A couple of weeks ago I ordered some delicious half-price pumps (gold and glittery, no less) from my favorite shoe club. I had been abstaining from this particular addiction in an effort to be more frugal and save my money for things like rent or heat. Being as these shoes were half price, and the flirty way they winked at me, I decided to splurge and order them. What I didn’t count on, was that I had neglected to change my shipping address on the website since my big move from Stabville to PBR-land. As soon as I clicked “submit my order” my eyebrows shot up in recognition that yes, I had just sent those towering eye candies to the unsupervised quasi-ghetto. Great.
I jumped into action (figuratively, of course) and contacted UPS, the shoe company, and my previous landlord (my good ol’ stepdad) to find out if anything could be done to intercept this brown-wrapped gem. UPS wouldn’t reroute a package until at least one delivery has been attempted and failed. The shoe company said it was out of their hands and had already left the facility (for once they were speedy). My stepdad had sold the house, which I knew, but had no idea if the buyers were living there or renting it out to anyone. My only option was to trudge my ill-prepared feet through the storm and stop by the house. Except, I forgot. I actually forgot all about the shoes for about five days. Shh…don’t tell them.
As I was leaving work today, it dawned on me that I simply had to add a sparkling 4.5 inches to my height before going out to meet friends at the usual watering hole. That’s when I remembered the cold, lonely shoes that I so cruelly left to fend for themselves all weekend, and then some. I resolved to take a detour to the house and just see if anyone was living there. I could always knock on the door and ask, couldn’t I?
I pulled up to the house and breathed a sigh of relief as I saw an empty driveway, dark windows and what appeared to be my curtains still in the front bedroom (hmph). It seemed to be unoccupied. I skittered up the incline of a driveway, trying to avoid slipping and crushing my tailbone (it is still recovering from the unfortunate sea-doo incident of last July 4th). Alas, when I reached the back door, where the UPS tracking website assured me it had been left, there was nothing but cold cement. It was then that I remembered a trick of the (not my) trade. Delivery men had often put packages inside the storm door to shield them from the elements. I brightened momentarily and gingerly pulled open the door. Just as I was sighing again in disappointment and dropping my hand from the still-open door a car pulled into the driveway. Yikes.
With a timid wave and an awkward smile I greeted the new occupant, hoping they weren’t packing any weapons (which seemed unlikely given the professional clothing and baby carrier). The confused and understandably concerned woman rolled down her window and just sort of looked at me expectantly. I said, “Hi. Did you happen to get a package for *Bettie Stamp delivered a few days ago?” To which she replied: “Was it shoes?”
Wait a minute. You’re not supposed to open other people’s mail. I mean…it didn’t come via the ever-patriotic USPS, but still. I must have said all of this with my expression because she quickly added, “I ordered some from the same place last week and thought they were mine, so I opened them.” Oh, did you? I just continued to look at her until she offered to run inside and grab them. She continued parking, brought her baby inside and I waited on the sidewalk like a lingering psycho (in enormous earmuffs, no less). After a few long minutes, she emerged with the box, handed them to me and said, “I didn’t do anything to them.” Uh…what? What would someone “do” to a pair of shoes? I mean, I understand that the only reason she even admitted to having them was that she was 4 feet tall and my size 8.5 was useless to her, but…what would one do to a random gift of shoes that appears on the doorstep? I suppose I should just forget about it and be grateful that they are now in my possession and about to be stomped through downtown GR and hooked on a bar stool.
Ladies and gentlemen of the blogosphere, I give you, my shoes: