Want to know more about me? Well, here goes . . .

Birthday: December 8, 196? (Well, what did you expect? A lady never tells . . .)

Sign: Sagittarius

Home State: Illinois

Currently Lives in: Massachusetts

Hobbies: Collecting shoes, of course!  I also collect dolls. I love to read, especially history, poetry, and fiction.  Naturally, I love historical fiction and romance.  For example, I just read The News From Paraguay by Lilly Tuck. I highly recommend it!

Boot/Shoe Size: Closed toe -- 10; Open toe -- 9-1/2

Eye Color: Brown

Hair Color: Brown

Family: I am happily married, and we have one daughter. Recently, l was walking with her, and I spied a shoe advertisement that read: "They don't hurt, if they're pretty." I asked her if she thought that was true.  She said, "No, but if they're pretty, you don't mind if they hurt." Well said!

Favorites

Shoe Store:

DSW Shoes

If you haven't already done so, check out the discount rack at your local store.  The deals are fabulous!

Songs:

"Stand by Your Man" by Tammy Wynette

"(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" by Aretha Franklin

"Pretty Woman" by Ray Orbison

"These Boots are Made for Walkin'" by Nancy Sinatra

Food:

I prefer Italian and Mexican. I really don't have a favorite dish, but chickens are in danger when I'm out for dinner.

Poem:

A few years back, I saw a poem in the Christian Science Monitor that perfectly captured just how I feel about shoes. It's reproduced here in slightly edited form with the author's expressed permission, of course! ;-)


 

Sorting It Out Toe-to-Toe


“I sorted Mommy’s shoes,” our first-grader grins

 

 

after making our bedroom a minefield of footwear:

 

 

ranks of shoes pulled from our closet.

 

 

We divide discards from keepers.

 

 

 

 

 

I pile treasures:

 

 

spikes, boots, wedges, slings, mules.

 

 

Patent leather winks up at me like fish

 

 

in the bottom of a tropic lagoon.

 

 

 

 

 

My spouse heaps up flats, sneakers, slippers.

 

 

Rubber soles bend.  Languid laces entwine.

 

 

Canvas, suede, pinks, pastels collect,

 

 

a windfall of New England leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

My spouse directs a stern finger

 

 

at my gleaming, angular mass:

 

 

“Your pile’s junk.”

 

 

 

 

 

First, I protest, then, sighing, surrender,

 

 

watch her toss the shimmering shoes,

 

 

a catch of exotic fish

 

 

gone bad.