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Archive for the ‘Shoes’ Category

Not Quite Done with that Subject

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:36 AM
Wednesday, January 9, 2013

I was going to title this blog “I Could Never Be Chinese” but then I thought, why pick on the Chinese? I could never be almost any other nationality other than a large white woman or a large black woman (fyi for those who haven’t met me, I’m the former), with these giant feet of mine.

MY GIANT FEET, HELLO?! DID’T YOU READ YESTERDAY’S BLOG?

Ahem.

Big feet-ed ladies  have feelings too.

Feelings, for example, of rage and jealousy, over how many cool shoes they make in Europe that go up to size – oh whoop dee do! – 42. And by the way, for Europeans? Size 42 is ENORMOUS. Like for elephants.

European shoe retailers never used to believe I was bigger than a 42. They’d be all, in their French accents or whatever, “Size 10? Yes, we have zat. ‘Ere.”

And they’d hand me a 42, and like that idiot fish in the sock-dangling sea, again I allow that dreamy daze to cloud my brain with hope as I snap up the shoes, thinking,

No way! Usually size 42 shoes never fit me but THIS guy says ‘size 10’ IS size 42, and that THESE amazing on-sale, one-of-a-kind, better-than-Manolos shoes are going to fit me like Cinderella’s slipper! – so he MUST be right! Right…??!!!

And then, as my big toe crushes into the end of the shoe and my heel develops an insta-blister, reality slams down on my dreams and crushes them.

Okay… yes… true… This size 42 does fit me like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

ONLY I’M NOT M-F-ING CINDERELLA! More like her step sister. At least in the foot department.

Sigh.

At least it’s better now, stateside, where most American retailers finally figured out there are more than 10 giants living in the United States with feet sizes larger than 8.5, and most stores here stock about two pairs of their cool styles in size 10, which still means they are always sold out by the time I get to the store, but at least I can be happy for some big-feet-ed GrownupGirl out there who can strut her Jimmy Choo stuff in style.

Back when I was a teenager hoping to wear something other than my ‘cool-but-made-my-feet-look-bigger-than-Magic-Johnsons’-Doc Martins’, it was basically impossible to find anything remotely feminine and cool/European that fit.

So at minimum, the pickins have gotten a bit less slim.

Maybe by the time I’m a grandma there will be a perfect storm of more larger shoes made generally around the world for the new crop of not-starving savvy teenager consumers, and my feet will have shrunk to a 9.5 or something tiny like that, and then ALL the cool styles in ANY country will carry my size.

A girl can always dream.

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

How does it feel to have the shoe on the other foot, bee-ach? Specifically, my size 10 shoes on Cindarella's dainty glass slipper feet? What? Prince Charming called to cancel your date last minute? Whatever could have prompted it!?

Size One Zillion

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:55 AM
Tuesday, January 8, 2013

The title of this blog, by the way, is my shoe size. More or less.

I thought about titling the blog “If the Shoe Fits” and then adding an asterisk, where, down below, the thoughtful reader would find some kind of witty footnote remark, like ‘then I obviously didn’t buy it in Europe” or “then it’s probably some ugly boat I’m trying to pass off as footwear.”

Bottom line here? My feet are… not what you would call small and dainty.

Unless you are Andre the Giant! He might think my feet were small and dainty.

But to most others – including my husband, whose feet are basically the same length as mine, just wider – my feet are more of the “large and in charge” variety.

For a man, that’s the kind of cool status ‘tell’ – like big hands – that makes the babes excited and other guys jealous and makes the guy who HAS the big feet or big hands super easy-going and confident, because, hey, let’s face it, whatever other shit life and chaos this guy has going on, at least he’s got a big penis.

Not so much, for the ladies.

For the ladies, it’s like “big feet, big – uh – okay, that’s gross.”

Or, put more delicately, “big feet, big – um – socks?”

Only that would be a lie, because I can tell you that nobody cool (like Puma or Polo) makes decent women’s socks that fit big women’s feet. Trust me. I fall for it EVERY time.

I see a set of women’s socks hanging there in the store, like a dazzled fish spotting a shiny lure in a murky sea.

I read the label: it says it fits sizes 6.5-11!!! It will fit me!! I’m only a size 10!!!! (10.5 if I was pregnant within a year or so of sock-shopping, but let’s not even go there.) Yay!!! Cool socks!

