast member. The drive back to my apartment was torture. In the backseat with a pounding head and roiling stomach, I knew I was going to be sick. How embarassing to ask my friend to stop the car; how awful to perhaps have to vomit out the window. Barely holding on, it was a relief when my friend pulled into the apartment building driveway. I flung open the car door and threw up into the 
street. I believe my friend had to carry me to the door.

The next morning, one of my beloved black suede shoes was missing. The Someone went into the street to look for it and came back with it dangling from his hand. "Did you lose this in the gutter?" he asked. I had a terrible headache, but the deadpan delivery of his question made me laugh really hard. 

It was the same shoe that I lost in the dream.

Dreams reveal all kinds of things, I suppose. Like which pair of shoes is your favorite.

Eight Prius loads of stuff, and there's still more...

While it's true that I have moved several boxes of stuff for my daughters, and the largest roller bag in the world and a couple more boxes for my mom, I would have thought that eight carloads might have done it. I'm predicting that unless I really give away most of what's in my garage, there are a half dozen more trips I must make if I truly want to leave only the furniture for the movers.

On a more positive note, I'm feeling rather comfortable in my new place.

Quite like a queen despite the paired down shoe collection. With such a nice closet, who needs shoes? Though as you can see, I still have quite a few pairs.

The rest of the place will no doubt be cozier once it's fully furnished......

And I'm not rattling around there all by myself.

I'm not exactly sure what the prince and princess are up to in this picture. My grandchildren set up these little scenes when they were visiting. It might be that the princess is throwing the prince from the parapet. Or maybe they're dancing in the moonlight. I hope to be dancing at my new place with the moon reflecting off the water later this summer.

A Brief History of the Later Years of My Marriage through Shoes.

Good-bye velvety black shoes with the fetching bows--you were pretty enough for theatre going, yet comfortable enough to hike blocks through mid-town Manhattan. Good riddance white lacy shoes, remember that law firm party and a not-very-flattering vintage dress? When's the baby due? a partner's wife asked. I had a miscarriage two weeks ago, I replied. See ya, high heeled brown sandals. On that trip to Belize, dressing up for dinner after those sweat-drenched hikes felt extra glamorous. Good-bye satiny grey evening shoes, you were meant for dancing. Little green princess heels, I'll miss you way more than I miss him. Get out of here, green suede mules and black clogs--I met you on the rebound. And as for you, brown shoes, did we ever really know each other?

Christian Louboutin Explains It All

I've been getting caught up on my New Yorkers. Here are some of my favorite snippets from a piece called, "Sole Mate" by Lauren Collins that appeared in the March 28th issue.

"I hate the whole concept of the clog!" Louboutin said. "It's fake, it's ugly, and it's not even comfortable!" He continued, "And I hate the whole concept of  comfort! It's like when people say, 'Well, we're not really in love, but we're in a comfortable relationship.' You're abandoning a lot of ideas when you are too into comfort. 'Comfy'--that's one of the worst words!"


Louboutin knows a couple who met, and married, after the man approached the woman about her red soles. With their erotic connotations, Louboutin's shoes have served as props in many romances, not all of them innocent.


"Men are like bulls," Louboutin said. "They cannot resist the red sole."


So, yeah, I have 3 pairs of clogs. They're comfy. I like comfy. But I prefer to be barefoot if it's warm enough.

Here is my absolutely most favorite pair of shoes.

Not exactly man bait, I suppose. Deliciously comfy though.

How about you, would you rather be comfortable or uncomfortable?

Naked and Shoe-less

I am in my old house--the house where Mr. Ex and the Little Missus now live. I've come to get something, but I forget what. They're going on a trip, and I thought they would have left by now. But they're still here, flinging things into suitcases and shouting instructions to one another from room to room. "Raj, can you get the ice chest?" Mr. Ex calls to his brother-in-law. They're going on a car trip, I surmise as I dash around the corner just out of Mr. Ex's sightline. Now I'm crouching behind the couch. What have I done with my flip-flops? I have to get out of here. This place is a wreck, piles of clothes and junk everywhere. The blinds are drawn and it's hard to see what's what. Shoes. I see shoes. But not mine. Green brocade sling backs with kitten heels. I can't wear those. I root through the two-foot-high pile of sweatshirts behind the couch still looking for flip-flops--the bronze colored ones I really like. My daughter C. comes into the house from the back hallway. "Hey-hey," she calls. She's there to say good-bye to her little brother, but she practically steps on me on her way around the couch. "WTF???" she mouths when she sees me. I shrug. Now I've lost my clothes, too, and it's only because of the pile of sweatshirts that I'm not trapped on the family room floor stark naked. The coast is clear, and I dash for the coat closet by the garage door just as the Little Missus clip-clops down the  back stairs, cursing under her breath. Uh-oh. She bangs the closet door open, and there I am, panting behind the coats, my heart pounding so raucously it's a wonder she can't hear it. "God damn it," she says. She's looking for something too, I guess. She bangs the door shut and heads for the kitchen. Now's my chance. I slip into the garage and out the pedestrian door into the dog yard.
I'm wearing a stolen coat and it barely covers my ass.
My favorite flip-flops lost forever in the rubble.

When I wake I'm floating in a pool of sweat, my throat full of needles.

Shoes and Sex

I've been dreaming of footwear.
I don't usually dream. Or I don't remember my dreams.
I complained about my pitiful dream life to my brother's girlfriend last week. "I'll send you a dream," she said.  The next morning I awoke still feeling the soft brown suede of a pair of boots I'd worn in the dream. It was almost all I remembered. There had been a party. Supposedly with friends, but in real life, I didn't know these dream people. They vaporized when I opened my eyes. The boots though. Over -the-thigh supple tawny suede with variegated brown and white fur at the top. What my daughters and I might have once called "hooker boots."
This morning it was shoes. Black. Brown. Pumps. Sandals. Round-toed flats with ankle straps.  I'd gone to my new book club meeting with two bags of them. I was in a hurry and couldn't decide what to wear. Late--because I had my mother in tow. I abandoned her  unceremoniously at the door of the bathroom and went into an alcove where one of my fellow readers--a demure Asian woman--sat in a chair with a book. The room was nearly dark, and there was a bed jutting from one of the corners. After a brief hello from a tallish thin man who looked a bit like Errol Flynn, he and I began pulling off our clothes (was he wearing a cravat?) and dove under the covers. Enthusiastic sex ensued. Never mind my mother wandering alone somewhere in a house she was unfamiliar with. Never mind the reading woman in the chair. We could hear the hum of voices getting louder. Drinks being poured. "I thought I saw Denise come in," someone said from the next room.
When Mr. Flynn and I were finally sated, I was a bit embarrassed and began to throw on my clothes. The shoes--oh my god, the shoes. Which ones should I wear? Wait--there were no matched pairs.

I woke up feeling anxious and guilty. I'd just had sex with someone that wasn't The Man Who Loves Me. Wait! Hadn't he said he'd go to book club with me? Was he in the next room while....then I came to my senses. It was just a dream. And those shoes--I didn't own any of them in real life.  Which leads me to ponder shoes. The Little Missus is into shoes in a big way. A closet full of Christian Louboutins, I've been told.  Is that why I'm dreaming about shoes?

Shoes

Hey, did you know you could be buried with your shoes?
The Greeks did--or at least they had ceramic copies made to take them into their next life.

Channeling Imelda

What if I've wronged Mr. Ex? What if he  wasn't stalking my blog after all? Maybe the new wife was the blog stalker. What if she still has access through a friend who is a blogger? I should post something that interests her--hmmm. Home wrecking? Older men? Couture clothing? I know! Shoes.