Joeless Shoes

In a building I frequent there's a lost glove someone left on a chair for its owner to find. For days that glove has lain there and I keep wondering who it belongs to and if it will ever be claimed.

This got me thinking about all the times I've come across a single, vacant shoe lying in the road. Why would a single shoe be lying there like that? It's not as if anyone purposely pitches one shoe out into the road never to return - do they?

And it doesn't seem that many of the scenarios for how this could happen are good. I'm not aware of anyone ever saying, "Gee, I'm really sick of my left shoe; the right one, not so much, but this left one has got to go. I'll throw it out my car window." The window goes down, the shoe flies out and car and driver continue on their way, one shoe lighter.

I just mentioned that I can't imagine "many" of the scenarios being good, but truth be told, I can't imagine any scenario that is. On the flip side, I can imagine all manner of scenarios that are bad.

"Shoeless Joe" Jackson was a professional baseball player born in the late 1800s. According to what I read, he had an impressive .356 batting average. Allegedly Jackson got his nickname when he discarded the cleats that were hurting his feet and without benefit of shoes, knocked out a triple that cleared the bases. That is one of the few scenarios where my imaginings of abandoned shoes doesn't have some nefarious possibility attached to it. But this example doesn't apply to our quandary because Jackson left both his shoes, not just one, and he probably went back to retrieve them. It's the notion of one truly abandoned shoe that makes my skin crawl. 

Then there's the multitude of instances where I've strolled by, minding my own business only to look up and see a pair of shoes that have been tied together by their laces and tossed up onto overhead wires. Seeing that has always stymied me so I've done a little research on why shoes are left to hang from wires and it turns out there can be a number of reasons, again, none of them all that good.

According to UrbanDictionary.com, shoes on wires indicate the close proximity of a drug house. Somewhere else I read that they indicate gang presence and marked territory. But urban settings aren't the only places you can find these shoes; often they're found in rural areas. Curiouser and curiouser.

Still other sources say that shoes on wires act as markers for murdered or otherwise fallen gang members and according to some people, they have to do with ghosts. Finally, one source said that shoes are thrown up there like that by men on the eve of their weddings as a last act of defiance. Now that one is good.

There are other possible reasons depending on what you read. Bullying is one. Shoes taken from a hapless victim and tossed into overhead wires aren't easy to retrieve, and when the person de-shoed is also drunk, even less so. 

So, now I know more about the possible whys of shoes on wires but I'm still totally stumped by empty shoes by the side of the road. 

At least I think they're empty. 

Embracing the Eccentric Within

Alright, what I'd like to know is where that strip of toilet paper came from - the one I pulled out through the neck of my sweater this morning. And how does toilet paper get into a sweater neck in the first place? 

Yes, this is me a couple of Halloweens
ago in my "cereal killer" costume.

These are questions from way up there in the treetops of philosophical thought like why are grapes bad for dogs and why did John Lennon ever let Yoko Ono sing? 

At least I noticed right away, not like the day I went to work with my pants on backwards. But it makes me wonder what kinds of things have been poking out of my clothes, sticking to my shoe and hitchhiking around between my teeth that I wasn't aware of - and that no one mentioned to me.

You know what, though? I think I'll just embrace the screw-up within. This way I won't be mortified if someone does point something out because my response: "And that would surprise you because?" will put the entire issue to rest while shielding me from embarrassment. 

But I'll replace the word "screw-up" with "eccentric" and bamboozle myself into buying in to a phony-baloney aura of respectability. 

The more I think about it, the better I like the idea. Imagine the shortcuts I can take through my morning routine. No more wondering if my mismatched socks are similar enough to go unnoticed. No more dabbing nail polish on the runs in my stockings. No more brushing over that cowlick in the back of my head that looks like a bald spot if I don't cover it up.

No more any of the things I do just because they're the proper thing, the expected thing, the everybody-else-does-it thing, the normal thing.

Philosopher Albert Camus said: "Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal." I am one of those people and frankly, I'm sick of it.