Cool socks, indeed. Cool socks that, after one or two washings, I have no choice but to slip quietly into my 8 year old son’s drawer so at least SOMEONE in the house can enjoy them comfortably, or – if they have pink or girly stuff on them – donate to charity.

I think I could probably have my own Goodwill sock line. BatSheva. Socks for GrownupGirls with giant feet. Has a certain ring to it, no?

No.

No, it doesn’t.

Sigh…

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva “Goodwill Sock Hunting” Vaknin)

A (nearly) true-to-life portrait of me, on the very first day I was born.

Smackdown

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:28 AM
Wednesday, September 5, 2012

The following is a re-enactment of BatSheva Vaknin’s high-heeled shoes smackdown that she observed the other night as she tried to decide which pair to wear.

It is possible I animated all these voices out loud as I tried to make my decision…

 

COOL GLADIATOR-STYLE HEELS: You know you want me. We’re so cool we look good with everything.

STUART WEITZMAN SNAKESKINS WITH WICKER-LIKE HEELS: Awww, so sweet that they think ‘looking good with everything’ is an asset. B, have you SEEN how hot we are?

BROWN PLATFORMS FROM THE 90’s: Dude. We will kick all y’all’s ASSES. BatSheva. Hello? Vintage, funky, comfy, and we’re in great shape. Is there really a decision to be made here?

SNAKESKINS: Bring it on, brownies!

BROWN PLATFORMS FROM THE 90’s: You really want some of this? Yeah??

GLADIATOR HEELS: (to the brown platforms) hahhahahahahaha! SERIOUSLY??? Yo, the 90’s called, they want their heels back.

90’s PLATFORMS: You are going DOWN.

90’s Platforms knock the gladiator heels to the ground.

GLADIATOR HEELS: Help! We’ve been hit!

GOLD MARYJANE HEELS: (whisper) BatSheva. Do you really need this drama? We’re beautiful AND we’re comfortable.

GLADIATORS: (from the floor) Don’t listen to them! It’s sweltering outside, inside those golden leather tombstones your feet will melt! MELT!!!!

CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP.

From seemingly out of nowhere, a pair of smokin’ hot yellow leather sandals perched on wooden platform heels enter the arena, towering over all who gaze in their direction.

YELLOW LEATHERS: Somebody needed a pair of killer heels for tonight?

Silence. BatSheva picks up the yellow leathers from the floor and puts them on.

YELLOW LEATHERS: (as the others stare in shock, and a single tear falls down the side of the gladiators) Get used to it, suckers.

Yellow Leathers give the others “the finger” as they allow themselves to be triumphantly clomped out of the room….

 

…It is also possible I’m due for a psychiatric evaluation.

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Suck it, losers.

Flashback Friday! (High Heels)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:54 AM
Friday, May 25, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – High Heels – the BLOG

My oldest daughter (now four) started wearing my shoes at 12 months, just after she learned to walk. Correction: wearing my heels. She really didn’t have much use for my flats after the first cursory tries. Boots – yes, she liked those too… but the heels were her favorites.

She walked better than I did in my heels. I am not kidding. Initially, my husband was upset. “Don’t let her take your shoes!” he would admonish. “She’ll ruin them!”

What he didn’t understand is that you can’t get between a girl and her obsession with shoes. I walked in my mother’s shoes, my daughters walk in my shoes, and someday, their daughters too, will walk in their shoes. Right now my four year old has a pair of “heels” (Hannah Montana brand kids’ heels, I’m horrified to admit), and she insists on wearing them every second of every day. I know it’s not “good” for her feet. But I get it…

My whole life, I never really wore heels except to weddings – I’m already 5’10”, and heels just aren’t comfortable, you know? After a night of wearing them my lower back would hurt, my knees would pop, my feet ache… And I never liked towering above everyone else.

Until.

About five months ago. Not sure what changed. I finally lost the remainder of my 3rd pregnancy weight which was a BITCH to lose. My feet had actually grown almost a half size thanks to said 3rd pregnancy, so I needed new shoes. For Christmas, my mother gave me a fat gift certificate to DSW. Not sure what possessed me, but when I went to the store to buy four new pairs of shoes – I walked out with four pairs of heels.

I’ve been wearing them almost daily every since.

Cause now? I get it.

