“Clear plastic, maybe with a daisy embedded in theplatform?”
“Um…I don’t think so.”
“Slides with a seven-inch heel, three-inch platform, thewhole thing bejeweled, maybe in pink?”
“Well…um, I think that’s a no too, ma’am.I’m sorry.”
I nodded.
I’d already learned Nordstrom shoe department didn’t doDaisy.
It still didn’t hurt to try.
I unbuckled the strappy sandal I had on and slid it off,murmuring, “That’s okay.But thanks.”
“Valentino does ‘Rockstud,’” sheinformed me.
I’d checked out theRockstud.
It wasn’t all that bad.
But it didn’t sayDaisy.
“Not my thing,” I shared, putting the sandal in the box,grabbing it, and handing it to her.
“Okay, well, if there’s anything else you see you’d like totry, I’m here.”
“Thanks, honey bunch, you’re sweet.”
I smiled at her.
She smiled at me and wandered away with the box.
I put on my shoes (black patent, platform sandal, one-inchrhinestone ankle strap, tube of rolled open red lipstick for a heel), got up,hitched up my purse on my shoulder, and glided to the makeup counter to whileaway more of my Saturday afternoon.
The shoe department might let me down in a variety ofplaces.
But any makeup counter from Walgreens to Neiman’s worked forme.
And that afternoon, itsodid.
The doorbell rang right in the middle of JuliaRoberts having a diabetic fit in a salon chair in Dolly Parton’s garage.
This did not make me happy.
Not Julia having a fit, of course, that never made me happy.
But I was right then not happy about my doorbell ringingduring the best movie of all time.
I paused the movie, got up on my bare feet, and marched tothe door in my hot-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit with the rhinestone, interlaced“JC” on the back with the crown on top surrounded with an oval of sparkles.
I looked through the peephole and I knew what I’d seebecause he’d told me he wasn’t going to give up.
But he was interruptingSteel Magnolias.
No one did that.
Not even a tall, dark, rich, hot guy gentleman who openeddoors for me.