I've already had a glimpse of the eccentric life and it wasn't bad. For Halloween two years ago, I was a cereal killer and that's me in the picture up there. But the jury's still out as to whether my costume, a cereal box "hat" with a knife rammed through it, marked me as eccentric or just cheap.

History books are peppered throughout with people who marched to a different beat and failed to give a rip what others thought about it. 

Benjamin Franklin advocated "air baths," and stood before an open window naked for a half-hour every day. And let's not forget Oscar Wilde who is said to have walked around in public with a lobster. I just read that the offbeat, off key and off-kilter singer and recording artist, Mrs. Miller was initially unaware that she was the butt of jokes. Once she caught on, she decided to roll with it, releasing a number of albums and enjoying a good deal of celebrity due to her wretched singing. 

Maybe people won't think I'm an eccentric; maybe they'll bypass eccentric altogether and go straight to genius! Maybe they'll think I'm the next Oscar Wilde, Albert Camus  or . . . Mrs. Miller.

As I said: Maybe they'll think I'm an eccentric!  

Michael Jackson's Toilet

At first I thought it was because I'm getting old, but then it occurred to me that I've always been like this. I misunderstand things. By things I mean lyrics, people in noisy settings and British actors on BBC sitcoms.

As to the latter, I'm convinced the Brits produce sitcoms specially for the U.S. market, in which every fifth word is replaced by a jabberwocky-inspired nonsense word and then they laugh at us for laughing at it and pretending we understood. Charming though they may be, I think the Brits never forgave us for high-tailing it out of there before the Revolution. If we could have understood you, we might have stayed! Lousy, stinkin' Brits.

But it's lyrics that trip me up the most. When singing along with my kids to bebop, hip hop and in some cases, pig slop playing on the radio, I hardly ever get things right. There's a song which alludes to Michael Jackson's Thriller which for the longest time I sang as Michael Jackson's toilet - and wondered why.

There's also a song in which the singer ponders why her lover is her clarity, which for months on end I sang as therapy - and didn't wonder why because therapy makes just as much bloody sense as clarity. Lousy, stinkin' singers.

And it wasn't until recently, when I read it online, that I fully understood a Jimi Hendrix lyric from Purple Haze, "Excuse me while I kiss the sky." From the first time I ever heard it until I read the actual lyric, I thought it said, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy."

Then there's the Elton John standard, Daniel. One line in the chorus actually says, "Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky." Until a few years ago I thought it was, "Daniel you're a star in a faithful disguise." Even though I knew it didn't make any sense, I was too lazy to Google it, so I don't mind owning that one. But I think anyone could have been confused by the others. 

As I say all the time, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree. When my daughter was about three and sang You Are My Sunshine, she would invariably warble, "You make me happy when skies are grape." Maybe there's a genetic component.

And really, it's a little like the old saws (that's old sayings for those of you under a hundred) that baffled me for years because I was misunderstanding them. Take for instance: He who laughs last, laughs best. I always thought it was he who laughs last, laughs last. Well of course he does; it's obvious that he does. 

Lousy, stinkin' old saw sayers.

Baby Boom

I nearly met my end twice by the time I was four, each time as the result of an explosion. 

Me no doubt asking a firefighter
to help me blow this pop-stand
before it blows again. 

I don't recall either event, but according to my mother, both blasts were real doozies. 

The first happened in our basement before I was two years-old. The furnace blew, the explosion so powerful, the kitchen floor heaved up and the cast iron door on the unit's face flew off.

Firefighters traipsed through the house where I sat in a rocking chair calmly watching. 

"Why didn't anyone carry me out?" I recently asked my mother.

"Well, we looked at you and you seemed fine," she said.

A couple of years later I had a second brush with a blast. My father was a building engineer. Every day, I went with my mother to pick him up from work. My routine: open the boiler room door, scamper over an iron catwalk, bear right onto another catwalk, then run into the tiny office where my father waited.

One day I was sick and my mother's timing was off, getting her to my father's job later than usual. At precisely the time I would have been running up that first catwalk, a boiler exploded. Had I been there, I'd have been killed, with 40 pounds of ragamuffin meat hurled to the cold, hard floor. 

