Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.

Dear Manolo,

Here in D.C., the past month has been one round of blizzard after the next, and frankly, I’m sick and tired of winter. Can you recommend something beautiful to cheer me up?

Cathy

Manolo says, remember all the way back to the last winter, when we had the so-called Snowpocalypse Blizzard of 2010, which paralyzed the Mid-Atlantic region with thirty-feet of drifting snow and temperatures in the mid-to-low minus 80s?

Ha!

That was just the playful little amuse-bouche for this winter, which has turned out to be the multi-course succession of blizzards, like the crazy Thanksgiving entré, the buffhogoatpeaturducken, which is the quail stuffed inside the chicken, stuffed inside the duck, stuffed inside the turkey, stuffed inside the peacock, stuffed inside the goat, stuffed inside the wild boar, stuffed inside the water buffalo which is then roasted over the roaring garbage fire, which you have started in the courtyard of your apartment building because the power has failed yet again.

And from the looks of things, Old Man Winter has decided to (Bam!) kick it up the notch by wrapping the water buffalo into the carcass of the wooly mammoth, which thanks to the New Ice Age, can now be taken by skillful hunters in Dupont Circle.

Here is the Opulence Caged Sandal from Jimmy Choo! So delicate, so beautiful, so spring like. And, look, they cost less than the tusks you have just harvested!

Manolo says, who among us does not need the simple-but-attractive metallic sandals for those occasions when the little bit of snappy style is required?

And who among us does not appreciate the sale, especially one that reduces the beautiful shoes more than $80 off of their usual price?

Manolo says, it is Monday and because of the holiday you are likely not back at your desk, which is the good thing, as it will give you the chance to finally take down the Christmas tree.

Yes, you know you should have taken down the tree more than the week ago, right after the Day of the Three Kings at the latest. And you would have, but, your family traditions include the great reluctance to drag the old Christmas tree out to the curb until it has shed the last of its needles and looks very sad.

This tradition has its roots in the distant family past, nearly the decade ago, when your youngest daughter was five years of age.

Born at the time of the full moon, this girl has always been the most peculiar child. Even in utero you suspected something was off; she kicked without warnings at strange hours, and your food cravings were satisfiable only with the unusual chutneys, and the jerked chickens, and things made with the fish sauce.

However, it was the Christmas she turned five that cemented her reputation as the special person, for that was the year that she married the Christmas tree. And it was no hasty elopement, either, but rather the grand ceremony with all of the stuffed animals in attendance, and her older sister presiding.

What else could your youngest do? It was the love at the first sight. Although, certainly, she did not rush into the marriage. There were the few days of secret courtship, during which you would come into the family room and catch her hugging the tree, which was difficult given that Jefferson Joe-Joe was the eight-foot-tall noble fir.

“Jefferson Joe-Joe?”

“That’s his name, and I’m going to marry him,” she said.

“Oh.”

What can one say when one’s daughter has just announced that she is intent on matrimony with the tree?

So, you just said, “Oh,” and went into the kitchen where Gary was standing over the sink eating some leftover ribs between two pieces of white bread.

“Guess what,” you said.

“What,” he answered.

“Your youngest daughter just announced that she’s going to marry the Christmas tree.”

“It’ll never last.”

Which, oddly, is exactly what Gary said when your oldest daughter announced that she was in love with the bassist in the punk band called Plutonium Gauntlet.

And Gary was right in both cases. Your oldest daughter forgot about Stevie Spittle when the volleyball season started, and your youngest was widowed shortly after the second week of January, when Jefferson Joe-Joe was given the disposal with honors at the curb.

Although you were afraid of the big scene when it came time to take Jefferson Joe-Joe out, your daughter was surprisingly up beat.

“Oh, he’ll be back next year!”

Look! Beautiful shoes!

Not just any shoes, but patent leather platform sandals from Valentino!

Manolo says, it is Tuesday, in January, and the news of the world is depressing!

We need shoes! Beautiful shoes such as these absolutely gorgeous Marine be-jeweled ankle-wrap sandals from Jimmy Choo.

