A Shoe Full of Champagne

Looking for the greatest number of 7's, it didn't occur to us that we'd chosen a date so near to the Christmas holidays. With so much preparation, celebrating, and storing away involved in those two weeks, this very significant day has often gotten somewhat short shrift. Regaining our energy, tackling tasks ignored or postponed for too long, we acknowledged each succeeding year of togetherness with a card, perhaps a quiet dinner at a favorite restaurant. Nothing fancy, no need for that. Nine years ago, when the numbers read twenty-five, we returned to Arizona where the nuptials took place. A silver moment and one which buttressed my then recent retirement. I suppose we might have been commemorating both events.

My dearest husband, being the selfless person I've always known him to be, offered me an anniversary gift perhaps only a woman could appreciate. He'd take me to my favorite shopping center, join me for lunch, and then leave me alone to troll the stores for hours while he occupied himself nearby. How could I possibly resist? This may well be what love looks like after nearly three and a half decades.

A few days before our departure, I was reading the "Calendar" section of the Los Angeles Times, when a snippet seemed to speak to me directly. A performer whom we both greatly admire would be giving a one woman show adjacent to my beloved mall on the very day we planned to visit. Is this kismet? serendipity? fate?

I mentioned her name to my supportive spouse and he began to research the venue. Tickets were still available. The fare was reasonable, not that he cared. Timing couldn't be better. We might extend our jaunt, take the appropriate clothes in the car, have two meals instead of one, enjoy the show, and come home afterwards. Sounds divine.

Wait a minute. Should we spend the night? Will it be too late to travel home after a long day? As the passenger whose energy will be utilized wandering from store to store hopefully laden with shopping bags, I am not concerned about myself. My husband, however, will take us through terrible traffic, wile away his afternoon, and then drive another two hours after an exhausting day. We discuss. I dither. Which hotel? Near the mall, further away? What would we do the next day? Get up, dress and come home? Seems unwise. Our house looms as the best destination, regardless of the time factor.

As a retired lady, I dress the part. During our endless summer which lasts most of the year, I am not so fetching in cotton tops and mostly capri pants. When our mild winters descend, I'm encased in jeans, longer shirts, sweaters and light jackets. Flats, sandals and tennies cover my feet. I am, in a sense, unfashionably boring. My closet contains a few items that have a smidge of style. I say so because my fashionista daughter has combed it critically. Many of her comments go something like this: "Too big." (Very common.) "The print is sooooo loud." "Those pants aren't worn any more by anybody." (I'm paraphrasing.) Occasionally there's a hint of acceptance, even more rare, embracing of some article of clothing. During her most recent visit, I returned home from an errand just as she came into the kitchen area. Something about the shirt she was wearing seemed familiar. At first I thought I might have bought it for her, but then, she confessed. "I was tired of everything in my suitcase and I found this in your guest closet. You don't mind if I wear it, do you?" Well, no, actually I was flattered. It was a favorite shirt. Later in the day, I asked if she wanted to keep it. She hesitated and then said yes, but only if I didn't want it myself. Being the dutiful mom, I washed the dark purple shirt and put it in her suitcase.

I've digressed, as I often do. My immediate problem was what to wear to the performance. Men are effortless, or so they seem to me. Pants, dress belt, nice shirt, shoes that aren't tennies or deck shoes. Done. Gorgeous. Comfortable, or mostly. Women have choices. Too many. A dress, skirt and blouse, pants, fancy, businesslike, casual. What to do? Where's my daughter when I really need her outfit advice? I'll go through the closet containing my old stuff, have a style session for my sweet husband, and make a decision. Bless him, he likes everything. What a guy! Lovely, but I still have a conundrum. Maybe I like a certain outfit but don't have the right shoes. Perhaps this older frock has, gasp, shoulder pads. Even I know they are passe. After much hand-wringing, I choose, or settle for, a cranberry colored sheath with an Oriental motif. High collar, dragon enclosures on the bodice, tiny black threads throughout the fabric. It is old but who will know? The maker, Jones of New York, is classic. The event will be in a darkened room, so less exposure. My New Year's Eve shoes are just fine. Whew. I'm not exactly thrilled, but .....

Friday morning we leave the house around 9 am and arrive at South Coast Plaza in Coast Mesa in time for lunch. Because we frequent this mall more than Henry might like, we have a favorite restaurant. It is the Corner Bakery and Cafe, tucked next to Bloomingdale's. With an impressive array of sandwiches, salads, soups, pastas, and desserts, we're very comfortable with the menu. As we place our order, we're given a number to display at our table so the server can deliver our food. I notice that it is '107.' I can't help but remark that '7' is our lucky number and that it is our anniversary. The staff member just happens to be the store manager. She says sweetly, "In honor of your special day, choose two desserts as our gift to you." I knew I liked this place. Henry has forsaken desserts (well mostly) in homage to his health and he insists that I decide which ones will go home with us. It is difficult, but a brownie and a lemon bar make the final cut.

