Manolo says, the Manolo has just seen these juicy orange Juicy Courture sandals on the smartly-turned out young woman and thought they looked smashing. Very summery and happy, the perfect refreshing antidote for the doggish days of August.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk feeling woozy and discombobulated, which considering how close to death you felt all yesterday, Sunday, is the major improvement.
Indeed, you are still not entirely certain how you got back home from the country, although you suspect that your college roommate’s husband, Texas John, the strapping big investment banker with the bald spot and the bankroll and the boots, drove everyone back to the city yesterday afternoon in his BMW sedan. Which would have made sense, as he was the only functioning member of the household Sunday morning.
And to think, it all started so innocently on Saturday afternoon when your hosts suggested that everyone head over to this “little place near the county line” to have the few drinks, the little place which turned out to be the unironically named “Billy Jeff’s Arkansas Roadhouse”, which was somewhat surprising, considering this was deep in the Catskills.
“John loves the place”, Amanda said, “it reminds him of a bar in New Braunfels.”
And the next thing you know, it is midnight and you are standing on your chair trying to improvise several new dance steps to the David Allan Coe song, your balance hindered by the two bottles of Shiner Bock that you are holding (one in each hand) and from which you are alternating robust swigs.
And then the band starts up with “Whiskey River Take My Mind” which you decide is the excellent suggestion, shouting at the barmaid to bring you the shot of Jack Daniels and the shot of Jim Beam, (“because I’ve never had a threesome. Ha! Ha! Ha!”)
At which point the rest of the evening goes mercifully dim in your memory.
And now it is Monday morning, and you are on the second day of the two-day hangover, something you did not think was medically possible.
Oy, but you feel bad, and even though Amanda assures via phone you that nothing untoward happened, you vaguely recall snogging frantically in the dark corner with someone in bib overalls.
What you need now are shoes, beautiful shoes that will wash away the bitter taste of possible public humiliation; something respectable and refined and sophisticated and as un-country as you can find; something like the Calista from Michael Kors.
Ahh, that’s better.
Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
I’ve noticed that this summer there’s a real trend for ethnic themed shoes, mostly African motifs, but some also some Native American and Latin elements. Can you recommend something that’s in keeping with this trend but will still look good when it’s over?
Manolo says, the Manolo loves the current incarnation of the periodic mania for the ethnic themed clothing. This time around, the trend has been expressed in luxurious and mostly subtle ways, with beautiful shoes that feature snakeskin and feathers in African patterns, and sandals with native American leather fringes.
Of course, as always, one must be careful when adopting ethnic motifs for use in personal styling. The danger is that you may go too far and become the caricature.
Indeed, one minute you are admiring the leathery fringes on the high street shoe, and the next you are dressing head-to-toe in buckskin and trade beads, and calling yourself Kicking Horse Woman.
However, for the hot semi-ethnic sandals, the Manolo has been especially impressed this year by the Sigerson Morrison, who have produced the stunning series of shoes, flats and heels, with the woven black-and-white pattern.
Here is the wedge heel version which will satisfy your demands for tendy ethnicity and yet survive the season’s inevitable demise.
Manolo says, here from Donald Pliner is the Nany in metallic bronze, the perfectly handsome and perfectly simple palate cleanser for when one tires of the more frenetically embellished shoes which are au courant.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk slaving away for The Man and his Minions, slowly breaking your spirit into tiny pieces on the keyboard of your workstation, as surely as the convict turns the big rocks into little rocks with his sledgehammer.
Oh, how you dream of freedom, fame, and great wealth, and of tall, bronzed, well-oiled men in tiny swimming trunks who bring you fruity drinks and peel plump grapes for your enjoyment.
But then, at the peak of this daydream, just as Fabio leans into view, briefly obscuring the warm Riviera sun, you remember that there people who depend upon you, the hard-working husband and the two kids in school, who need you and the mighty efforts you expend to make their lives better.
Yes, it is not glamorous, nor exciting, nor especially self-actualizing, this mundane reason for enduring the unsatisfying job, but it is, in its own way, noble. Serving those whom you love gives your life purpose and meaning, makes it possible to endure that which is difficult.
Of course, sometimes, at least in your mind, you must cut loose and let your inner Joan Collins rage. Clad in the bright red Dynasty power suit with giant shoulder pads, you would teach that biotchy regional manager the thing or two about eye-scratching, hair-pulling, and cat-fighting.
Ayyyy! Quick, we need happy-making shoes, and nothing makes the Manolo happier than shiny sandals from Pucci. Breathe deeply and enjoy the bliss.
Pucci makes the smiles!
Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column from the Express of the Washington Post.
The Fourth of July weekend is next week, and like most people I plan on spending it outdoors, at a picnic with my family and friends. Can you recommend some casual but chic, summery sandals?
Manolo says, oh how the Manolo loves the Fourth of July! It is one of his favorite holidays; the magnificent patriotic festival of fireworks and freedom and frankfurters.
Indeed, how can one not be enthusiastic about any holiday that traditionally begins with the mass consumption of cheap hot dogs, warm lemonade, and Mom’s potato salad, and culminates in John Philip Souza and giant explosions?
To be American is to know the manifest joys of cherry bombs and whistling petes, of eating slightly-off coleslaw, and watching the home team lose to the Yankees in the ninth inning.
