Manolo says, if you are bargain hunting this Christmas season (and who is not?), you will be most happy to know that our friend Twistie has selected many items discounted suitable for the gift-giving at the Manolo’s Basement of the Bargains!
The Manolo wishes all of his internet friends the Happiest of Happy Thanksgivings.
There is so much for which the Manolo must be thankful, but chief among those things are you, dearest reader, for your generosity of spirit and willingness to indulge the Manolo here at his humble shoe blog have brought immeasurable joy. May your day be filled with family, friends, turkey, and all things super fantastic!
Manolo says, the Manolo’s fellow shoeblogger and internet friend, Felicia Coley, she of the marvelous Well-Heeled Society blog, has written the book. It has the intriguing and evocative title of How to Stylishly Fall from Grace.
The book launches officially on December 5th, but you may read the excerpt, and preorder the book today. Those who do so will be entered in the contest to win the fantastic package of prizes, one which including shoes!
It is Monday and you are again back at your desk, working, working, working, always with the excessive working, although, when you consider the alternative–with the government cheese you would be eating, and the hand-her-downs your youngest daughter, “The Complainer”, would be wearing–it is not that bad.
So, you lower your head and soldier on, for the benefit of those you love, and because the job is not all that bad, not really. The bit boring at times, the bit frustrating, the bit exasperating, but not bad. You’ve had worse. Like, for the example, that first job you had just out of college, working as the paralegal in the fancy Wall Street, white-shoe law firm.
It was 1984, and your big teased hair, winning smile, and extensive collection of Laura Ashley print dresses made you the Belle of the Paralegal & Temp Ball. You were popular and cheerful, and at that age, you did not mind working your end of the tail off, filing the files, forming the forms, filing the forms and forming the files, and always doing the incessant, never-ending, hurry-up-and-get-it-out-the-door FedExing of forms and files.
Yes, there were plenty of late nights, and free-take out food, and much flirting with the handsome young lawyers. But mostly the job was files and forms, and forms and files, and FedExing and FedExing, and sadly, with almost no chance at the advancement.
And as the first year turned into the second year, and then third year, you began to notice that the bloom had begun to go off your rose. You were slowly but surely turning into the “para-slave”, one of those long-term employees whose horizons had shrunk to encompass the area exactly the size of the FedEx delivery slot. The worst of these were the embittered artists, middle aged men whose dreams of becoming the great writer, or sculptor, or painter, were crushed by the numbing necessity of having to earn the living. You shudder even now to remember the pathetic resignation with which they greeted each new work day.
Thus, what had started as the good job, one that you enjoyed in your first burst of enthusiasm, staled over time, until it became intolerable, each day the misery of thwarted ambition. And so you quit, and returned to school, and reformed yourself into something that took you as far away from the world of lawyers and para-slaves as possible.
And now you are mostly happy with your life, with your man and your children, and even with your job, despite its frustrations. For you have at last discovered the great secret that is hidden from the young, that life can be good even when it is not perfect.
Of the course, employed life has other gratifying consolations, such as the Padrino, the beautiful Christian Louboutin ankle boots, from the Saks Fifth Avenue.
Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post
I’ve recently taken a job waitressing to help me through the tough economy, and as a result I’ve been searching for some good inexpensive shoes to wear while working. I was hoping to find some platforms that would keep my little peds comfy, but still give me two or three inches of height. Any suggestions for the working girl?
Manolo says, it is no secret that the times are tougher than they were the mere months ago, back in the early-to-mid-late 2000s, when the designer water flowed like wine and we were consumed with the trivial travails of such emblematic frivolities as Paris Hilton and Tinkerbell.
And, then, just like that, the New Age of Seriousness, and the second jobs that accompany it, were thrust upon us by doleful economic circumstances.
Naturally, the Manolo sympathizes with the newly impoverished, for he knows what it is like to be poor, so poor that you must fashion your own Depression-era, Brother-Can-You-Spare-The-Dime work boots out of potato peelings, chicken bones, and cigarette butts you have spirited home from your job as the dishwasher, dried in your closet, and then laboriously woven into shape.
Look, here is the Drew Mary Jane from Dr. Martens, comfortable, tough, cute, all for under $100.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk working feverishly to complete the latest onerous task placed upon you by your supervisor, Mr. Rummelkin, The Official Boss From Hell, the micro-managing, 5’3″ tall, churlishly malignant, tooth ache of the man.
Yes, you are the big girl, you know that relations between management and labor are not always easy, and indeed you have had other bosses in the past who were less than pleasant to work for: The Shouter, The Underminer, and The Ditherer, individuals who had risen to their Peter Principle level of incompetency, and from which they exercised their flawed authority.
And, yet, Mr. Rummelkin puts them all to shame in terms of pure evil. He is the smoothly manipulative master of manufactured rumor and artificial chaos, ruling his domain like the Ottoman vizier, through subterfuge, misdirection, and calculated verbal brutality. He runs the very deep, very complicated game.
Of the course, what makes his reign of terror all the more galling is that he is completely competent, earning nothing but accolades from the higher ups, even as those who work for him are cowed into submission by his malevolence.
You would have quit his dominion many weeks ago, when it first became obvious that Mr. Rummelkin did not care for you. But, it is the same old story, you need the money, and the job pays well, and you’re good at it, even if your boss fails to acknowledge that. And you like and respect the other peoples your office, especially Jane, the English Girl, who never fails to make you laugh with her wry observations and offhand EastEnder witticisms.
“Oy, look a ’em, Rumplestiltskining about, like he go’ a secret spinning wheel in his office,” is now your all-time favorite saying in the entire world.
Rumplestiltskining about! Genius!
So, here it is Monday afternoon, and Mr. Rummelkin has set you to yet another impossible task, spinning straw into gold, or some such, and you look up from your desk and at the end of the hall is the giant commotion.
It is Jane, running toward you as fast as her chubby legs can go, and she is smiling like the mad woman.
“Love, such wonderful news! They’ve given Rumpy the sack. Caugh’ him putting his naughty bits into the overnight charwoman, they did!!!”
And when you pass that preposterous statement through your English-to-English translator you realize that those many, many novenas were not said in vain.
Time to celebrate! With beautiful boots, like The Romy from Elie Tahari.