Confessions of a Shoe-aholic

Question: How many pairs of shoes does an American girl have to own before she can be justly accused of channeling the spirit of Imelda Marcos?

I found myself asking that question this week after donning a new pair of lilac-lace tennis shoes (which perfectly match a lilac tee I adore!) and realizing it was just one of -- Oh my word! -- four pairs I'd picked up over the weekend. Somehow, a pair of deep red, patent pleather dress flats, along with some white-lace, cross-band Skechers and pastel green dress sandals also made it home with me. It would have been just three, honestly, but for $4.99, I'm not passing up sandals that will match my pastel green, beaded-neckline top. I'm sorry, did I say match? I meant perfectly match. (Yes, life in the ReD Zone is all about color coordination, as this photo of my signature red shoes should prove.)

Now, the white ones were for working all those Sonnenberg weddings: dressy enough to pair with a skirt, hardy enough to preserve my ankles on the uneven terrain. And they were on sale. So rationalizing the purchase was easy, and I had similar rationales for the other pairs I bought that have now joined those already in my closet. However, when it comes to cute shoes, I almost have no recourse but to plead momentary insanity. I love the expression a friend's mom uses for this female shopping malaise, which, in her case, struck with a vengeance at the Carter's Baby Store in the Outlet Mall: "I blacked out, and when I came to in the checkout line, there were six outfits in the shopping cart!" Exactly. How else did I end up with butterfly-bejeweled flip flops in three different colors? Well, the rationale on that purchase also included the fact that women's footwear in size 5 is hard to come by just to start with, so when I find a particular style that comfortable, adorable AND affordable, not to mention VARIETY within that style, history has taught me that I best snap it up or risk never finding something so cute again.

And while we're on the subject of cute, my pearl-encrusted Steve Madden espadrilles with the sheer sandstone heel ribbons did garner compliments from the folks behind me in line at the Riverdance show at the Auditorium Theatre last year!

But somewhere between the four pairs from this weekend, and the 18 pairs -- whoops, make that 22, counting the flip flops -- hanging on the back of my closet door, it hit me. There's a strong possibility I may have a thing for cute shoes. That's not to say I'm ripe for an intervention or anything, just that reality really started sinking in when I stumbled across another six pairs scattered in various corners of the living or dining room where I kicked them off when I came home from work.

I was about to brush it off as a perfectly normal, rational set of shoes for your average American girl. I even started counting them all to prove it. But then I realized I'd forgotten about the upper shelf inside the closet, behind the door where my shoe rack hangs, which is another, what -- eight or nine pairs? And that's not including the fuzzy pajama slippers, either. Or the ballet slippers. Or winter boots.

Confession: I'm a little scared to finish counting. I think that's because acknowledging the actual number on this blog might REALLY start y'all thinking "Imelda Marcos." Were a judge to inquire about evidence of a possible addiction, my response would be: Your honor, I respectfully decline to answer that question or provide a number on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

But I take it I should consider it a definitive sign that I am the girl my newsroom colleagues said goodbye to with a gift certificate to a trendy little shoe store downtown. And I did redeem said certificate promptly, with a pair of silvery, embellished "slippers" that caught my eye, plus a pair of denim-patch kitten heels perfect for pairing with jeans. Oh, and did I mention the goodbye gift included a T-shirt screened with a glass slipper and this quote? "One good shoe can change your life." ~ Cinderella (Love it! Love it!)

Um, what's the "first step" here? Oh yeah, introduction and acknowledgement.

"My name is Rachel D. and I'm a shoe-aholic."

Steamed Up

Whilst the out-of-doors is presently far beyond "balmy" --"suffocating" instead, anyone?-- I thought I'd dedicate a posting to the proverbial summer heat wave, the one that leaves us listless, draped over a chair somewhere in a near-puddle of sweat, swearing we are baking, broiling and longing for the inside of an igloo.

Naturally, we can't have igloos in upstate New York, so we digress to Eskimo Pies or Custard & Candy cones or blessedly cool air-conditioned movie theaters, or malls, or -- in a pinch, the ole stick-your-head-in-the-freezer-for-five-minutes trick. (Drat those electric bills!)

While the thermostat rises, so does the blood in the youth and/or the young-at-heart who start dropping like flies, victims of what some affectionately refer to as "The Love Bug" (not to be confused with the first of the Disney movies featuring the world's most popular VW, Herbie.) Naturally, when your daily work includes wedding coordination, you see the symptoms up-close-and-personal. (In the past six or so weeks, for example, I've attended three weddings as a guest and supervised hosting of some aspect -- ceremony, reception, photo shoot -- of nearly 15 others.) And this year, whilst we are in a drought, there seems to be no shortage of starry gazes, giggles, secret smiles and dispositions sunnier than the weather. It's enough to put the lyrics to "Summer Nights" on permanent replay inside your head.