Truly we are blessed to live in the country where lawn chairs and giant coolers filled with Budweiser have not yet been outlawed, where we are free to get as mosquito-bitten, food-poisoned, and sunburned as we like in the celebration of our traditional liberties.
America! Long may she wave to us!
Here from Frye, which is appropriately the longest continually operated shoe company in America, is the Mary Harness Thong, the snappy sandal perfect the day of celebration.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk and mightily ungruntled.
Indeed, it may be said that now is the summer of your discontent, made gloomy winter by that son of the so-and-so, whom you have been dating for this past month.
Oh, it all started out well enough; him tall, moderately handsome, tanned, and somewhat hairy in that outdoorsy way that makes dirty cargo shorts and Keen sandals seem sexy, especially when you are standing behind them in the Whole Foods Market.
Next thing you know, you are at the coffee shop lying about your politics and discussing the relative merits of recumbent bicycles with him over tall glasses of iced chai.
And for the first week everything goes swimmingly, even if the thought of tofu-vegetarian lasagna makes you gag, and you frequently worry that he might detect the scent of your usual lunch ( cheesesteak, “Whiz, wit“) lurking beneath your body spray.
By the end of the second week, however, you have discovered the awful truth, that his low-impact, ecologically friendly lifestyle is actually camouflage for the deep and abiding parsimoniousness; the pinchpenny cheapness so mean that he has never bought salt, sugar, ketchup, or mustard for home use, relying instead on the giant cache of pilfered condiment packets which reside in his cabinets, ever ready to season his “famous” lentil stew.
At first you think this trait is funny, because his eyes have this unusual purpley-blue color that reminds you of mountain lupin, and fogs your better judgment. But then, this past Friday, you realized that not only had you gone Dutch so often that you could apply to Amsterdam for citizenship, but that he had the bad habit of “forgetting” his wallet at home.
Even this would not be so awful, except that he was also, at the same time, revealed as the sanctimonious bore, forever going on about “out of control American consumerism”, (although when you mentioned Thorstein Veblen, whom you find terribly amusing, his lupin-blue eyes went blank with incomprehension).
But it was on Saturday, while he was ranting away about the “malign influence of fashion”, that you finally snapped, and told him exactly how much your Jimmy Choo sandals cost–“More than you’ve spent on personal hygiene products in a decade, Tofurky Boy.”– which left him gibbering in amazement and spluttering in anger.
Okay, so perhaps that was uncalled for, even if it did make you feel immediately better.
And now it is Monday and you are consumed with remorse for the three-and-the-half weeks you wasted on this crunchy loser and his skinflint ways.
But then you remember that nothing washes away the bitter taste of romantic disappointment like shoes, beautiful and riveting shoes, like these simple summery, golden Linea Rossi Sport sandals from Prada.
Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
In two weeks, I am to graduate high school. Can you please suggest a fun and inexpensive shoe for the boring yet significant graduation ceremony?
Manolo says, ayyyy! Congratulations to the Manolo’s young friend on her academic accomplishments and the impending transformation into the quasi-adult state that immediately follows this event.
One day you are worrying about your calculus final, and the next you are worrying about your summer job as the camp counselor, where you will invariably meet the hunky older “dude” who rides the motorcycle, rolls his own cigarettes, and knows how to dance the lambada.
Sadly, or perhaps fortuitously given your friend’s long-term career prospects as the short-order cook, this romance will be transitory, as come September it is off to college where you will encounter the yard-long beer bongs, Lit Crit, and roommates who are enthusiastic participants in the culture of “hooking up”.
By the middle of November, you are back to worrying about your finals, although happily your study partner is the tall, blond, exceedingly hunky squash player, on whom you have the small crush, even if he is so WASPy that his lips do not actually move when he speaks.
Look, here is the Baby from Franco Sarto!
Manolo says, it is Monday, and you know what that means, that you are back at the office, slaving away for the Man. Sometimes, your job is fulfilling and meaningful, but other times, such as today, you are filled with ennui.
What is needed in such case is the jolt of fantasy, and so the Manolo would recommend leaning back in your reproduction Aeron chair, closing your eyes, and imagining for 60 seconds who you would seduce Mata Hari-style while wearing these exotic and super sexy sandals from Rene Caovilla.
Manolo says, this week the Manolo has been thinking much about the gladiator sandal trend, to the point that tomorrow his column will be dedicated to the topic. However, today he wishes to show you these, the Gladio from Stuart Weitzman, which are undoubtedly the most delicate gladiator sandals ever made.
Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back again at your desk working away, while outside the spring has riotously sprung.
Suddenly, and unaccountably, you long to be out in the country, riding horses with tall, blond, very WASPy men in rugby shirts, which is exceedingly odd, as you have not ridden horses since the summer you were fifteen, when the only thing on your mind was ponies, ponies, ponies! (At home, somewhere in your parents attic, there are still five cardboard boxes filled with nothing but Breyer models and the collected works of the Pullein-Thompson sisters.)
Then, in September of that year, you discovered boys.
And so, to be now suddenly thinking of riding horses with the blond WASPs can mean only one thing, you passed the Ralph Lauren advertisement at the bus stop on your way to work.
Look! Here is the Velma from Ralph Lauren Collection, the horsey but sexy high-heeled sandal.