Why are these shoes called “Marine”? The Manolo does not know. Perhaps there is the small anchor and globe together with the words “semper fidelis” engraved on the sole.

Manolo says, yes it is the darkest and gloomiest part of the year, when you feel like going back to the bed, pulling the cover over the head, and setting the alarm for April.

And because of this, how can one possibly consider buying the colorful, frisky, vernal sandals from Botkier?

But, the Manolo asks, not rhetorically, will the spring not arrive at its appointed time? And will you not then be needing the colorful, frisky, vernal sandals from Botkier?

And so, thus, would it not be the good time to buy such feetwear, when it is out of the season, and the prices are low?

How low?

This low: the reduction of $85 of the American dollars, almost 45% off of the regular price!

Spring: It is not as far away as you think.

Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk, the 2011 stretching out in front of you in the bleak progression of workdays, each one floating briefly into the present time, before slipping silently beneath the waves like the drowning swimmer.

This is not what you imagined your life would be like when you were seventeen, all this incessant working.

But, when you consider the alternative, which would likely involve the not working, to be closely followed by the not paying your bills, the not driving your current car, and ultimately, the not not living in your parent’s basement…

Ayyy! The basement!

Oh how you remember the basement, from when you were seventeen, and you and Tommy Grebbish slipped away with the six pack of the Coors during your parents annual “Welcome the Spring” garden party.

You were so hot for the Tommy that semester, even though now, when you look at the pictures in the yearbook, you realize that he was something of the nerdish pipsqueak, with the buck teeth and the pimples and the wispy mustache. (Although, in his favor, at the time, his mullet was thought quite stylish by all of your friends.)

And so, you were in the basement with Tommy Grebbish, drinking the Coors Banquet Beer, and canoodling on that ugly couch with the wagon wheel arms, and thinking to yourself as Tommy made his move to the second base, “perhaps this was not the good idea, in fact, I don’t really like Tommy Grebbish all that much.”

You were thinking this exact thought when suddenly the door to the basement flings open and your father shouts, “What’s going on down there!”

Apparently, even though there were seventy other peoples at the party, when you disappeared with Tommy and the Coors, your father’s spidey-sense started tingling, and he went to investigate, leaving your brother in charge of the grill.

This, of the course, was bad news for Tommy Grebbish, because at the first note of fatherly bellowing, Tommy leaped to his feets and spilled the Banquet Beer down the front of his pants, causing him to shriek like the little girl, so that when he answered “N-n-n-nothing, sir” it was as if his voice had unchanged, breaking several octaves higher than the carefully practiced imitation of Don Cornelius he usually favored.

Good times, good times.

And then you remember that that same ugly couch is still in your parents’ basement, and you can’t remember if your parents have ever had it steam cleaned.

So you realize that work, while not exactly the perfect way to spend your days, is not really all that bad.

Hey, shoes!

Perhaps the working is not so bad, because not only will it keep you from having to sleep in the parental basement, but it can also give you the moneys to buy the beautiful things such as these strappy suede wedge sandals from the Alexandre Birman

Manolo says, the weekend draws nigh, and you will need shoes in which to party down, beautiful and sexy shoes that will have all of the men wishing to with you become more closely acquainted.

Here is one such shoe, the Devin from the L.A.M.B. (And now, allow the Manolo to praise the Gwen Stefani, whom the Manolo believes to be the best of the celebrity “designers”.)

Not only are these strappy sandals perfect for the night out on the town, they are also on the sale! The black version is reduced the amazing $165, more than 50% off of the regular price! (The very attractive natural finish is reduced the still very good $98.)

'Put not off your Cloths in the presence of Others, nor go out your Chamber half Dressed.' ~ George Washington

Manolo says, ayyyy! The President Dude is showing us his toes!

Historians agreed it was the first time they could remember seeing the leader of the free world snapped in a public setting, wearing nothing more than a flimsy strip of rubber on his feet.

[...]

Capping off his Hawaiian vacation, President Obama earlier this week sports an uber-casual look finished with a pair of flipflops, favored by his core demographic: college kids.

