NOW it's autumn

I judge the advent of autumn in many ways:

The calendar, which is usually unreliable since it can still be in the 90s for weeks.

The turning of the leaves, except this year it's been so dry we're just happy to see trees still having leaves, no matter the color.

The urge to put away all white slacks and sandals. (But I did that the week after Labor Day so it hardly counts. Some Southern traditions are ingrained.)

Turning off the a/c and opening the windows is a hint. Turning off the ceiling fans, which I did today, is closer to confirmation.

Eyeing my closet and moving tank tops and crop pants out, three-quarter sleeve garments in.

Realizing I have to put on real shoes or risk very cold toes. Happened this morning. Had to scramble for loafers, so this afternoon I packed away my sandals.

But the one sure way to know it's autumn for me: the changing of the purse. Good-bye woven bag with bright orange trim, hello dark brown leather.

There's a nip in the air!

The way of it

It's taken four years, but granddaughter Emily who will be 4 next week, has broken the code to her granddaddy's heart. And credit card.

Said granddad kept Emily and Jack this morning while their mom had an appointment. A grand time was had by all, I gather, and they eventually went out to lunch. Then Emily and her pigeon--uh, granddad--went shopping at the NorthPark Disney Store without mom's supervision.

Although warned via text from me to be careful in all non-approved parental purchases, my spouse texted back that he had learned one could never have too many shoes.

He also now knows the term "jelly shoes", an item NOT on mom's shopping list.

But then, isn't that what Granddaddys are for?

Who was wearing those fantastic shoes?

In a steak restaurant last night, not high end, but nice with good service and food, and as we're leaving, I head to the ladies' room. Two stalls, one occupied and in I go to the other. Purse on floor, there must not have been a hanger, and whoa!--look at the shoes in the other stall!

Four inch wood stack heels. Sandals in a blue and green print, probably floral if you saw the whole cloth. Toe nails Frenched. Ankles slim. Tattoo on the top of one foot.

What goes with the rest of this?

Alas, I'm out first and hanging around a ladies' room just isn't done, no matter the curiosity, especially when the other half of my party is already waiting for me.

So, I'll just have to use my imagination about the wearer of the great shoes.

An extra-medium--that's me!

While I prefer to shop at Chico's, where I know the merchandise and how, with the exception of slacks and jeans*, everything will fit, I occasionally fall under the spell of the mail order catalog. I leaf through them, mark what looks interesting with a fold down to the corner, and try to hide it from my finding it again. But they're persistent, these mail order people, and another one will usually follow on its heels. Sometimes, I succumb.

The results are mixed; I hate sending things back, but I will. However, I have found one rule of thumb: If a Medium size isn't a 10-12, pass it by. This is what a friend calls extra-medium. (I wish I could remember which XM friend said that.)

I can't wear an 8-10. Too small. 12-14: probably too large. As to the single sizes--8, 10, 12, for example--I have to have a real good feel for the item, like, it doesn't have a waistline and the shape could be mainly described as drape.

Shoes are a different matter. I'm a 7. I was a 7 when I was 12, my feet didn't grow after I was pregnant, and I'm still a 7. Good ol' feet. Of course, they're a little XM on the wide side...

*From personal experience, no two pair, identical in cut and manufacturer will ever fit the same. Or, maybe, it's just me.

By their heels you will know them

At the bridal shower Sunday afternoon we were all doing what women do at bridal showers: sitting in a circle and talking. The bride was opening her gifts, her sister-in-law was recording gift and giver, and the rest of us were taking time out of our conversations with old/new friends to properly administer oohs and ahhs. In a word: typical.

Then, because, well, I don't know why, I looked at the floor, then up at everyone's shoes. With all legs crossed, perhaps it was the rhythm of the swinging ankles which caught my attention, but I started noticing the shoes, particularly the heels. We were a divided group: stilettos, high wedges, platform wedges on one side of the circle and flats, or nearly so, on the other.* Then I looked up. Sure enough, the bride and her entourage were swinging heels the rest of us used to wear without thinking about it, and the flat-foots were, well, older by a generation.

It's not like I was surprised or anything, but reality did finally hit home.

*Notable exception: MOO-1, or before I became enamored of Mother of the Occasion, the Mother of the Bride, who wore a wedge sandal.

The brightest spot in my Christmas wardrobe...

... is a pair of plaid Keds.

Red and green, of course, canvas flats, bought in late summer to complement jeans through the fall. But it was so warm, I continued to wear sandals until November. By then, it was considerably cooler and I was into real shoes. The canvas was kicked under the vanity stool. But with a week of warm weather ahead of us (thank you, Lord!), I've eyed them once again.

They went to church today, paired with a red Christmas jumper and barely-there sleeves on a white tee. They were the rage, as they were yesterday at a writer's meeting. Durn--but they're cute. And so not meant to be worn at Christmas when it should be cold.

I've pulled out my dwindling Christmas wardrobe. I used to have lots of cute seasonal things, but gradually they have faded or succumbed to their provenance and gone out of style. (Not that that's enough to stop me from wearing Christmas.) My tastes have changed, too, and I'm more likely to wear gold/silver and black than cutesy cats and reindeer. Still, if the warm keeps up (hint! hint!), I'll be resigned to the one sure piece in my Christmas wardrobe.

Preppy, red and green plaid Keds.