Maribou Mules

Picture it – Hollywood 1950. You’re lounging in your penthouse flat waiting for your gentleman caller. You’re wearing the most delicious peignoir set, filmy, flowing and feminine. There’s a knock at the door and you pad barefoot across the carpet. Wait a minute – that’s not right. Look down, what’s wrong with this picture? Your feet, love. They look so… naked.

You need mules. Marabou mules to be precise. Briefest history? They’ve been around a lot longer than we think. Mules showed up in the 19th century French courts where a glimpse of a girl’s foot was an event to remember (and, really, is it any different today). No one knows who added the stork feathers but isn’t it wonderful that they did? Mules reached their peak in the early 1950’s when any sex kitten worth her whiskers had a pair tucked away for special occasions. Dainty and delicate but, most importantly, fluffy. Like the best lingerie, they hint at what’s underneath but don’t give away the whole story.

Now, I hear you asking: what about my pumps? My ballerina flats? Well, there’s a time and a place for everything, love. Most women save them for more private times but if you have a hankering to strut into the dentist’s office or the daycare, who am I to argue? I can tell you personally that feathers on your feet will definitely spice up your next trip to the grocery store.

The best part? They look good on everyone and good in every color. Truly a remarkable feat. (I’ll leave it to you to decide if that pun was intended, darling). For a quiet night at home try champagne or white. Playing the coquette? Pink will fit the bill. Taking no prisoners? Cut straight to the heart of the matter in red. You’ll find them in all of these colors and more. Black, beige, blue, brown, and, Heaven forbid, lime green. You can even find leopard, zebra and tiger prints if that’s what’s you’ve got a secret yearning for.

So figure out your favorite color and take those first few steps towards your next adventure. With a crossed leg and that little powder puff dangling just so carefully off of your toes, you are a force to be reckoned with.

And when you hear that knock, get off your chaise lounge and sashay over to the door in a pair of marabou mules. Let your inner bombshell out to play because, darlin’, company’s coming and he’ll never know what hit him.

—I wrote this a few years ago for RetroRadar

I Am A Food Pornographer…

…and I’m okay with that.

I’m playing freely with my iPhone, cropping and zooming like I actually know what I’m doing. I get to play with my food and make it look messy because doesn’t it also make it look luscious? I’m letting my Artist Child play with my camera and it makes her very happy.

The visuals play tricks with my stomach and I crave what I’ve captured even if I’ve eaten my fill. The chocolate cherry croissant, I couldn’t resist it long enough to snap a picture: the one that got away.

My Relationship With Berries Is Getting Weird…

…I spent yesterday morning bent over in the strawberry bushes and this morning on my knees in front of the raspberries.

I did something yesterday that I’ve never been able to do. I took a giant, overflowing handful of fresh raspberries, juicy enough to stain my hands. I shoved the whole thing in my mouth, every last berry. Every taste bud leaped into the fray and with my eyes closed and the sunlight burning the backs of my arms, with the brim of my hat flipping up and down and playing with the breeze, with highway traffic roaring by, with absolutely nowhere that I had to be other than where I was, I was exactly the person that I am meant to be.

I Haven’t Finished A Thing…

…other than English muffins. I did make the jam on it though from Saskatoons that I bought at Le Marche St. Norbert (only this really awesome farmers’ market that I hope to set up at someday).  I wandered freely with my gardening clothes on and an ice cream bucket of berries, taking surreptitious nibbles of juicy treasure, crunching the little pits with my front teeth.