April 18, 2003

"You have fat little toes!" my mother said.

"I do not, I have cute little toes."

"No, they're fat little toes!"

She was teasing, I would imagine, and I teased her right back for her weirdly long, thin, nearly prehensile-looking digits. (Perhaps I should have brought up that late 70s fad for rainbow-striped kneesocks with toes knit in, which she could never wear because her TOES were too LONG. I'm just sayin'...) Anyway, I was just a teeny bit smug as I basked in the knowledge that a pedicurist once complimented me on having the cutest little piggies she'd ever polished, which was perhaps professional flattery, but pretty cheering nonetheless.

So it turns out that my beloved Birkenstocks, so comfortable, so stolid, so counter-chic, are not on my husband's list of favourite wifely wardrobe items. In fact, he loathes them with a deep, stern, steadfast passion.

Knowing how much I like to wear them, he manfully kept his opinion to himself, right up until that misguided moment when I actually asked him point-blank what he thought of them. And, well... he told me. Sigh.

I remember a cartoon (which has maybe been described in these pages before, but so what) seen many years ago, which still makes me grin to think of: a single-panel scene in a doctor's office. He's saying to a woman, "I'm all out of birth control pills, so take these instead," and he's holding up a pair of Birkies with buckles and straps and square soles that look about the size of an aircraft carrier.

It's true, isn't it- good for your back and posture they may be, but sexy they are not. Though I also saw a very cute cartoon in Playboy, a full-page colour drawing, showing a nudist colony: people playing volleyball, strolling around, sunbathing- and in the foreground, a naked couple is stretched out necking in the bushes, and the guy is reaching down to suavely unbuckle the girl's sandals. Hee!

All of this is mere lead-up to the fact that I've just bought some more attractive summer footwear. I'm sadly lacking in this department, as in all other areas of clothing acquisition, because I really don't like shopping, and lately have been too busy (read: too lazy) to make any new stuff for myself.

I've got the favourite pair of chunky-heeled brown leather sandals from Los Angeles, which I've spent more on fixing than the original selling price, because I love them so much even though they're falling apart.

There's a pair of kitten-heeled silver mules with a web of metallic elastic straps that are sexy, but nearly naked (or should that be sexy AND nearly naked?) and not really comfortable enough to wear out walking. They're more stay-home hostess footwear.

But hallelujah, I found something at Winners that fit the bill- a groovy pair of black flats by Guess, with leather-trimmed wide black elastics crossing the instep. Pretty, and very comfortable to walk in.

That is, they were perfectly comfortable right up until the very moment that they weren't. I swear, it was like one second they felt nudely wonderful, and the next moment a hole had been worn through the skin of my left foot, and it was bleeding and everything. I have no idea how that could have just happened without me noticing that, you know, my skin was being rubbed off, but apparently it did.

One bandaid later and I'm back in business. My toenails are painted the exact shiny scarlet that Annette wore for her Red Hat pictures, and see for yourself- it looks just swell with black open-toed shoes.

From the ankles down, I feel very smartly dressed indeed. And from the ankles up? Well, I'm working on it...

In other Fashion News Of Note, I enabled a latent cross-dresser today. Okay, alright, it's not as salacious as all that. Made you look, though.

What actually happened is that the liveliest of the basses in my choir, over a beer after practise on Wednesday, professed a desire to make a memorable entrance at our dress rehearsal by- you guessed it- wearing a dress.

Who better than the resident costumer to supply him with the appropriate (or rather, staggeringly inappropriate) garments?

I checked with him by email that it wasn't just the beer talking, and he was indeed up for it, so we hatched a plan for me to meet him at his place and get him togged out, so he could make a diva-worthy entrance maybe just a few minutes late for maximum effect.

This gentleman is a well-set-up young fellow, and I am not exactly a delicate wee slip of a girl. So there were a few things in my closet-sized tickle trunk that would mould themselves to both his form and intentions.

First I tried him in a distinctly kink-friendly ensemble, a floor-length sleeveless gown of black PVC vinyl, with a chiffon train, and a matching black underbust corset. The hairy cleavage and bulging shoulders really "made" the look, let me tell you. And surprisingly... he was really into it. But I exercised my proprietory veto, because even without the corset, it was maybe just a bit too over-the-top to wear in a church. On Good Friday.

Then came the back-up get-up, an Italian Renaissance formal ensemble, which was the last outfit I made myself for the SCA. A full-length black slip in the lightest breath of gauzy cotton, with puffed sleeves, gathered neckline, the dripping cuffs edged in gold lace. Over that, an empire-waisted gown of whispering purple silk, brocaded black and gold, laced up the front with brass-tipped copper silk ribbon.

Oh, he looked delightful! And his entrance was so perfectly casual- skirts tucked under his trenchcoat, only jeans and boots showing as normal- so when he faced away from us to take off the coat, and turned to show this frilly extravaganza, everyone just about fell over laughing, and he got to use his big line:

"Didn't you say this was a dress rehearsal?"

I seem to have a reputation for being interestingly garbed every week for choir, which is mainly because I spend so much time mooching around the house in 'jammies or the equivalent that it's a pleasure to dress to interact with humans other than the one who married me. So when the director turned to me and laughed "so Cameron, how does it feel to be trumped by a bass?" -it was a great big pile o' fun to shoot back happily, "well, where do you think he got that dress?"

A sidenote about being a costumer in general, and a dresser in particular: it's something I've done off and on my entire professional life, starting before University. It's like a whole other set of knowledge and instincts rise to the surface, and it's like being a doctor: I may be dealing with people who are naked, or nearly so, but what they look like doesn't even register. I'm 100% focused on getting the clothing on or off them, making it work, getting it done with a minimum of fuss or distraction for the subject. It is thus that I have variously found myself hand-sewing Barbara Frum into a red Valentino blazer (being worried that my hand down her front was nervously freezing), peeling milk-sodden wardrobe off Dolph Lundgren on the set of a John Woo movie, and conducting lingerie fittings with Monika Schnarre for an absent costume designer of a somewhat B movie.

But I can't tell you what they look like in their underwear, because I wasn't looking. No, I really wasn't. No, really!

So while the above-mentioned bass answered his door wearing a towel, and presented himself for the fittings in just underwear, I really had to wonder afterwards... was he cute, or what? What a poor excuse for a Dirty Old Broad I am!

Meanwhile, I can but warm to the glow of a jobette well done, costume-wise.

I love the concert we're singing. And I love this choir better than any of the many I've sing with over the years. We're only 16 singers, but we make a great big sound. No bad voices, no tiresome personalities, no spoilsports, and no divas to speak of (crossdressers notwithstanding, of course).

It will be hard to say goodbye for the summer, and go back to singing only in the shower and the car. Rob doesn't get a break from playing pool all year, and yet the choir has four whole months with no rehearsal!

Couldn't we split the difference and each take two months off? Hmmm...