Sated, we're on our way to Macy's where men's belts are our quarry. Henry, the most reluctant shopper I've ever known, acquiesces to my entreaties, and in a brief amount of time we are at the counter with two new belts for his wardrobe. Then, we part. He's off to spend the afternoon with a high school classmate and her husband who live in nearby Laguna Niguel. I'm free to flit from store to store, fiddle with merchandise, try on/discard/purchase items that entice, and remember to meet him promptly at 4 pm at the concierge desk at Nordstrom's. No problem.

For the next few hours, I'm in a trance, a shopping induced trance. It's almost as if somebody set a whole chocolate cake in front of me and declared, "Eat." Oh, and said with surety, "No calories and you won't get sick." Like that could happen. I forget about chores that are undone, correspondence that is unanswered, a long list of tasks that beckon me to respond and I SHOP.

In Macy's, I wander from floor to floor with my arms piled high. I've learned over the years that much of what looks divine on a hanger, looks revolting on a body. I suppose in a way, that's a good thing. Many items are rejected but two are compelling purchases. A steel grey soft wintery dress once cost $139 and now sports a tag announcing, $45.95. Bargain. I run the tag under the scanner and am astonished that it's now a measly $29.99. Who could leave this treasure in the store? Not me. I muse, might I wear it tonight? Perhaps.



Enough self-indulgence for a while. I'll peek into H & M and see if there's anything that ought to live in Portland. The pickings aren't plentiful. I also remember that Portland has its own Swedish mercantile store and so I'm not driven to find something suitable to send northward. As a treat for the neighbor girls, I stop at Sanrio and find two very cute Hello Kitty water bottles. I can already see their smiles as they tote these gifts on hikes or around the house.

All this shopping has made me mighty thirsty. A tall glass of iced tea is the perfect antidote. I've made my way to the Petite section of Nordstrom's. Since my last visit, the department has moved to a different part of the store. It seems smaller. Are there fewer petite women shoppers? I think not. I am undeterred until I inadvertently swallow wrongly and commence coughing and can't stop. I've made this mistake in the past and nearly had to visit an ER because I triggered an asthma attack. This cannot happen. I'm alone in the store and far from home. I concentrate on breathing but continue shopping. Several ladies approach me and ask if I need help. I can barely talk but I mumble that I am fine. I am not. Somehow the fit subsides after a few minutes. By that time, I've discovered a bonanza of potential acquisitions. I meet the manager of the department and she becomes my fashion guide. I'm going through a 'top' phase and seem to concentrate on this particular article of clothing. More discards litter the dressing room but there are some prizes, too. I'm more than happy with the finalists.

In chatting with Stephanie, the manager, like I always do, I ask about her career goals. She wants to get into merchandising with the store but that would mean relocating to Seattle. Her boyfriend/hoped-to-be fiance is a surfer. He's in the water every single day. No surf in Seattle. A relationship dilemma. I wish her well. I also ask if I might be able to change in one of the dressing rooms later in the day before we leave for the theater. She assures me that there'd be no problem. I'm not interested in peeling out of my clothes in the ladies' restroom.

Down one floor and I'm at Brass Plum, aka 'BP' to its loyal customers. I've been in this department often in Nordstroms across the country. It is filled with clothing and accessories for the young, hip, stylish young lady. Because I am self-conscious about my presence in a department where I obviously do not belong, I always explain that I'm shopping for my daughter. Yes, I do realize that the salespeople don't care if I'm shopping for my elephant or if I'm a hundred years old. They want to sell stuff and my demographic is immaterial. Still, I continue to explain. Almost always, I'm torn among many terrific possibilities, but not today. I guess the shopping gods are in my corner this day. I mull a couple of jackets but each one has something that doesn't seem quite right, so they're left on the racks. I find a sweet, inexpensive silver and faux pearl necklace for myself. The daughter has said I need some 'fun' jewelry. Probably this necklace doesn't qualify, but it's a start.

The meeting hour has arrived. Together again, we're off to look at furniture. After a short twenty-four years of usage, it may be time to get new couches and a chair for our living room. Macy's is having a sale. We meet Doris as we're testing the comfyness of couch cushions. She's knowledgeable, friendly, eager to assist. We discuss delivery timelines, colors, heights, whether to get another sofa bed, when the sale actually commences, and myriad other details. She gives us her card with a cell number which she says can be utilized even when she isn't at work. We like her and believe she deserves this sale, if we decide to buy.

During our conversation, she tells us to remember her first name as in 'Doris Day' and her last name as in 'Red Skelton.' She elaborates further, sharing that her husband has researched his family's genealogy and that he is a fifth cousin of the famous comedian. We relate that we once were on a commuter plane going to Las Vegas and Red Skelton was one of the other passengers. Small world. Charming lady.

