No, I Understood You Just Fine

I worried about her, out painting in the cold like that. I'd hired her to paint the front door to match the neighbors' door which she'd painted last year. Pretty colors, too, just not ones I'd choose. But, I thought, the colors would be here after I'd moved away, so I decided the doors should match on this uptown double. Much more visually pleasing that way.

She arrived early in the morning and got to work, sanding first, then priming and sanding again. I ignored her but couldn't ignore my feelings of guilt about her in the cold hour after hour. Finally, I peeked out of the door and asked if she'd like some tea, some cocoa, something to warm her up. She thanked me and asked also if I had any tissues. The cold was making her nose run.

I brought a box of kleenex and a mug of hot cocoa with those too tiny to last marshmallows in it. I stood and talked politely with her for a few minutes and went back inside. When she'd finished one coat, she left it to dry overnight.

The next morning, I met her at the door again and talked longer this time. Always eager to treat a fellow human being like a human being whether they are providing a paid for service or not, I got to know her a little bit. I heard about her husband, her son in California, her cats.

She was the kind of woman I envy: suntanned, badly but comfortably dressed, wrinkled, messy and above all- at ease. I never give myself permission to look this way- to live this way. The life I am used to feels like a corset drawn too tight whenever I am around a woman who lives life this other, easy way.

She finished the door on the third day and invited me back to her house to see the antique interior colors she'd used in her own home (interiors were what she usually painted.) Right up the street was a home which, like many in this city, had a deceptively weathered exterior. Inside were three cats and beauty. The walls were a soft matte mustard/ old gold color. A picture frame in a grayed blue rested, perfectly at home against that color, at the base of the stairs.

After talking me through every room, every color, every cat (all of whom were perfectly content to welcome a stranger), we climbed her twisted stairs. The entire length of the second floor had been opened up into a master bedroom suite with sitting room and bathroom. One cat followed us in. She talked color and I looked out at the tiny balcony holding two defeated wicker armchairs covered in cushions which were not meant for rain or sun.

She sighed. I looked over at her. And eyes on my face, she sat on the bed and legs apart, leaned back onto her elbows. Still talking, still watching me, she leaned back all the way and raised her arms over her head. I talked back. And stayed where I was.

After a few minutes, she gave up and took me back downstairs.

Two days later I wrote her a thank you note for the work on the front door.

Gettin' Technical on a Tuesday (Stripper Shoes)

I have a few oceans which never fail to satisfy and fashion is one of them. Being truly, madly, deeply obsessed with fashion- its historical, psychological, commercial, technical and visual (among other sensual) aspects, I have to ask where "stripper shoes" (y'know those big ol' platform soled, 70's by way of 30's, dancer by way of pleaser shoes) came from, what they mean, and whether they would turn my 5' 11" self into a super hero of sorts. (No such thing as too tall, I sez. My inner drag queen looks stupid right now in her wig cap and full makeup, but she agrees wholeheartedly with me. She had on a very Hedwig blond flip thing a minute ago which was ridiculous. I'm making her change.)

Thinking of stripper shoes, my brain jumps to strip clubs, street corners, and Pamela Anderson. (Although I can also see her in Uggs taking her boys for a walk because as a dedicated Us Weekly reader, I know that although she's a star, she's just like us! Which is a huge relief to all of you, I'm sure.) My brain grabs KISS by their sequins and takes a close look at their platform boots because believeyoume, these boots have something to do with it. My brain takes a quick detour into how do those dancers not topple over on those stupid shoes? territory, jots a quick buy a pair and find out memo to me and gets back to work.

My brain remembers that high end designers send variations on this theme down the runways every now and again. A beautiful suede pair of mary janes with that recognizable "stripper shoe" sole and heel spring to mind. Miuccia Prada's fault, I think. Damn they were lovely, too. Jessica Simpson wore them like a fool when she had too much walking to do once in Atlantic City. Live and learn. The first one's free... or something like that.

John Galliano can be trusted never to stray too far from these shoes. In the last couple of seasons at Christian Dior, he's turned up versions in tortoiseshell, animal prints, metallics and killer brights. Going with his "more is more" philosophy, these have cutouts and straps and all kinds of things to keep it interesting. Gwen Steffani wore a pale aqua pair during her off-key AMA performance (the shoes are not to be blamed... I think.) I could have sworn they were Dior- or Westwood?- until I remembered a photo spread from my October Vogue Italia which shows what look to be the exact same pair by Natasha Marro at House of Harlot.

And House of Harlot is the real deal. Which brings me full circle to strip clubs and street corners. (Why deal with the designer middleman or in Vivienne Westwood's case, middlewoman?) This also brings me for that matter, to my very first fashion design professor who was I-kid-you-not from Transylvania and who dressed most exactly like a teenage goth queen, Lord love her. (She was in her late 40's, but live long and prosper, I sez, mixing things up royally.) But I am digressing again. (I do love to digress. Forgive us our digressions as we forgive those who digress against us. Amen. Now back to the shoes...)

