For the longest time, I’ve wanted to write about my $129 leather sandals.
Now that I’ve launched my image of chic chick who shimmies through Macy’s, picking up accessories with my recently French manicured, slim fingers and carelessly tossing the goods back to the servant following in my wake, perhaps I should mention that I bought the sandals on sale for $14.95 at Sierra Trading Post.
I might also add that Ruby the Repulsive Rat Dog exhibits a literal taste for expensive footwear as well, and thanks to her sharp teeth, has reduced my $14.95 find of the century to masticated pulp.
Honestly, considering that we live in the country and are surrounded by bovines, couldn’t she have chewed on leather before it was manufactured into an Italian masterpiece that actually fits comfortably on my flat, fat, unstructured Polish feet? Like I care about the neighbor’s cows?
I was dozing in the hammock, Ruby below me making those soft slurpy wet mouth noises associated with canines and 10-month old babies with colds when I thought,
“What is she doing?”
By that time it was more of an issue of what had she done, and my beloved leatherwear smiled, gap toothed, wanly while Ruby slunk away.
Duct tape won’t fix it; I asked the Norwegian Artist and he gave me one of those looks. You know, the Desi/Lucy ones.
So I’ve got this expensive chew toy that used to be the one and only fashionable pair of footwear in my closet and this totally unrepentant dog that doesn’t belong to me but to College Girl, who never lives anyplace that accepts pets.
The intriguing thing about the sandals is that they remind me of bikinis — just what is it about a minimalist quantity of material that justifies the price? Yeah, I know, my shoes are cute, they’re kicky (at least they were), and — unusually — they’re comfortable, but they have half the amount of leather on them as the Norwegian Artist’s wallet.
Living on acreage surrounded by animals and dusty wheat fields, I generally forgo expensive clothing purchases; working at home there’s no one to see the stiletto heels (which sink into chicken droppings, by the way), sassy skirts (not with my knees), or tailored jackets (do you know what happens to wool when you take a break from the keyboard to swish the toilet with bleach and the bleach splatters?).
So the sandals were an especially exciting accessory to my usual wardrobe of jeans and knit top, catapulting my image from 21st century June Cleaver to Paris Hilton, in her 40s, a few pounds heavier and on a budget. I felt blonde and daring and expensive.
Now I just feel irritated, bereft of the one item of luxuriant frippery I have ever owned, and stuck with the Ratdog, too many pairs of jeans, and a toilet with mineral stains.
Oh, but I’ve got these new sunglasses — prescription, because with my eyesight you don’t want me driving with a pair I pick up off the rack — that actually look like sunglasses you get off the rack.
They’re sassy, they’re flirty, they’re Brittany-Spears-in-20-Years (Paris Hilton didn’t fit the rhyme), and when they’re not on my face they’re securely nestled in a locking case so that you-know-what can’t pretend they’re whatever disgusting thing she was thinking she was slobbering on when she eviscerated my sandals.