Past experiences at Nordstrom's Cafe led us back there for dinner. Scrumptious sandwiches fill the menu and both of us are happy with the selections. I'm off to change. The nearest department is Kid's. Clearly marked are boy's and girl's dressing rooms. I suppose such segregation is a good idea, even at young ages. I ask the salesperson if I may dress in one of the rooms. She's busy with a customer and I'm in a bit of a hurry. She says, "I shouldn't tell you this but there's a trick to opening the locked doors." She demonstrates how to use the crook of a hanger to jiggle the lock and open the door. It works. Soon I'm removing the tags from my new frock, pulling on panty hose, stepping into my slip, strapping my heeled sandals, and tossing the new necklace around my shoulders. I'm ready. I'll freshen my face and hair after dinner.

Driving to the performance venue takes about five minutes. We find a parking garage and ask the attendant where to locate the Samueli Theater. She also tells us that after 9 pm, parking is free. Nice bonus. Unfortunately, the theater is rather far from the garage and walking in fancy shoes is a challenge. We arrive early and mingle in the lobby for a while. Two fascinating ladies engage us and learn that it is our special day. They want to know our story. I'm sure they never imagined its content. Once we have told the abbreviated version, the mother of two college aged girls who are sitting next to her, turns to them and says basically, "Don't expect it to turn out like that. It rarely happens." We demur. You have to trust your instincts. One of the beautiful daughters says our story should be made into a movie. She's obviously enchanted by the romanticism. Believe me, it's still very much alive.

Our table is labeled '155.' Two people are already seated. They introduce themselves as sister and brother. He's an incredibly astute theater aficionado. No matter what show or performer we mention, he can discuss the subject at length. He's seen everything except "Rent." I recommend it highly. Henry discusses the new production of "Ghost: The Musical," whose score has been written by cousin Glen Ballard. This man has seen the rehearsals on the Internet and has made the photo of the cast walking across Abbey Road his screensaver. We are startled and deeply impressed with his unpretentious manner. How fascinating it would be to talk with him for hours. He saw this show the previous evening and will return a third time. That's a true fan.

The lights dim, the show is about to begin. A waitress threads her way through the crowded tables, clutching a tray crowded with drinks. She stumbles and liquid pours over my foot. By her reserved reaction, I gather that this happens frequently. I'm wondering if my shoe will disintegrate due to the wetness, and whether the stickiness will create havoc when I try to walk. The server says simply, "Don't worry. It's champagne. There'll be no stain." She proffers a handful of napkins and exits. I dab my foot and stuff the toe of my sandal with the rest of the napkins. What's a little mishap on such an enchanted evening?



We've come to be serenaded by the incomparable Miss Sutton Foster. We first were in her presence a few years ago when we saw "Thoroughly Modern Millie," her Tony Award-winning performance. What a glorious voice, superb dancing ability, perfect stage presence. The night is blissful. She sings as if she were born specifically for Broadway. No note is too high, no gesture unattainable, no smile withheld. She's funny, engaged with the audience, well aware of her gift but ever so willing to deposit it with her fans.

As part of her routine, she uses few props. She's accompanied by an excellent pianist who matches her talent without intruding. I'm struck by her length, her angular quality. With an endless energy reserve, she begins the show with three songs. Immediately we know that we're in the midst of a unique audience. These people know theater. They're more aware of songs than any group we've ever encountered. Nothing is foreign to them. With just one or two notes played, they respond with alacrity. Though we've been to numerous theater productions on Broadway, in London, Los Angeles and other cities, this is a rare experience. As a whole, the audience resembles a grand graduate class in theater. We are humbled.

Sutton soars. We want her to sing forever. It is, after all, our anniversary. How can she not continue? We laugh when she uses a cup labeled 'Pimp' and another labeled 'Ho' from which she draws the title of a song and then proceeds to sing it flawlessly. I want her to dance but she doesn't, not tonight. She pauses once or twice for a swig of water and plunges into lyrics that would waste the less gifted quickly. A young co-star from "Little Women" joins her for one song. They have a singular symmetry as their lilting voices fill the room.

We listen to Sutton's stories including a harrowing episode when the plane in which she was flying from the west coast to New York encountered mechanical trouble and made an emergency landing in Chicago. She says that incident impressed upon her the value of life and love. A lesson for all of us to remember. In a less dramatic tale, we learn that she's very proud to have been an answer on "Jeopardy." Oddly, none of the contestants was able to form the correct question. Bummer. Not theater fans, evidently.

Nearing the end of a year-long tour, she'll travel to Washington, DC and Florida for sold-out shows and scurry back to New York and its frigid weather. In March, she'll headline a revival of Cole Porter's "Anything Goes" on Broadway. She'll be extraordinary as always. Maybe another Tony is in the wings.

Two encores and she's vanished. Taken her water bottles and departed. Probably spent from her performance. The audience is reluctant to disburse. There's something magical in this room. It is the essence of Sutton, a star. With the surname of Foster, she must surely be a distant cousin. I recognize that spirit, see some facial resemblance and would be so proud to call her family.

Walking to the car, we reminisce about our day, our decades together. We're happy to be going home. As we travel without impediments along the freeways toward the desert, I feel as if we are being teleported. In less than ninety minutes, we're opening the garage door. There's still time to check the mail, do a load of laundry, put away the purchases, and get to bed just after midnight. A day of jubilation is done. Let the next year begin.