2000-12-03
Dear Diary:

The pain has faded enough that now I can speak about my leather ordeal.

With some women the words "leather ordeal" would conjure up whips, strange piercings or perhaps the whiff of motorcycle exhaust ? with me we're talking about finding a sensible pair of winter boots.

Of course the year I NEED to buy winter boots is also the year that fashion decrees that winter boots will make no sense at all. One of you could have warned me, eh.

Over the two days it took to find boots, I glanced cursorily at the women's section of each shoe store, hoping against hope that one store would stock something for the woman with a wide foot.

Oh be quiet.

It could happen.

I was met with two schools of thought. One I considered "the duck school"--high, narrow, unlined boots which had the toe cut off square--think frigid narrow boxes for your feet. The other I considered "the suicidal hooker"--knee grazing, narrow, unlined leather boots in subtle animal prints such as zebra skin on clear lucite three inch platform bases and five inch heels. Think frigid narrow ankle breakers with the icy sidewalk gripping ability of teflon.

Sheesh.

We are talking Quebec here, where the thermometer can go down to -40 (which is the same in Celsius and Farenheit thank you very much). This is a place where getting over a foot of snow dumped on you at a shot is not unheard of. I was trying to imagine how women following either the duck or hooker school of boot thought dealt with these conditions. I drew a blank.

So after the dip into the babe portion of shoeland, I would turn my attention to the men's section because after all men are practical and what guy would buy silly boots?

It turns out that would be almost any tripod buying new boots this year. Over in testosterone world the winter boots are only ankle high, many of them partially made of a fabric that is described as "water repellant" and not waterproof. Many of these boots are uninsulated. I have three concepts for you--snow, slush and -40. I do not want to have frozen footcicles all winter, thank you very much.

Towards the end of the second day of shopping, my daughter was quietly perusing the legal ramifications of matricide and I was looking into seppuku to see if there were any ritualized forms of suicide involving boot purchasing. We had both just about given up when we hit a chain of Quebec designed boots.

My new boots are so soft and fluffy inside I want to pet them.  No, I am not a troubled boot fetishist.  Or maybe I am.  Oh dear ... *Insert Ricardo Montalban voice here*. Leather. Lined with sheepskin. Wide enough for my feet. Extremely skid resistant soles.

Okay, you can stop with the Spanish accent now.

Look, I'll admit it, these boots are not as high as I would have liked, but they're veritable skyscrapers compared to most of what was on the market this year. And they are sooooo cosy. I am a happy camper.

For a brief moment I thought I might have actually bought something um, you know, kind of groovy.

Oh be quiet.

It could happen.

THAT outrageous fashion notion was quickly dispelled by Jess' roomie, Marc, who delicately said, when he saw my latest footwear foray, "Oh, and you're satisfied with those?"

Sadly, I am.

Maybe there's a twelve step program for dorkiness, maybe one day I can overcome this.

Oh be quiet.

It could happen.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.