Go through hell for retro boots

A typical late-at-night-last-minute-bidding-tournament resulted in me winning an auction for these retro 1970's boots. But of course, I had forgotten to update my address on the site, so they wound up at the other side of town. Being a woman I still felt that I needed these shoes right now, so away I went on a little journey. Little did I know that it would be a journey from hell.

First the usual five minute wait for the elevator to finally reach my floor. I realize that I had forgotten my ID, so I had to go back again.

Returning to the elevator a family in the building has decided that they want to move furniture during that five minute delay for ID retrieving. I am welcomed by three dumb faces and a bed, staring  foolishly at me. Well, the bed did more of a triumphant expression to be honest.

Squeeze a bed in there, and you've got the picture.

The rape staircase it is. It's dark, narrow and goes in a frightening Vertigo spiral. And at the bottom floor there is smeared dog poop that has been there for weeks, giving of a delightful smell to welcome any passing house guest. (Someone should probably call about that.)

Finally. Almost on my way. But no. Of course the rails for the streetcar has to be renovated today, so I have to take the bus instead. Do I have to mention that the bus I had to take is also the one that every damn citizen in this little town of mine has to ride on, and that the route goes about three times around the city before reaching its destination? I bet I don't, since I just did.

The bus stops about seventy eleven blocks away from the dirty little store that has my boots. On the way I almost slipped and fell to my death five times. Oh, and the temperature outside! It's not that cold that I need a jacket, but it's too cold if I take it off and I begin to sweat wearing it. I adore Sweden, I do.

Well, I received my package, the local store sold my favorite brand of cigarettes, Virginia Slims, and I was almost happy again. (How smart is it not to design a pack of cigarettes to look like a fashionable brand of lipstick?)

I get home, try on the boots... one size too small. Obviously they were the 1970's idea of size 9, and not the real size 9. How about those genes? I am as short as my mother and have as big feet as my father. Very proportional.

Maybe this is the solution to my problem?

But damn it, I have to have those boots. I squeeze by feet in and hope to be able to stretch them out to my size. What is a flesh wound in this context, anyway? And how about that - the heel broke.

I fear the day my Forever 21 order arrives.

Bette knows how I feel.