Oh, and just in case you were wondering why the hell I need new boots anyway, well… This was taken 8 years ago. At the time, I’d been wearing those boots for almost a decade. The marketing manager said he’d considered finding a way to comment on the shifter wear on the left boot, as it showed I actually ride. Or just that I ride too often in that particular pair of boots…They’re at a point where I need to avoid rain. and puddles. And my other sensible biker boots are either too butch, or falling apart before their time. ok, I need to quit obsessing over shoes and go to sleep now. This is what I get for finishing my HW in a timely manner. shoe fixation instead of studying for the finals.
I tell him: “I only came to NYC shop.” So he says: “you must like 8th st, all those shoe stores.” I reply, “there’s only one shoe store on 8th st, Petit Peton. But I can’t go there. They sell all the most fabulous stillettos, and the boys in my class can’t handle it.
“Handle what?” he asks? I reply, “A 6′ tall woman towering over them in 6″ heels. I’ve heard it’s intimidating or something…” He tells me we should hang out sometime, that I can’t possibly have heels high enough to intimidate him.
With that sort of motivation (not like it would have taken much to convince me to buy them), I picked these up the next day, at the only shoe store on 8th st: best of all, they were half price, after i’ve been drooling over them on the website for months!
These shoes are KILLING me. Every time I see them I know my life will not be complete without them. Even though I can’t actually ride in them (and I can ride in some serious heels, yo.) I know that I will be in Barney’s, trying them on for the first time and some NBA star will stop dead in his tracks, stunned by my splendorous height. He will realize that what he’s really always wanted in a woman is to be able to look up into her eyes, to feel puny and fragile in her presence like no other woman has ever made him feel. That is, until he saw me, a 6′ tall amazon in 8″ heels………..
Why is it I love high heels so much? I was born with it, that much I know. I don’t even care that I tower over everyone. I kinda dig it. Sure, it’s lonely at the top, when you want a man you can look up to, at least while barefoot. Some of my earliest memories include drooling over some of the parishoner’s shoes at church when I was just a wee girl. I asked one of the ladies if I could have her Cherokee wedgies when she grew out of them, not realizing that eventually people stop growing (thank god my feet stopped at a 10, or I’d really be screwed). The first time I wore heels out in public is forever etched in my mind, even more clearly (understandably, I suppose) than the first time I got wasted. My best friend Julie’s mom was a swingin’ divorcee in the disco era. She had 2 pairs of hot-shit gold stilletto sandal platforms and let us wear them to the movies (with her along to catch us if we fell) when we were in 5th or 6th grade. it was awesome.
Update, 24 hours later: Well……because everyone knows:
I simply had to swing by Barneys on the way to work from teaching in Van Nuys. It’s not exactly “on the way” but you know. I had to. So I tell the saleslady what I’m looking for, as it’s not on the floor. She brings out a black binder open to the picture of the Shoe. I say “Yes! That’s IT!” and she tells me she doesn’t have it in my size, but disappears for like half a second and comes back saying she can get it from the Dallas store and do I want it in black or brown? Well, being the sensible type I say I want it in any color as long as it’s on sale. (you don’t want to know the price, it’s embarrasing.) It was indeed on sale, 40% off. She brought out a pair in another size so I could at least see them in the flesh. And they were indeed gorgeous.
I almost thought she wasn’t going to sell them to me when I said “Hey! The platform’s not as thick as I thought, I will be able to ride in these after all!” With the tone of a mother protecting her baby, she said “You’re not going to ride in them, are you?!” I promised her I’d wear one of those shifter socks the hip-hop boyz back east always wore over their Tims. So I tell her I’ll call her tonight to pay with a different card, when really this is something I need to think about. I go upstairs and eat lunch at Barney Greengrass with all the fabulous people. And remember the words of Mary, the naughty girl at work who pointed out I’d save 10% by opening a Barney’s charge….And I conveniently forget the 21% APR that comes with a store card, even as it jumps out at me in bold 18pt. type on the application. Then I buy some Khiel’s goodies just to have something in hand (that I did actually need, though maybe not from Khiel’s) and head to work. The shoes arrive on Friday, but I don’t think I’ll take them with me to North Carolina. I prefer to keep a low profile when visiting a place I’ve never been before.