“I can’t say I’ve seen a president’s toes before. This could be a very usual thing,” said presidential historian Jane Hampton Cook, author of an upcoming children’s book “What Does the President Look Like?”

“But I don’t think this is a big deal. Your footwear belongs to the occasion. If you’re on the beach buying your daughter snow cones, I don’t think you can beat him up for this. Now if he’s wearing flip-flops to the State of the Union, that’d be different.”

Presidential historian Doug Wead concurred.

“In public, no. I haven’t seen the president’s toes,” he deadpanned.

And while most historians couldn’t think of an example of presidential appendages being on such display, most agreed it wasn’t necessarily the worst thing in the world.

Unless you one of those old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy persons who seeks to uphold the standards of dress and decorum.

P.S. If you are the new visitor to the humble blog of the Manolo, please consider following the Manolo on the Twitter, or befriending him on the Facebook.

Manolo says, the Eve of the New Year’s, it approaches! And you will undoubtedly need the beautiful shoes in which to trip the fantastic light, shoes that are sparkly and festive, such as the Tryst from Stuart Weitzman.

Manolo says, here are the gorgeous Giuseppe Zanotti flat sandals embellished with the crystal bows that will transforms your feets into the delicate present of great price, they will be as dainty box filled with expensive jewels, dangling from the highest branch of the tree.

Manolo says, of the course, you will need kicky flat sandals to wear on your holiday trip to someplace warmer and less snowy, sandals such as these, the Sacagawea from the Brazilian/Miami designer Vanessa Avellar.

Manolo says, it is Monday and you are furiously attempting to find suitable gifts for the most difficult person on your list, your mother.

What does one get for the woman whose chief entertainments seem to be working at the soup kitchen and attempting to run down pedestrians in crosswalks?

“That is a woman in a hurry,” says your husband Gary, half-admiringly, as your mother squeals tires away from your home on Saturday, “and she’s probably going to kill someone.”

But, you were not paying attention. Your mind had already begun to wrestle with the eternal problem, what to get someone who has everything, wants nothing, and is crazy.

Buying the gift for your mother-in-law, Blanche of the Biker Gang, was easy. You bought her the new e-book gadget thing and loaded it up with the collected works of Zane Grey.

“The perfect gift,” said Gary, “she can keep it in the saddle bags on her bike.”

But for your mother, the dangerous woman of seventy-something, such things would probably not be suitable. She has never been the great reader, picking up mystery novels, and then putting them down before the ending, often with the announcement that “I figured out who did it. No reason to finish.”

She is not possessed of great vanity or girlish charm, which would enable you to give her the perfume or the Hermés accessories. Indeed, for the past fifteen years the ladies at the Villa Charisma Hair Salon have been perming your mother’s hair into the short ‘do most favored by progressive nuns and prison matrons.

Nor is she especially sentimental. Yes, there are the obligatory photos of you and your siblings, and the various grandchildren on the walls of her home, but nothing like the shrines to family you have seen in the homes of many persons of your acquaintance.

It has always been easy to shop for your father, as he has the panoply of esoteric hobbies, such as marquetry, model railroadry, and antique car restorationry, which keep him out in his workshop and away from your mother for much of each day, and which have the bewildering number of accessories and publications suitable for giving as the gifts.

The problem is that the main occupations of your mother are charitable and religious.

She plays the organ at the church on Sundays, (famously adding modern flourishes to traditional hymns, such as the time she slipped the bar of Hoagy Carmichael into “The Old Rugged Cross”). Then she works at the Humane Society on Mondays, the local soup kitchen on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and with foster children who have aged out of the system on Fridays. She sends checks to anti-malaria organizations in Africa, prepares Christmas gift boxes for orphans in Honduras, and has been known to bring random crusty punks home for sauerkraut and kielbasa supper.

She drives like the maniac because she feels that time to do good is limited.

“You know what she’d like best,” says Gary, as you walk up the driveway together, “that we go down and help her serve Christmas dinner at that soup kitchen.”

He’s right, of course…

Look! Shoes!

Here is the Allaire strappy sandal from the hot young designer Liam Fahy; the perfect momentary diversion, before you concentrate on the things that matter most.