But they say tempers can rise with the heat too. I don't doubt it, because I get pretty cranky myself in this kind of weather without an ice cream fix to tide me over. (And yes, in this heat, I will occasionally "cheat" on my beloved Shark's Custard & Candy with soft-serve, or gelato, or cold stone confections.)

This summer, I also have a bone to pick with the powers that be, who irrationally planned an entire Independence Day party near the City Pier, then postponed the fireworks --central to the festivities -- all the way out to Labor Day weekend after we got our first (much-needed) rain storm that day. In years past, rain has only delayed the fireworks for a day or so, and I cannot fathom why the powers that be have chosen to wait sooooo long to bring them back. Frankly, the Fourth hardly felt like a "real, live" Fourth of July without fireworks.
What on earth were they thinking?

I'd really like to get into this debate and take them to task for denying us all a "proper" holiday. Unfortunately, right now, I can't seem to muster up the energy to really rail into anybody. The heat has sapped it right out of me. I can hardly bring myself to move. (Sigh.)

Oooo, wait a minute. I think I left some ice cream in the freezer ....

The Right Recipe for Summer

What ingredients make for a perfect summer night?

Start with a Friday night late in June. Add spacious city sidewalks and a well-designed performance "park" (Downtown Canandaigua Commons) where a mid-size brick soundstage beckons.

Sprinkle said park with several wrought-iron tables and chairs. Pepper profusely with fold-out lawn chairs, occupied by many a grandparent or young parent. Mix in handfuls of small children dancing about in sandals, swinging stuffed animals or sippy cups, distracted by the occasional puppy held in close control on a leash by a friendly face. Place a few youthful couples here and there, perched on low, stone walls framed by green shrubbery.

Add a big band, spreading 20 or so musicians across the stage, and serve up generous portions of instrumental jazz, swing, and "golden" oldies the likes of Duke Ellington and Count Basie. Slice into that song sheet with occasional movie themes like "Shaft" or "Happy Feet." Start tapping your toes, or the arm of your chair. Watch others do the same. Stir in the rare child spinning in circles and jump-dancing to the music, just below center stage, holding the hand of her mother who is swaying her hips and swinging her daughter's arms as mothers do when they delight their children and ignore all thoughts of what the nebulous public might think of their little family moment.

Infuse the warm air with the smells of hot food cooking in nearby restaurants. Sip a swig of bottled water or soda. Let a lemon drop -- yes, the old-fashioned kind! -- melt in your mouth.

Bake under soft summer sun, at a comfortable 78 degrees, for almost two hours.

Serve, shared among community, all in the space of one city block, as slow-moving traffic rolling along the street slows even more to catch the sound of a few notes through open car windows already rolled down to catch the mild breeze.

Ah yes, a perfect summer night in your own hometown.

Enjoy.

God Bless "Shrek"

Back at Christmas when I was making my mad dash through O'Hare, hoping and praying to catch the flight home, the adults in my family were hoping and praying for something else: for my 3-year-old niece to discover the motivation to pursue potty-training with a passion.

I had hoped a cheerfully wrapped watercolor paint book (with brush!) might do the trick. Before I left for Colorado, I explained in great detail to my niece just what exciting things were waiting underneath the Strawberry Shortcake wrapping paper for little girls who worked hard at becoming big girls while Aunt Rachel was away. Sometime during the trip, I tried to follow-up with a phone call. But alas, when home again, Rudolph, Santa and the elves were still neatly tucked away, and the little girl who never met wrapping paper she didn't instantly want to tear off -- no matter whether the present was hers or not -- seemed to care less that a Christmas gift remained unopened. I think it was late January or early February before I finally got a call from my niece babbling that she'd made enough progress to open it.

So, my sister and brother-in-law took it to the next level. If Strawberry Shortcake wrapping paper wasn't going to do the trick, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake herself would. This time, the present was unwrapped, and dolly was left behind her plastic-window prison, sitting pretty. Well, let's just say the you-can't-play-with-her-until... experiment didn't play so well. (Sigh.) This from a girl who LOVES Strawberry Shortcake and is getting rather adept at following up every "Why?" question with a "But why can't I?" protest at the explanation. Dolly was still in the box until previews for "Shrek the Third" started appearing on television screens near my niece. Don't ask me how, but apparently her deep-seated adoration of Nemo has transferred to cinema's favorite ogre-with-a-brogue. This, after the "Finding Nemo" DVD played so many times on the portable player strapped inside the minivan, it put the machine permanently out of commission.