My mother was uninjured due in part to the shift in her arrival time. My father survived because he was far enough away in his office. 

Had I been closer to the basement that one day, or calumphing my fanny up that catwalk on the other, I wouldn't be here now and my children wouldn't exist. 

My ex-husband would never have met me, making him and his mother the only ones to gain anything.

Similar subject matter has been explored before, of course. Consult your television viewing guide during the holidays and you'll see some channel somewhere is airing It's a Wonderful Life, the story of downhearted George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart) shown by a fledgling angel how barren others' lives would be had he not been around.

We see that theme of altered existence in the story, A Christmas Carol, too, when Ebineezer Scrooge is shown the bleak fate set to befall that sickeningly chipper Cratchett clan should he not change his ways.  

But what about the good things that never happen to us because we zigged instead of zagged, or worse, the good things that never happen to us because others zigged? We are all the sum total, not only of our own decisions, but of others'. 

What windfalls, career boosts and loves have I missed due to my decisions? Last-second impulses to turn right and not left, polite rejections of would-be suitors, or not sending a resume to that hot little start-up are choices. Those choices, once escorts to alternate futures, stand as vague and shadowed sentries, barring gates they would otherwise open. 

And when things happen . . . or don't happen . . . is it fate, good luck, bad luck, a higher power or merely the simple order of things?

Before I decide that it's all a mess of randomness, I will give this notion more thought. 

I just won't expect any conclusions. 

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Out of My Kitchen

We haven't had a kitchen fire in my home for almost a week. I know that's not much of an accomplishment for most families, but in my household, kitchen fires are such frequent occurrences that not having one for six days is a reason to celebrate. In fact, kitchen fires happen so often in my home that these days they hardly faze the kids.


The last time we had a kitchen fire was when my sandwich burst into flames. I was pitching it in the sink just as my son strolled by.

"Hey, Mom, what happened?" he asked in the same tone he also says, "Hey, Mom, how are you?"

"My sandwich caught on fire," I explained in the same tone I also say, "Not bad. How are you?"

He looked at the sandwich and said, "Maybe your sandwich took one look at you and you were so hot, it combusted."

When a friend of mine who shall remain nameless heard that, she suggested I get the boy's eyes checked. At first I took that as a crack about my cooking then realized it was a crack about my looks. Not all of us can age as gracefully as you, PATTY!

Another time I was on the phone with someone while attempting the death-defying feat of cooking while talking. A wall of flames shot up off the stove-top, across the microwave and over four of the cabinet fronts. On the other end my friend heard the whoosh of the fire, followed by rapidly repeating clanking noises as I rearranged the pans on the burners and doused the flames with baking soda.

"Holy mother of God!" he yelled. "What happened?"

"Oh, it's fine," I said. "I just had a little fire on the stove. Speaking of mothers, how's yours?"

I recently learned that my own mother had similar challenges. Our circa 1940 "state-of-the-art" stove had a temperamental broiler that set dinner on fire on a regular basis. My father was always at work when this happened and since dousing fires was not my mother's forte, she would scream for our neighbor, Ray who would rush over and knock out the flames.

I'm not sure what it says about my mother that another man had to put her fires out while my father was at work. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what it says about my father. Oh wait - yes I am.

At construction sites they sometimes post a sign heralding their safety record. The signs say things like: 137 days without an accident! I'm going to do something similar in my kitchen. If I posted a sign tonight, it would read: Six days without a fire!

I know what the root cause of my kitchen fires is: multitasking - cooking while breathing, cooking while blinking, and as in my earlier example, cooking while talking. Cooking while not a cook sums them all up, I think.

I should be embarrassed about all this, but instead, I'll stand proudly by my sign: Six days without a fire! 

Actually, it's not going to be a sign exactly; it's going to be a dry erase board I can update every day, and any day now, reset to zero.   