THAT’S why women wear heels! No – they still aren’t comfortable (though somehow my body doesn’t hurt anymore after wearing them, so I guess the pain from wearing them before was ½ mental and ½ me not being in shape). No – it’s not really fun for me to tower over my husband and everyone else around me except my 6 foot 6 friend who no longer seems like a distant image in the sky when I wear my heels; more like a next door neighbor (though it is kind of cool to stand tall above the rest and NOT suffer from a Napoleon complex)…

It’s what my one year old instinctively knew, what every Shoe Dazzle member knows, and what most of my girlfriends and most women of the modern world have known for years…

High heels are fucking sexy.

My girlfriend, whose husband has been a tenured professor of Gender Studies for over 20 years, told me that it has been proven that high heels put women’s bodies in the same position that an orgasm puts them in.

Hmmmmmmm….

Well, with all the pain, misery, and uncertainty in the world… there are worse positions for the body to hang out in, eh?

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

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Drunk on One Beer

posted by Sheva 11:32 AM
Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I know. Pathetic, right? I’m cool, I’m hip. (Oh lordy – isn’t there a universal rule that if someone has to say they are cool and hip, they automatically aren’t? Shit, when did I get so square??) Okay, fine, I’m not cool or hip. Still, I would like to think I can go out with some girlfriends and keep up with them as we have good girlie fun together.

I put this theory to the test the other night when I met three dear girlfriends out for dinner (yes, husband was out of town, future blog on my “Me-cation” coming to a theatre near you). I put on my cutest heels, LBD, got my “hair did” and went to meet them at Gjelina on Abbot Kinney.

I should have already suspected trouble when I realized I couldn’t pronounce the name of the restaurant we were going to. I mean, hip and cool kids need to be able to say the names of the places they frequent, right? For a moment, I thought the gods were smiling on me anyway, because I got ROCK STAR parking in front of the crazily crowded restaurant.

Okay, truth be told, I had to move it because it was loading only, but THEN I found ANOTHER rock star spot across the street! And granted, I had to wait almost ten minutes for the chick to leave, and wave around annoyed drivers the whole time. But I got the spot! It was mine, all mine – kismet! Fate! Divine Providence!

And then the lights went out.

No, not in my car, dear reader. On the whole block. And in the restaurant. All. The power/electricity. Out.

Which meant Geegeelina or whatever that dumb place is called wouldn’t seat anymore diners. Which meant I had to walk six blocks to meet my girlfriends at a bar/restaurant with actual power, yes, in those self-same high heels I was previously so excited to be wearing. And if you read my last blog, you know how much fun walking those six blocks was.

Oh yes, I got a ride back to my car at the end of the night. And I wouldn’t have walked the six blocks at all – I would have left my rock star parking in the dust – if only my friend hadn’t promised me the bar was only “two minutes” down the street. My friend, who bikes all over Los Angeles. My friend, who I noticed was wearing flat sandals that evening. Because her “two minutes” was my ten minutes in heels.

Here’s the rule, people: It’s like dog years. One minute in flats = 7 years in heels.

Finally I arrived, hungry, annoyed, and a little freaked out by the blackout. I drank half of my friend’s beer (at which point I wholeheartedly forgave her for making me – GASP! – walk in L.A.), and then ordered another beer, of which I drank half.

Dinner was amazing that night, and it made up for everything; there is nothing like a getaway with awesome girlfriends, even if the getaway is just to a cozy restaurant in Venice. I had gotten mildly buzzed for a few minutes off the beer minus food, but hadn’t thought anything of it, and didn’t order any more alcohol for the entirety of the dinner.

Next morning? Pounding headache, dry mouth, and sluggishness. I was hung over.

On one beer.

I am SO not hip.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Dude - this place is freakin' da bomb. Or - er - so I've heard...

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F***ING HIGH HEELS

posted by Sheva 2:56 PM
Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I know, I know. I know I said I loved high heels. And I do – I love them. High heels are fucking sexy, I believe was the phrase I used in my Ode to high heels. I’m wearing them right now, in fact.

And yet.

There exists a parallel reality where high heels are also instruments of torture. For example, remember Roxana? That con artist bitch who worked for my husband for one year and during that time managed to steal over $70,000 and almost ruin our business? Yeah, her. She’s still torturing me. In the most recent incident, she used one of my most favorite pair of high heels to do it – my sky-high (6 inch) Stuart Weitzman snakeskin peeptoes with the wicker-like heels, that were a gift to me from my high heels mentor, Betsy Davis.