Apparently, the great big green ogre was able to motivate her to boldly go where she had not gone before -- I mean, well, you get the idea -- because all my sister and her husband had to do was calmly explain that while they would like to take her, and realized she probably really wanted to see the movie, only big girls and boys get to go to the movie theater with their parents. Well, faster than Puss-in-Boots can morph from sword-flashing master to wide-eyed purr-meister, she was on board with that plan. I am told she who formerly could care less was nearly inconsolable on Day 3 or 4 when she tried to get to the bathroom in time but had an accident. Apparently, too many days without "Shrek" had already gone by. As such, within one week, she was good to go -- to the movies, that is. And Strawberry Shortcake came out of her box as an added bonus.

The more I think about the whole thing, the more amused I am that the key to potty-training, at least for her, was all about the movies. Now there's a girl after my own heart! So God bless Shrek and the Saturday afternoon special. It's nice to know that movies can still have the meaning to change somebody's life.

Not exactly "Spellbound"

Ah me, spelling bees.

Tonight was the live-on-TV championship round of the Scripps - (Why is Howard missing?) National Spelling Bee, won by homeschooled Californian, 13-year-old Evan O'Dorney. Apparently, a love of restaraunt menus contributed to young Evan's win as he sailed through a couple of the early words (one a pasta, another a Japanese seafood soup) and on to glory, over the shoulders of a first-time Canadian competitor, Nate Gartke, also 13.

Personally, I was rooting for the newbie, in part because I tire of the "repeats," the kids who train for these things like Olympic marathons, or high school summer travel teams, where you are so completely immersed in a particular endeavor that all the fun is sucked right out of it. You know the type, where the competition ceases to be a "love of the game" kind of thing and becomes joyless, rote monotony, especially if an overly eager parent with an oddly possessive fixation on scholarships is hovering nearby.

As if to prove my point, rather than being "spellbound," as I'm sure the national advertisers footing the bill for this no-longer-relegated-to-ESPN 2 extravaganza hoped, our young winner was rather -- what's the word? -- nonplussed. Sure, it was the "final year" in which he could compete, and he'd already finished top 20 in earlier years, so a 2007 win would fall in the "only makes sense" category. But if you'll pardon me, the kid just didn't look like he was having fun. His mother appeared to be blown away by the whole thing-- maybe she was having the fun on his behalf?

Asked by a talking head whether he had changed his mind from earlier statements that he wasn't all that wild about words, he again explained why he loved math and music more: he found both fascinating and creative. Not so, spelling. That was "just a bunch of memorization," he said, memorization which he apparently had had more than enough of in his young life. But like it or not, he let the Scripps-no-longer-Howard rep help him hoist that trophy high. Please people, tell me: what is wrong with this picture?

Forgive me, but I'd prefer a winner who, like the Canadian competitor, can laugh in the middle of a pronounciation. I'd prefer to see a winner who is totally enraptured with spelling, one who watched "Wheel of Fortune" nearly from the womb, or just likes the sound of letters-- any letter-- rolling off the tongue. I prefer a kid who has not forgotten how to be a kid amidst all that dictionary study. Frankly, I prefer a kid whose parents set limits on the amount of time he was allowed to rehearse/study his vocab words, and kicked him outside, into the fresh air, when time was up. I'd prefer someone for whom spelling and wordsmithing is a passion, not a mission.

I do know a little bit of whence I speak. At the ripe old age of I'm-not-telling-what, I competed this past February in my first spelling bee since Mrs. Schenk's fourth-grade class. Granted, the bee was comprised solely of adults, teamed in trios, seated at tables where we were allowed to scratch down spellings before a designated orator relayed the group-consensus, so it was nothing like the pressure these kids are facing at the microphone, sans scratch paper, in front of millions tuned in to TVs around the country. But it sure was fun! (Plus it served to benefit a good cause, too: Literacy Volunteers of Ontario County.) Rather than sending the other teams "To Spell in a Handbasket," the fearless Messenger trio ended up going there themselves, falling on the word "obreptitious." (And yes, that is spelled correctly. I kept notes of each word for all the tables in each round -- we were allowed to -- and after our team missed that one, I was sure to save the correct spelling. ) Naturally, the team spelling after us had a relatively easy word, something simple like "solace," making our elimination complete. Nevertheless, that was too much fun to not hanker for a second go-round. Seriously.

So I have one small request for the Scripps-minus-Howard National Bee organizers already hunkering down to plan next year's contest: Clearly, Howard was the entity responsible for the "fun" , so would you please bring him back?