After work, it’s off to help Kellis celebrate his birthday at a Lakers game. Although I didn’t get to wear THOSE shoes, I did wear some kick-ass YSL 6″ heels. And it wasn’t an NBA star, but a fellow fan just as tall who smiled as we passed in the hall and said “Damnnn girl, you’re as tall as me!” “Taller.” I replied with a wink.
Just saw it. Walked out with the most overwhelmingly visceral reaction I’ve had to a film since I don’t know when. It was “What the FUCK are these SNEAKERS doing on my FEET and where are my STILLETOS?????? I couldn’t get home fast enough to be with my Shoes. hahahahaha. As much as I enjoy living in LA, I certainly do miss being able to DRESS UP for life. Worst thing about people in LA, other than their unbearable flakiness, is how they always think anything other than jeans is “dressed up.” As a Seventh Avenue escapee, I can attest to the veracity of that film. It is, after all, based on a book, which is a tell-all thinly veiled as fiction to protect the author.
While I was fortunate enough to not work directly with Ms. Wintour, the closest I ever got to her was sewing a button onto her coat, which had been sent down to the sample room without her in it, to be repaired. This was when I worked for Isaac Mizrahi, back in the mid 90’s, and his career was completely dependent upon her. Since he didn’t actually sell much clothing, he relied on good press for his sustenance, even though that doesn’t actually pay the bills. She’d come to the studio a week before the show, and the head patternmaker would go upstairs and take notes of all the changes she requested. We’d work even more overtime than usual to ensure that Anna’s visions were brought to life flawlessly. It always bugged me, since she wasn’t actually the designer. I couldn’t figure out why Isaac would give her so much power. But now I know, he would never have existed on the fashion map without her. Or even be selling us charming items at Target, for that matter.
Off to bed to fall asleep remembering all the most glamorous moments of the shows that made all that (unpaid, of course) overtime seem worthwhile. The shows and the after parties were always so much fun, even working backstage. Great food, all the free Evian you could drink, and plenty of booze for the drinkers. There’s something about having a camera crew film you hemming a pair of pants with a supermodel in them that makes any job seem fun and exciting. The much-needed and extremely sensuous backrub from some Rockerfeller (not Roc-A-Fella) guy, making eyes across the room with Lenny Kravitz’ cousin, sneaking into Paris shows and getting away with it. Except when I was kicked out of Christian Dior, for being too tall to blend in with the short (French) crowd. I’ll never forget the way he said “Christian Dior did NOT invite YOU!” as if I were just entirely too offensive to be there. In the same week, getting to crouch at the base of the Galliano runway in Paris and take some amazing shots as a “photo assistant” while a real photog threatened to call me out. My cheap camera was a dead giveaway, and space was tight. Moving to NYC and rushing to the Richard Tyler for Anne Klein show, so concerned with being late that the security guards didn’t even ask for my invitation. Which of course I didn’t have, leading me to suspect that all this time what really did the trick was an air of importance and a chic black outfit. Polly Mellen screaming out “I love the pants!!!” during a Mizrahi show, and beaming with pride. I was the pant specialist there. Betsey Johnson allowing me to take home one of the fake Rolexes used in the last show I did with her, right before I moved to LA. I told her I’d always think of it as my retirement watch. Here’s a shot from that show, of me with one of my creations. I didn’t just make the pattern, I also did a lot of the beading, as the sewers were too busy by that point and most patternwork was finished. That day at tavern on the Green was the end of innocence for a lot of us. The next day was 9/11/2001, which certainly ripped the blinders from my eyes.