How, you are probably wondering, did Roxana the Con Artist Bitch use my shoes to torture me? Did she break into my house and beat me on the head with them? (God forbid) Did she steal them in the dead of night, my favorite shoes? Wrong again.

No, she lured me. Lured me all the way to the downtown courthouse on a Monday morning, when my husband was laid up in bed sick and I was the only one who could leave work (in my sky high Stuart Weitzmans), jet down to the courthouse (or 6 blocks away from the courthouse, to the parking lot, rather), in order to race those same six blocks UPhill to the courthouse, in order to make it there before 10am which was the deadline. You see, I was told by the DA that very morning at 9:10am that either I or my husband needed to race down before 10am if we wanted to claim a money order which Roxana had supposedly gotten for us for $30,000 (towards her restitution).

In return for such diligent behavior (ie, starting to pay us back for the money she stole from us), Roxana was bargaining with the DA, hoping for a lighter sentence (something we BTW had no say in – go, legal system!) Hey, I can use $30,000 as much as anyone. I ran down there. I didn’t stop to change my shoes. I even parked in the WRONG block downtown, and walked two blocks until I realized I was in the wrong place, then walked two blocks back to my car to drive “closer” to the courthouse.

By which I mean six blocks away. For any woman who is not a superhero, 16 blocks in sky-high heels (4 in the wrong location, 6 there & 6 back) is, in a word, torture.

Icing on the cake? As I arrived panting to the courthouse, at 10am on the dot, the DA called me. “You didn’t leave yet?” she asked me. “There was a mix-up. There is no check. I got the message wrong, or they left the wrong message, I don’t know. But there is no check. They are working on getting you a check. It may happen in a month.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I wanted to but did not say.

Instead, I limped the six blocks back to my car, and swung by my house on the way back to work so I could change my shoes.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Even if Madonna herself were my heels, walking 16 blocks would still be torture.

High Heels

posted by Sheva 10:55 AM
Tuesday, May 10, 2011

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – High Heels – the BLOG

My oldest daughter (now four) started wearing my shoes at 12 months, just after she learned to walk. Correction: wearing my heels. She really didn’t have much use for my flats after the first cursory tries. Boots – yes, she liked those too… but the heels were her favorites.

She walked better than I did in my heels. I am not kidding. Initially, my husband was upset. “Don’t let her take your shoes!” he would admonish. “She’ll ruin them!”

What he didn’t understand is that you can’t get between a girl and her obsession with shoes. I walked in my mother’s shoes, my daughters walk in my shoes, and someday, their daughters too, will walk in their shoes. Right now my four year old has a pair of “heels” (Hannah Montana brand kids’ heels, I’m horrified to admit), and she insists on wearing them every second of every day. I know it’s not “good” for her feet. But I get it…

My whole life, I never really wore heels except to weddings – I’m already 5’10”, and heels just aren’t comfortable, you know? After a night of wearing them my lower back would hurt, my knees would pop, my feet ache… And I never liked towering above everyone else.

Until.

About five months ago. Not sure what changed. I finally lost the remainder of my 3rd pregnancy weight which was a BITCH to lose. My feet had actually grown almost a half size thanks to said 3rd pregnancy, so I needed new shoes. For Christmas, my mother gave me a fat gift certificate to DSW. Not sure what possessed me, but when I went to the store to buy four new pairs of shoes – I walked out with four pairs of heels.

I’ve been wearing them almost daily every since.

Cause now? I get it.

THAT’S why women wear heels! No – they still aren’t comfortable (though somehow my body doesn’t hurt anymore after wearing them, so I guess the pain from wearing them before was ½ mental and ½ me not being in shape). No – it’s not really fun for me to tower over my husband and everyone else around me except my 6 foot 6 friend who no longer seems like a distant image in the sky when I wear my heels; more like a next door neighbor (though it is kind of cool to stand tall above the rest and NOT suffer from a Napoleon complex)…

It’s what my one year old instinctively knew, what every Shoe Dazzle member knows, and what most of my girlfriends and most women of the modern world have known for years…

High heels are fucking sexy.

My girlfriend, whose husband has been a tenured professor of Gender Studies for over 20 years, told me that it has been proven that high heels put women’s bodies in the same position that an orgasm puts them in.

Hmmmmmmm….

Well, with all the pain, misery, and uncertainty in the world… there are worse positions for the body to hang out in, eh?

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

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