Missed Connections

I dropped by ShoeDazzle’s Santa Monica showroom earlier today, to interview their newly minted Chief Stylist, Rachel Zoe. 

While I waited for The Hollywood Reporter’s representative to finish up her line of questioning, I kicked back on the couch next to a couple of friendly faces.

They immediately complimented me on my shoes. I immediately loved them. (It doesn’t take much to get on my good side.)

I explained that, while the shoes themselves were branded by rival e-commerce site,ShoeMint, I had painted the flowers on them. They responded with the appropriate level of interest, before introducing themselves as Brian and Mira.

Brian: You could make a living off of that.

Me: Ugh, I would love to make a living off of it.  I could paint shoes all day long.

Brian: Which publication are you with?

Me: FabFitFun

[insert brief dialogue regarding target demos, etc]

Me: You guys are at ShoeDazzle?

They nod.

I get called up to the director’s chair, and gawkily extricate my 5’11” limbs and 5” heels from the low-sitting loveseat.

Brian: (to Mira) She’s really tall.

So I’ve heard.

Ten minutes later, I was walking out the door, internally rehashing the first part of our conversation.  (I’ve been trying to figure out how, exactly, to make a living off of my penchant for arts, crafts & shoes for quite awhile now, so it’s nice to have an unsolicited vote of confidence from a stranger.)

In the parking lot, I paused to check the audio on my interview recording.  Rachel’s voice pervaded my Prius, “I really admired what Brian Lee, as the CEO, has been doing here – and his wife, Mira.”

Brian and Mira. Right.  Brian, the CEO of ShoeDazzle, and his wife, Mira.

“You guys are at ShoeDazzle?”

…

I’m an idiot. 

Also - BLee, can we chat a bit more about my future career in shoe decoration? Thanks.

Sidenote: If anyone would like to buy the above-pictured shoes, they’re available for sale on Etsy. Size 8. $150. Get in there.

I Plead Preventative Murder

Walking into my kitchen, I was privy to a spine-tingling sight.  An enormous spider, looming over the precipice of my porcelain sink.

I froze.  True movement undetectable, his body somehow seemed to shift in awareness of my presence.

Think, Stacie, think.  My eyes scanned the counter-tops, neighboring shelves and barely-out-of-reach table slash accompanying benches.

Marble rolling pin?  Too cumbersome.

Candlestick holder? Concave base.

Infinite Jest?  Seriously?  No.

Sh*t.

I refused to break eye-contact with the skeletal creature. (Assuming those minuscule rifts in texture harbored his creepy little peepers.) I sensed his increasing restlessness.

In my peripheral, I spotted one of my ShoeMint wedges. That’ll do. (Please let it do.)

I grabbed the shoe by its suede upper, grateful for its appropriately excessive platform.

Two hands. Sweaty, yet solid, grip. Arms shaking at a rate nearing vibration. I slowly raised my weapon of choice over the arachnid’s inch and a half claim of land.

Teeth clenched. Chin quivering.  I quietly urged the newly anointed Pillar of Death down, toward its prey.

The spider scrambled forward violently, leaping to the floor, barely escaping his crushing fate. (You’re welcome.)

Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I surrendered to instinct. I felt my right leg swing forward with electricity, capturing my potential attacker just as he was about to scurry into the depths of the woodwork.

Did I get him? Is he dead?  I slowly dragged my foot back in to its point of origin, unwilling to risk the escape of my victim, had he somehow managed to survive the blow.  Only as I saw his trail of death and severed appendages was I able to inhale an oxygenating breath of inexplicable relief.

What now?  I reluctantly collected the scattered pieces of his mutilated corpse in a handful of paper towels and decided to leave a small section of sticky spider death juice behind momentarily, as a warning for any of his kin that might still be lurking in the area.  It’s not safe for you tonight, b*tches.

3 minutes passed.

Momentarily forgetting the entire saga, I stepped right on top of the remains.

…

Smooth like butter.