Those gosh darn stripper shoes are from Venice by way of China (mebbe with a stop off in Greece). Back in the day (15th through 17th centuries) they were called chopines (also pattens) and were worn by wealthy Venetian women to avoid muddy streets and flaunt their social status and wealth. This was accomplished by literally towering over others (by up to 20 inches!) Also, the wobble chopines put into one's walk necessitated the assistance of a servant (one more way to show wealth) and absolutely branded the wearer a member of the leisure class (just the way long nails supposedly do or bound feet definitely did.)

They also, of course, had something to say about being financially looked after by one man, if not many. Because, of course, often enough chopines were worn by wealthy courtesans. Just to make it confusing, though, they were also worn by "respectable" women, too- wives and daughters, etc.

These days, if you want to get right down to it, they've probably been pushed into courtesan territory. When teenagers wear them, they're going for some "bad girl" mystique and are usually triumphant vinyl failures. When older girls/ women wear them-who do not use them as part of a professional uniform, as it were- they either look like tacky fools or they look pretty damn hot. (I've seen more examples of the former than I have of the latter. The latter gets done, though.) When working girls wear them, well, they own the "bad girl" market, so to speak, but mystique is rarely a part of it.

Fan dancing on the other hand... that has some mystique. And it probably requires a different pair of shoes. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to go. My inner drag queen is about to leave the house with frosted pink lipstick and a copper colored wig. I am not about to let this happen.

Again.

Molecule of the Month (Nov)

I don't know what it is and neither do you. Honestly, I'm not trying to be an ass about it, but I really well and truly do not know what the molecule of the month is. Nor could I describe it even if I did. Chemistry is the only subject I ever came anywhere close to flunking. My brain will jump all over universes, but tiny things in odd shapes, well... it refuses to pay attention. My horizons need to be broadened. I get by with a little help from my friends. At least I used to.

This is what happens when you lose your peeps to big apartments and non-existent phone/ internet bills. Time's up on this one. November is too dumb to live. Now I dream of December- dangerous and volupte.

Wearing a couple of staples and nothing else. Somebody 'splain it to me.

H+P Prezents Housewarming 2004

(Look Lively!)


Okay, I'm back and I'm causing trouble. I like my idea of sending housewarming gifts to people who have moved (or moved back) or who haven't moved at all. Lately. Because, sez I, you really can't have your house too warmed. No, you cannot. So, I suggest a giftages free for all in this here blog world of ours. Obviously, Nashville must top the list because those crazy potato eating cowboys are in dire need of something (and I'm not sure what.)

The rules of the game are as follows:

Items must be mailed through normal 3-D channels (i.e. no poems or songs or pictures or gift certificates sent over the net.) Everybody needs to receive stuff in the mail from time to time, I don't care who you are. Do NOT exchange addresses over the net (i.e. on this blog.) That gives yrs faithfully the creepin' willies. The creepin' willies are to be avoided at all costs. If you're missing anybody's addy or want to send in your own, contact me at howhighwerewe@hotmail.com. I will respond posthaste and forthwith because I like the sound of it.

There is no monetary value limit- hi or lo- on this thing. Fer instance, if somebody would like to buy me a $675 book on the life and designs of Madeleine Vionnet (by Betty Kirke), to help me resolve my deep, deep regret over not having bought the damn thing for $80 bucks or so when it first came out- well, that would be fine by me. Also, if someone were to send me a potato, I wouldn't mind that either. (Because I, unlike dem dere boys in Nashville, am not living through a mini potato famine. In fact, until Thanksgiving day, I can't even eat a potato, so as an object of lust, a potato will do nicely.)

All housewarming prezents must be announced by the prezent receiver on their own blog in a timely fashion. (What, I ask, is the fun in thinking up weird- or even nice- things to send to people if we all don't get to hear about it? Oh, dear me, I am distracted by the thought of baked goods- n'importe which kind. Thanksgiving day is going to be a food orgy, I can assure you. I had eggs and tomato for breakfast. A very good girl am I.)

Inventiveness as well as kindness are encouraged. So, if you feel someone's life will be improved by receiving a stick of Beech-Nut Chewing Gum, well, by golly, you send it. Or loose tea leaves (much more sophisticated than tea bags, for example), or fuzz from your favorite cashmere sweater, or 99 cents of iTunes shopping satisfaction (oh, wait- that might violate the "send it USPS or UPS or FedEx or DHL or something like that" rule.) You could send me home made chocolate chip cookies just to be cruel (oh, wait- that would violate the "kindness is encouraged" rule. Maybe that should be a guideline rather than a rule. I might really enjoy some cookie cruelty.) You get the idea.

Don't be disgusting. Need I say more?

This is NOT a competition ( I say slyly, knowing I am addressing a bunch of Competitive Bastards who will definitely turn it into one.) Sending the nicest or funniest or cutest or favoritist thing is NOT the object of the game. No, I say, the object of the game is to shower the people you love (or just like. As a friend. Or a brother. In the Lord.) with love. If I may be allowed to quote yet another sappy song here- nobody gets too much love anymore. We're going to do something about that.

And that thought makes me happy even though it isn't anything even remotely close to a baked good.