So I have had a gift certificate for Louboutin burning a hole in my pocket since my birthday in October. I’ve been on a waiting list for the Very Prive since then:

Aren’t those amazing? Unfortunately they’re frigging impossible to get. Expensive Parisian shoes are eked out in tiny quantities to make them seem worth the over-inflated price tag. There have been others but the Prive remains close to my heart. Also unfortunate is that everyone else loves them too so now you can find knock-offs everywhere. I am impatient and not really that much of a label whore, so I already own faux Prives in faux snakeskin and leopard and wear them proudly. I also racked my cc last year on some Louboutin lace Prive’s. So really I should be done with this particular shape.

Anyhoo, this Sunday I dragged Drew out into the sunshine to see if there was anything else worthy of consideration. He says it’s amazing that I whine about distance and need a map and extensive phone coddling to get one stop into Brooklyn for a barbeque, yet can walk for miles through a maze of complicated West Village streets directly to an unmarked boutique the size of a postage stamp. Priorities, people!

The store was jammed with straight women clawing for pumps. The girls behind the counter looked a little terrorized by the sheer numbers and I realized after a few minutes of watching ladies stomp on one another that they were all European, probably taking advantage of our weak American dollar. Thanks a lot, George Bush. I can’t get my goddamn black patent Prive’s because you fucked up our economy.

Luckily, Drew is one of those rare straight men completely comfortable in shopping situations and he doesn’t mind waiting. His favorite of my favorites is Agent Provocateur, but he likes cunty shoes too, so he plopped down on the cushy couch and threw out comments as I waved potential footwear in front of his face:

“I don’t think you’ll wear those very often.”
“That’s a nice color.”
“Those are hot baby, try them on.”

He’s such a rock and roll metrosexual. This is a huge relief from past boyfriends, who were more prone to:

“I don’t care, just get the ones you want.”
“I’m gonna wait outside. Hurry up because I’m hungry.”
“I like you better in sneakers anyway.” (Um…hi, I’m Mary Raffaele… have we met?)

Or my favorite—just staring into space and looking as if the suffering caused by shopping is nearly unbearable.

So after the German housewives cleared out I got my turn and at the bottom of this page is the pair I picked out. Yippee! My esteemed colleague Tara G. Warrior is not as fond of these as the aformentioned lace Prives I bought last year, which I made such a big deal of that most of you have already seen photos, but I like to give you visuals to go along with these very deep and socially important tales:

But everyone else in the office thinks I’ll get some serious wear out of the new ones. I also like the name, which is “Sabotage”. Heh, heh, heh…

Author: Raffaele

Rock and roll juggernaut, writer, muse, animal lover, Cycle Slut from Hell, friend, lover, sister, daughter, nerd, fagwoman, Slytherin, killer queen.

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