Katy McDermott

My closet smells like feet. There is only one conclusion I can draw from this: I don’t have enough shoes to rotate them appropriately during these sweltering summer months. I must – must, do you hear? – go shoe shopping.

Most women would consider this a no-lose situation: shoe shopping as necessity. But I’ll admit, I was born without the shoe-shopping gene. It’s not that I don’t like to spend money – as my husband will woefully attest, I do. Just not on shoes.

Shoes are definitely a barometer of economic condition, though. Here in the Philadelphia suburbs, we associate going barefoot with two things: 1) summer vacation at the beach and 2) Revolutionary War soldiers shivering through a brutal, shoeless winter in what is now Valley Forge National Park.

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t give much thought to shoes until I needed to pay for them myself. Funny how things like rent, heat, the phone bill, and food take precedence over footwear when money’s tight. Back in the 1980s, I held on to one pair of light blue sneakers for well over 10 years. In addition to one pair of sandals, one pair of loafers, and one pair of pumps for special occasions, they comprised my entire shoe wardrobe. Things have changed. I have three pairs of pumps now, and my lone pair of sneakers is only about 7 years old.

I’ll probably need to replace those sneakers soon – but I don’t know if I’m technologically advanced enough to do so. Sneakers used to be just sneakers. Today, there are “athletic shoes” for almost every sport you can imagine: running shoes, walking shoes (totally different, of course), tennis shoes, basketball shoes, biking shoes, hiking shoes, workout shoes, and so on.  “Water shoes” to wear in the pool, ocean, or running on the beach. And something called “skate shoes” – I have no idea what these are, but I can only assume they’re for ’tweens, based on the predominant decorative elements of rhinestones, charms, and glitter.

Have you seen the features on “athletic shoes” lately, by the way? They have light-up soles and criss-cross gel inserts to enhance arch support and improve posture. Some of them even have a system of mysterious internal alchemy that actually tones your butt for you.

Guess I won’t need those “workout shoes” after all…

Truly, though, with their racing stripes, complex engineering, and streamlined design, modern sneakers look kind of like speedboats to me. And seem equally intimidating.

Perhaps I’ll wait on the sneakers (and on working out too, come to think of it) and start with sandals. It’s summer, after all.

Of course, sandals require a fair amount of foot maintenance to pull off. When it’s 20 degrees out and there are only 9 hours of light per day, you just hide your feet in thick socks, pull on boots, and hope you don’t get frostbite while you de-ice your car.

Sandals call for pedicures. Sloughing, buffing, polishing… Jeez, it’s like feet are classic cars!

But it’s June, so a pedicure it is…

To buy the shoes, I met my 22-year-old niece after work a few days ago at a nearby DSW. It’s a good thing I had her with me. Left to my own devices, I’d have gone straight for the sturdy, serviceable, crepe-soled, low-heeled, black loafers in the “Nun Shoes” section.

I hadn’t been shoe shopping in quite a while, needless to say, and I felt like the epitome of a Country Mouse as I walked, goggle-eyed, up and down aisle after aisle.

Here’s a snippet of my internal monologue:

“Could never wear those… wow, those are some high heels… are those made of Lucite???… how would I walk in those ones?… 6-inch stilettos? Don’t think so… how am I ever going to find shoes here? I can’t see a single pair I’d actually wear to work… Holy Mother of God – look at THOSE!”

Like I said, I’m missing a gene.

However, in the face of my niece’s rolling eyes and disapproving stares, I’m now in possession of 2 pairs of brand new shoes she deemed “hip.” (God help me.) One is a pair of pewter wedge sandals with 3½-inch heels on which I’ve already gotten comments. The other simply defies description. All I can say is that she told me I wasn’t allowed to leave the store without buying them, so I bought them. I haven’t tried to wear them yet…

I did, however, get a pair of serviceable, black, crepe-soled loafers as well. Gotta be me, after all…

’Tis the season for greeting cards – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, graduations, communions. ’Tis also the season for intensive therapy.

I never realized how inadequate card stores can make a person feel. According to greeting card writers, all mothers are “the best Mom ever,” all graduates face a future of unlimited brilliance, and any child who makes First Holy Communion is second in piety only to the pope.

What about the lapsed Catholic, the unemployed MBA, and the Jerry Springer Show guest whose mom stole her boyfriend?

Card stores celebrate stereotypes, which I suppose is only natural when you have two lines to sum up a type of person or major event. And much like McDonald’s TV commercials, they have separate sections for African-Americans. (Apparently a Kente-patterned border and a Maya Angelou quote are sufficient to represent an entire ethnicity.)

Perhaps I sound a little like Eeyore, but I find it interesting to note how card stores grapple with genuinely serious issues. Long-term care for the elderly: an accent pillow featuring the stitched message “Be kind to your children – someday they’ll choose your nursing home!” Divorce: carefully worded “starting over” cards. Disease: “support” wristbands and ribbon-shaped “awareness” car magnets. And speaking of thorny issues, those car magnets are also available in both pro-Democrat and pro-Republican varieties, so you can bash whichever party you choose…

But I guess I need to ’fess up: I love Hallmark.

Why? That’s easy: I want the kind of life they’re marketing. I know exactly what they’re doing, but it works. Also, some of the merchandise makes me laugh out loud. Right there in the store. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually.

As an advertising copywriter myself, I’d like to shake the hands of the people who come up with some of their wittier messages (“You don’t look a day older than whatever age you’re claiming to be.”) A humorous or (much harder to do) heartfelt turn of phrase can inspire a shopper to make the all-important leap from chuckling or nodding at a coffee mug on the shelf to marching up to the cash register and paying $9.95 for it.

Slogans may not be high art, but they can be funny. Or even moving.

I’ve also loved seeing the evolution of the card sections in recent years. Where once there were only “You’re expecting!” and “Congratulations on the Birth of Your Baby!” cards, now there are cards celebrating single parenthood and both heterosexual and same-sex adoption. Need a social change barometer? Forget Twitter – just visit your local Hallmark.

Unfortunately, card stores often remind me of the life I don’t enjoy. There are entire sections devoted to plaques, flags, and doormats for one’s summer home. Additionally, there are racks of “Hallmark Hall of Fame” DVDs featuring women who are much better-looking and pluckier than I will ever be, and CDs of inspiring music I feel as if I should like but rarely do.

Some card stores have chocolates, though. I like those!

To be fair, card stores also make me think of the things I do have – and am very grateful for. They may translate a 30-year friendship into a moderately amusing cocktail napkin, and a profound love into a light-up Valentine’s Day lapel pin, but even so, card stores serve their purpose.

One of those purposes is gift wrap. As long as you don’t think about what you’re paying for paper that’s destined to be ripped, scrunched in a ball with other presents’ wrappings, and thrown out with last night’s potato peelings, Hallmark gift wrap is a great deal. And for the truly lazy, you can go the “gift bag” route – no tape or scissors needed, perfect for “wrapping” a present in the car on your way to a party. They even offer coordinating tissue paper, ribbons, and embellishments. It’ll look like Martha Stewart wrapped your birthday present. Kind of lost on an 8-year-old, but still…

I visit my local Hallmark every other week. Birthdays, anniversaries, engagements, retirements, even funerals…

Sometimes I fall prey to the lure of the “impulse buy” book – those small square tomes extolling the beauty of friendship or exposing the funny side (there is one, apparently) of middle age. If I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself (and I can almost always find a reason to), I get a couple of chocolate-covered pretzels as well…

In fact, I was in there just the other week. I got several birthday cards, two graduation cards, a communion card, and a Father’s Day card.

And, I admit, a coffee mug.

Featuring Eeyore.

In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been lately (I know – it’s been keeping you up nights, hasn’t it?), I’ve been getting my second book ready to send to the publisher. I LOVE the cover illustration, but the trouble is, I can’t decide what color my title text should be – blue or purple. What do you guys think? (Actual cover visuals follow!)

Here are the choices: