Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

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Secret Agent Fred and I have decided to invade New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 2014.  I know the last time I went there for Carnival, I swore I wouldn’t go again because visiting the madness is so much less fun than actually living there for it, but I’ve reached an age when repeating my mistakes is a charming quirk, so here we go.

First step: make hotel reservations, which is not easy during the highest of high seasons.  Second step: wonder if simply buying a house there wouldn’t be cheaper, considering what hotel rooms run during Mardi Gras.  Third step:  start sopping for shoes for my costume.

Footwear has always been problematic for me and my costumes.  I get all the other pieces together and suddenly my Converse tennis shoes are just not cutting it.  Even if I don’t do drag, I might still want to wear high heels, cause they’re so gay.   Still, you’d be surprised how puny is the selection of ladies size 15 pumps.

And how ugly they are.

I’m thinking about boots and am willing to consider input from you guys.

The fucsia, third from Right, are particularly fetching

Brooding about my feet just reminds me of a long ago Southern Decadence when I was back there for a visit and had to rustle up something in a hurry.

My friend Rich let me borrow his red wig (I know not everyone can pull off that Titianesque shade, I’m just lucky that I can really rock it)

and that tired old Merry Widow bustier has long been my go-to for a quick get up, but even with fishnets, the whole thing sort of skids to a sorry halt with those white mules, which Rich described as “Nancy Nurse on vacation.”  Bitch.

That same giddy afternoon included a tragedy when another friend, Cow Queen, accidentally knocked off my wig (at least, he claims it was an accident) outside some not-very-nice bar on Rampart Street.  I certainly was not going to take that and so, CATFIGHT, which thrilled onlookers no end.

Later he tried to suck up, but between a wig on the sidewalk and those shoes, I was just mortified.

That’s why I’m leaning towards boots, boots with which I can kick the shit out of somebody.

What do you think?

19 responses »

  1. In my defense, I had no choice. Those Nancy Nurse mules were all I could find that fit and short of painting my legs with Liquid Paper, I was stuck. Anyway, I distracted all the fashion police by getting in a brawl.

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  2. The red cuffed boots are absolutely it. But don't forget to try for something a little less all encompassing as well. Doesn't it get hot in N.O.? And aren't we of the “certain age” persuasion susceptible to too much heat?

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  3. I love those leopard print fuck-me shoes, ideal choice of footwear for greeting the postman, the window cleaner and a whole array of tradesmen. Size 15 ! Ye Gods! According to the conversion shoe chart that makes you a UK size 13. You can try here

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