The Married Man's Guide to Women's Shoes and What They Mean

This sling-back pump is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Olivier Luma.

The other Sunday morning, I was late. So I asked my husband to grab my black pumps. He came back with black sandals. I said, “No. Black pumps. Those are heeled sandals.” He went back to the closet and came back with another pair of shoes. I sighed. “Sweetie, those are mules. I need pumps.” Eventually, I found the pumps.

It occurred to me that if a man doesn’t even know what a shoe is called, then there is a whole world of shoe communication that he does not understand. So I’ve written a husband’s definitive (short) guide to women’s shoe types and what they mean. Here it is.

Pumps. A woman wears these with a suit. They have a heel and enclose most of the foot. (Though there are open-toed and sling-back versions, which have nuances of meaning. But that is beyond the scope of this quick reference guide.) When I wear them it means, I can pump my own gas, but if you want to do it that would be great because I don’t like smelling like gasoline.

Sandals. Strappy shoes that expose the toes. There are two main types.

   One, the heeled party type. These mean I plan to have fun and am not opposed to drinking something with bubbles.

   Two, the flat type. These mean Take Me To the Beach. Now.

Mules. Something you side your foot into. As in, I’m as tired as a pack-worn mule and can’t be bothered with fasteners. You should probably pour me a double strength espresso with a twist of lemon.

            N.B. If they are Birkenstocks, it means I’m over forty and I’ve gone through a granola phase.

 This should be nipped in the bud if it threatens to come back. Seriously, do you remember the tofu phase?

Kitten heels. Playful shoes with a tiny, thin heel. They mean I’m feeling girly and playful as a kitten. (Think Audrey Hepburn in How to Steal a Million.) They also mean, after the kids are in bed, I would totally be open to playing hide and seek with Nerf dart guns in the dark.

Sneakers. I can pump iron. I can run like the wind. Okay, maybe not. But I can

beat myself shadow boxing. And just so you know, it means we’re eating healthy tonight.

Stilettos. The name obviously comes from a type of spy knife. Think tall, thin high heel that could be used to stab someone. You think this means “sexy.” You are wrong. This shoe means I-am-feeling-so-confident-that-I-don’t-care-that-these-these-things-are-going-to-give-me-back-spasms-later-today. These shoes mean you will need to find a bottle of Aleve and a tube of muscle pain cream.

Slippers with wool socks. I need a nap, an intravenous drip of a caffeinated beverage, and/or a break from the children. Afterwards, a long, hot bubble bath.

Hopefully, this clears everything up.

Ladies, did I miss any?

Web Spiders and Louboutin

Over the last month, I’ve been getting a truck load of blog spam. I know, I know, I could add a word verification. But I really hate those. When I see the random combo of numbers and letters, my brain turns the random assortment into real words. “Nmrado” becomes “random” when I type it in. (Yes, this is a great skill in Scrabble and Boggle. Not so much otherwise.) I’ve been known to get an “incorrect” so many times that I thought the system was rigged against me. Now I type those things in with only an index finger so my brain can’t fix it.

The odd thing is that the blog spam comments are only on one blog post. Now I’m sure there’s a sophisticated computer-tech reason that would explain it. Like the HTML code has an embedded 404 compiler error. (Yeah, that probably makes no sense. But I think imps run computers with their evil black magic anyway, which is why the computer always crashes before I remember to save my document on days when I’ve made impressive progress on my novel.)

Anyway, the real reason the post is spammed is that it’s titled “Bob the Criminal Strikes Again.” And the topic of the post was identity theft—someone (Bob the Criminal) filed a fake tax return under my husband’s social security number and tried to get our money. (BTW, the government still hasn’t fixed the problem. But that’s another story.)

So I believe that some criminal syndicate has an evil web crawler (known as web spiders—I love bugs— though not mosquitos or cockroaches, which are pure evil disguised as bugs) searching the web for vulnerable people. And the spider added my blog post because it decided than people who’ve been victims of identity theft are more likely to buy knock off Christian Louboutin shoes or Coach bags because they’ve had their funds sucked dry. But here’s the thing. I really don’t want to wear knock offs of $3000 shoes. (Are the real ones comfortable? Or made out of gold?)

Okay, I just Googled a pair of $3000 suede crystal encrusted open-toed pumps. And I was all prepared to hate them. But, um, they’re really pretty.

Maybe those spiders know what they’re doing after all.  (They're from the Neiman-Marcus website.)

Shoe Love

I admit that I love shoes. Ariel loves shoes. I’m pretty sure that most women love shoes. Even little girls loves shoes—I wonder if it’s an X-linked trait. Yesterday I was leading Sunday school singing and one of my three year olds (I teach two and three year olds) raised her hand. I thought she was picking a song so I called on her. Instead she said, “Mrs. Keller, can I try on your shoes?” I said, “As soon as we get to class.”

When we got to class I took off my strappy black high-heeled sandals. She tried them on and looked at them. “Hmm,” she said, “They’re a little big.” Shoe love starts early.

Walking in Someone Else's Shoes

Animals are great. They protect your house. They lick your face when you cry. They eat food you don’t want to eat—okay, they won’t eat brussels sprouts, but they will chow down on just about anything else. However, there is a downside to pets. Excretion issues. Personally, when I take the dog out, I keep my eyes on the ground. But not everyone does that.

My husband, whose thoughts are no doubt are on celestial things, frequently brings an odor with him. I say, “Euw, check your shoes.” He moans, groans, and scrubs his shoes. But, he hasn’t figured out how to avoid the problem.

However, my twelve year old has found out the best way to keep dog poop off your shoes is to wear someone else’s—particularly his 18 year old brother’s shoes. This afternoon, Matt brought the dog back into the house, held up Luke’s shoe, and said, “Hee, hee.” I looked up and said, “Oh, my!” This was seconded by Ariel and Jacob as they caught sight of Luke’s shoe. Luke, who up to this point had been engrossed in whatever food he was currently devouring, looked up. There was a moment of blank silence. Then, Luke’s face contorted into something akin to what the Cyclops must have looked like when Odysseus shoved a pike into his one eye. Luke drew in two lung-fulls worth of air and bellowed, “I will kill you!”

Matt tossed the shoe and ran. Luke yelled, “You are cleaning off that shoe!” A bit scuffling occurred until I explained to Matt that he’d better clean off Luke’s shoe. Matt took the shoe to the kitchen sink. At which point, I screamed, “Take that thing outside!”
Eventually, Matt came back complaining that his hands were completely numb—apparently they were so cold that he’d even stuck them into the fireplace to warm them and couldn’t feel the fire. The shoe, I believe, is currently “drying” outside. I haven’t asked where the other shoe is or what it looks like…I don’t want to know. In the meantime, I’m hiding my shoes!