Sam Spayed, Dog Detective

The "murderer" always returns to the scene of the crime.
Photo: Teece Aronin

It was a dark and stormy night in a city of secrets and lies. I hovered over my desk - a hot stove with nothing cooking - and prayed for a scream in the dark, a wailing siren, a ringing telephone - anything, anything to end the boredom, the uneasy sense of uselessness from sitting around doing nothing. Who am I, you ask?

I'm Sam Spayed, dog defective - I mean detective.

I'm a mutt with a nose for crime and no case of mine has ever gone unsolved. But right then I didn't even have a case. And I needed a case. I needed a case like an unscrupulous dame needs an unsuspecting dupe. Yeah, I needed a case that bad.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the phone rang, its jagged brrrriiiinnng-brrrriiiinnng beating out a hellish tattoo in the dim and dingy office.

I snatched up that phone on the third brrrriiiinnng.

"Spayed here."

The call was from a dame, and a hysterical one at that. It seemed that the cunning jewel thief known simply as the Cat Burglar had struck again - this time in the vicinity of Dogwood and 34th. But unlike the Cat Burglar's other conquests, this was a murder too. I dove into my trench coat, grabbed my faithful fedora and disappeared into the night.

I reappeared ten minutes later at the posh and pricey penthouse doghouse of one Kitty Marmaduke. I was met at the door by the dame who'd called me, the cute little chickie who'd been doing all that yelling. Her name was Furniece Marmaduke and she was Kitty Marmaduke's daughter. 

I'd never met Furniece, but I recognized her from the society pages. She knew me by reputation. I expressed my condolences and we got down to business. She led me across a the foyer to the darkened study where her mother was stretched out on the floor, one ankle daintily crossing the other. Dawn was beginning to break and there was enough light in the room to see that on the floor near Kitty's head was a collar, a collar with a diamond-shaped tag engraved with the initials, C.B. 

Hmm . . . Cat Burglar? 

One look at Kitty proved she wasn't posing for a spread in Dog Fancy Magazine; in fact, she was a little long in the tooth to be posing naked, and besides, she wasn't naked. But she did look to be one dead dog, and none of her diamond-studded collars and her lifetime membership to the American Kennel Club could help her now.

"Miss Marmaduke, have you touched anything in here?" I asked.

"No," Mr. Spayed. "I remembered I wasn't supposed to. The lamp was off, too. I haven't touched that either. Oh Mr. Spayed," Furniece cried, all breathy and fragile-sounding, "Why did he have to murder Mumsy? She would have handed over her jewels without a fight."

"He murdered Mumsy - I mean your mother - because he knew she could identify him," I said, my eyes skirting the room for evidence. Loose pearls littered the floor and the chaise. Maybe the Cat Burglar had yanked the pearls right off Kitty Marmaduke's neck. Or maybe Furniece was wrong and her mother had put up a fight.

Suddenly someone growled and Furniece's wide eyes locked with mine. 

"Hey, don't look at me," I told her. 

"Well it certainly wasn't me," Furniece snipped. 

That growl was followed by another and Furniece and I turned to see Kitty Marmaduke's ankles uncross. Furniece's eyes were bigger than milk saucers, and she gasped as her mother moved again. 

"Mumsy!" she yelled, high-tailing it to where her mother lay. It seemed that reports of Kitty Marmaduke's death had been greatly exaggerated.

"Oh, my head," Mrs. Marmaduke muttered, slowly sitting up. "Someone hit me on the back of my head."

"That was the Cat Burglar," Furniece explained. Then sobbing into her mother's neck: "Oh, Mumsy, thank goodness you're alright!"

"Oh, Furniece, for heaven's sake, get your paws off me!" barked Kitty Marmaduke. Furniece looked wounded and came back to huddle against me. 

It seemed that Kitty Marmaduke also knew me by reputation because she snarled: "Get away from my daughter, Mr. Spayed." Then she shot me another order: "And come over here and help me up!"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, strolling to her in my own sweet time. No broad like Kitty Marmaduke was going to order me around. I started wondering how a doll like Furniece could have a mother who was such a b . . . well, you know. 

I helped Mrs. Marmaduke into a chair. Furniece was at her side again in a flash.

"So, ladies," I said, "You've both had quite a night. Whatta ya make of this?"

Furniece Marmaduke looked at me while dabbing her eyes with a hankie. She appeared innocent and vulnerable. Kitty Marmaduke looked at me while rubbing the back of her head. She appeared disgusted and insulted.                

"I would think, Mr. Spayed, that you're the one who should be making something of all this," she snapped. I had the feeling that staying clear of Kitty Marmaduke's teeth was a very good idea.                    
                                                                                                             
"Sorry, ma'am, and you're right," I said. "And I think I have an idea. But it means staying put, the three of us, right here. Nobody goes anywhere. Nothing personal, Miss Marmaduke," I said to Furniece, "but you're a little upset, and I can't risk you saying or doing anything that might spook the Cat Burglar. He'll likely be watching for you." 

Something I'd said had all the color draining from Furniece's spots. Would I have been that nervous in Furniece's place, thrown into a plot to trap a jewel thief? I wondered. Her mother, on the other paw, didn't bat an eye. 

"Miss Marmaduke, have you talked to the police?"

"No, Mr. Spayed. I was frightened, had heard about you and just phoned. I'm not sure why I didn't call the police."

"That's alright," I reassured her. The police and I don't often agree on methods and since there was no real murder here, I think we can work around them for now. You know what I'm thinking?"

"Of course we don't know what you're thinking," snapped Kitty Marmaduke. "Suppose you tell us?"

Her barb stung a little but I let it go.

"I'm thinking that the Cat Burglar will be missing that collar, the one with C.B. engraved on the tag. I also think he'll be desperate to get it back in his possession. So we're just going to hunker down for the night and wait him out. 

Hearing these words, Furniece was one scared puppy - even more than before - but Mrs. Marmaduke was one ticked off old dog. And the tick who'd had the misfortune of annoying her at that moment hit the Aubusson rug after a quick but merciless death. 

"What? On the butler's night off? I should think not, Mr. Spayed! The very idea is preposterous! Kitty and I would have to fend for ourselves under very stressful circumstances! Why I never!" 

"You did at least once, ma'am," I smirked, my eyes cutting toward Furniece. I enjoyed having Mrs. Marmaduke by the short hairs. "And besides, if you want me to catch the Cat Burglar, it's best you play along."

I hustled Furniece, who was simpering about the butler, into an adjacent room. Of course, the pup doesn't fall far from the pooch, so I had to bring her a bottle of Purrier on ice before I could shut her in. If marrying rich meant busting my tail for a dame as spoiled as she was, I'd rather stay single and poor. 

After I got Furniece settled, I rejoined Mrs. Marmaduke in the study and turned the lights back off. There was nothing for either of us to do but wait. Before I knew it, there came the distinctive clicking sounds of someone picking a lock. I then had the pleasure of shoving Mrs. Marmaduke to the floor where I quickly re-positioned her the way the Cat Burglar had left her. Then I slipped behind a curtain and froze. 

It was darker in that room than the inside of a doberman's heart. I held my breath and imagined the Cat Burglar pussy-footing across the floor. Then I sprang from behind the curtain counting on the element of surprise. 

It worked. The Cat Burglar let out a hiss and then a yowl as I grabbed him and took him down. We struggled for a minute, but cats aren't as strong as dogs, so it was only a matter of time before I had him cuffed. Then I tied his hind legs together to keep him from running. 

When I turned on the light, there he was, a panting, raging little pussycat with his hair standing on end. Then I opened the door to the room where I'd stashed Furniece and hauled her out of there. To be on the safe side, I took my heat out and pointed the gun's muzzle straight at her.

The Cat Burglar took one look at Furniece and hissed, "It's her fault! She's the one who's behind all this!" 

"Just as I suspected," I said.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Furniece.

"Well, sugar," I said, "the first nail in your coffin came when you said you 'remembered' that you weren't supposed to touch anything. 'course that's not proof of anything, but it did get me wondering if someone might have coached you on a few things. Then you nearly fainted when I said we'd all be playing it cozy for the night and waiting for a visit from Puss-In-Boots over there. It wasn't much of a deduction to figure out the rest."

"But why, Furniece?" asked Kitty Marmaduke, and I have to admit, I felt sorry for her - but only for a second.

"Oh, please!" shouted Furniece. "You and I both know that I'm not even your daughter; I'm your niece! My father ran with that horrible pack and one day he just never came home. Then my mother found out she was expecting me, and you undermined her confidence until I was born and she begged you to adopt me. You even named me Furniece as a constant reminder that you would never see me as your own daughter. I hate you! 

"Then, when we argued one night and you threatened to cut me off without a cent, I put feelers out through the criminal grapevine that I wanted to talk to the Cat Burglar. When he got in touch, we made our plan and part of that plan was that I'd give him one third of my inheritance plus whatever jewelry he could nab if he killed you during the break-in. I hate you!" 

Furniece threw that second I hate you in there just in case her mother or her aunt or whoever Kitty was, had missed the first one.

But there was something I hadn't figured out yet. "But doll-face, why did you call me in?" I asked.

"It was a calculated risk," Furniece explained. "Calling you in made me look more innocent. And it did, didn't it, Mr. Spayed? You have to admit that it did. What doomed me came later when I gave myself away."

"And you, pussnick," I said, gesturing toward the cat. "I presume you came back for your tag. Do the initials stand for Cat Burglar?"

"No - my name - Cecil Butterbottom," the Cat Burglar muttered, too embarrassed to say that name to my face.

He had reason to be. I burst out laughing then picked up the phone. I tucked the receiver between my shoulder and ear so that I could call the police with one hand and hold the gun on Furniece with the other. I had to admit, it was pretty sweet knowing I'd bagged two criminals with one trap. 

I guess you could say I'd collared them. 

Rubenesque

Peter Paul Rubens appreciated voluptuous female forms. And as a female whose own form flirts with voluptuousness (and has occasionally kissed it on the mouth and even married it), I appreciate him for appreciating it.

Rubens was a Flemish Baroque painter known for his flamboyant oils depicting big and beautiful women. Anyone who took Art History 101 knows that Rubens is the reason we have the term "Rubenesque" to describe amply-built women. And actually, the definition of Rubenesque, according to Dictionary.com, is surprisingly complementary: ". . . having the physique associated with Rubens' portraits of women; plump and attractive."

Somewhere around 1626, Ruben's wife died and four years later, at age 53, he married his niece, Hélène Fourment, and she modeled for him several times, including for the aptly titled Portrait of Hélène Fourment. 

If you look at the painting, you'll see Hélène was a chunky little hunk of cheesecake, and despite clutching that whatever-it-is around herself, her attempt to cover up seems a bit half-hearted. Why, she isn't even really all that covered. And her right arm, instead of concealing her breasts, seems to be shoving them up as if she's saying, "Take THIS! I mean, take THESE!"

I can't help liking Hélène. And she'd probably tell you that if you have a problem with her body, including her cattywompus, boosted-up breasts, then you can just get out of the museum. And her husband would no doubt show you the door. 

I wish I were that comfortable in my own skin, especially when my skin has more than the usual amount of me to cover.

Of course, throughout history, and in a variety of cultures, good-sized women have been revered. Hundreds of years ago, heavier equated to wealth, luxury and a life free of manual labor. That's also why so many of the affluent subjects of Baroque- and Renaissance-period paintings are fair-skinned, because having a tan meant you probably toiled in a field every day. 

So Rubens, with his affection for bigger women, wasn't alone. There would have been plenty of men sitting at the same banquet table, raising a chalice to grand and pasty ladies.

Personally, I feel better when I'm not very heavy. I have more energy when I'm thinner, somewhere around a size eight or 10. But if you're a Rubenesque woman, and you feel good about yourself and you're healthy, then I say amen, sister!

And I have to admit, I'd love to have a modern-day Rubens walk up and beg me to model for him. I'd say no of course, all coy and blushing.