Should You Cringe When You Buy Steve Madden Brogues?

I bought some Steve Madden shoes this weekend, and cringed.

Let's blame a man with a microphone. It was the annual Nordstrom shoe sale. Complete with open boxes on the floor, empty display cases, and cut price footwear. The man with a microphone directed traffic. I usually hate sales. Too noisy, too much visual clutter, too much pressure to Buy Now.

But I had been thinking about buying a pair of oxfords, having seen them in New York, and in magazines. To say nothing of feeling the breath of fall under the full heat of summer.

So I bought these.

And cringed. The Steve Madden brand is not one I am proud to own. And any time I feel shame in purchases, I have to deconstruct. What is it about Steve Madden?

First of all, actual Steve is a crook. He went to jail for fraud and was removed from his company. That puts him somewhere between Bernie Madoff and Martha Stewart. But that is not enough, by itself, for brand shame. Greed in America often takes entrepreneurs off the Calvinist track.

[This] cost him about eight million dollars and control of the very company that brought him such riches. Madden was sentenced in 2002 to 41 months in prison for his role in a stock swindle scheme coordinated by the now-closed brokerage, Stratton Oakmont. His wrongdoings include conspiring to manipulate the stock prices of more than 20 companies, including his own. And, he did it at the expense not only of the public but his own investors who lost more than 100 million. (LegalZoom)

The answer to my shame can be found front and center on Madden's brand management website.

Madden has innate sense of what’s hot, what’s next, what’s exciting and more importantly, how this will translate to his consumer. [GRI]

There you go. The company targets strivers. Unabashedly markets to happy wannabees. Actually wants to be trendy. High WASP are mortified to show any signs of trying. Any at all. We prefer to at least pretend we do not care. That we are not trendy. Au courant, perhaps. Fashion forward, rarely. Trendy, never.

It's not that we want to buy brands that show our wealth. The opposite. I suffered a veritable crisis when I bought a Louis Vuitton bag. I could only do so because the Monogram Vernis line renders that ubiquitous logo nearly invisible. Nor do High WASPs shun discount stores. Target is our friend. Merona makes fantastic tee shirts, in both fit and price.

But we don't want to strive. We were supposed to have finished striving in 1892. Steve, clearly, is not targeting me or my ilk. I am fascinated by his clarity of vision, and shaking my head once again at the power of well-executed branding. Brand well, and you will attract your target consumer, alienate others. Design good products at a good price, and even those you alienate with your brand may purchase your stuff.

The brogues, on the other hand, I liked very much. Soft distressed leather. Nice detail. Comfortable. Interesting color that works well with khakis. One cannot, after all, wear nothing but black on the feet forever. The only issue I have is the synthetic sole, preferring the texture, sound and sensation of leather. Of course, to prevent wear I always have to get the shoe repair place to cover them with rubber, but that is beside the point. Uhuh, it is so.

Finally, Steve prices for value. The brogues cost less than $70.00. To a woman who has sworn by Ferragamo all her life, and confesses to having regarded Stuart Weitzman as down market, $70.00 is a remarkable price for a pair of shoes.

Let's face facts. My family fortune has faded. I need to keep building up a decent casual wardrobe for what appears more and more likely to be my imminent retirement. I am a Sturdy Gal who hates high heels. All signs pointed to one and only one conclusion.


It would have been dumb not to buy these. Dumb, and a symptom of the High WASP snobbery I struggle to resist. I liked the shoes. I could afford the shoes. I bought the shoes. Some of us grow both by indulging in slightly vulgar dreams of Louis Vuitton and by coming to terms with a reality of Steve Madden brogues.

And lest you think I am virtuous, it has occurred to me that no one will know they are Steve Madden unless I tell the Internet.

Images: me
Shoes: Steve Madden "Trouser" from Nordstrom

LPC is at "Loving Nature's Garden" Today

Today I'm at Alison Kerr's blog, Loving Nature's Garden. Writing about why you should get a cordless electric lawn mower like mine and taking pictures of my lawn. I love my mower as much as I love my granite counter tops. Please take a look. Thank you very much.

Do You Know What Makes A Good Vacation Souvenir?

I have no souvenirs of my trip to Sweden. At least nothing purchased.

I brought home photos, of course. It would have been hard not to, surrounded by such sights. Here's a last one. The inlet, where my stepfamily docks their boats.

The lack of goods isn't completely my fault, or my virtue for that matter. There aren't many stores on Ingmarso. However, when we visited Sandhamn I did buy a shirt for my daughter. Her birthday's coming up. It's white, tunic-style, with a criss-cross tie. I gave it to her while we were there.

I thought about this shirt too,

given the label.

Some things follow you all your life. No matter where you go. I hadn't known Scandinavian Preppy was crying out for definition, but travel will broaden the mind.

Another possibility on Sandhamn.

But having brought dishtowels home from France, enough, it seemed, was enough in the way of pieces of cloth with which to mop my pots.

On my way home, I spotted this gentleman in Chicago. He had gotten off the flight from Stockholm too. He wore natty, orange napkin clips from SAS business class on his sky blue Lacoste lapel. I told him he looked great. Clips would have been good souvenirs.

There is something else I am coveting, however, as a post-trip souvenir. Remember how Sweden just had a royal wedding? And you know what the Europeans do when they have a royal wedding? They go all capitalist. Leading to fabulous items de decor. That's fancy French for stuff.

Witness the Royal Collection. These are table runners.

But I want the Royal Collection porcelain bowls. My Swedish stepsister gave mugs in this pattern to my daughter and I started wringing my hands and thinking, "My Preciousssssssss," immediately. They are so smooth. The pale blue is so pale. My china is white, or white and gold. Of course, I'd have to hide the pink and gold Murano doves that sit on my dining table or risk perpetual Easter egg as a home decor theme, but The Princess needs my support. She told me so.

What souvenirs do you like to bring home? And what are your feelings about royal wedding china? Do you have any feelings about royal wedding china? I had a friend who collected Coronation mugs. The British and their inimitable sense of humor. I just can't figure out if I want these bowls - because I like them - or whether once they were in my house I'd say to myself, "Really? Crowns?"

But good souvenirs are exempt from the usual strictures.

Images: Mostly me, except,
Scandinavian Designs Table Runners
Scandinavian Designs Bowls

Do Mysterious Baltic Organisms Cause Sore Throats, Or, Saturday Morning at 8:36am

You all have asked me, "Are you glad to be home?" And the answer is, yes. Not glad to be done with vacationing in the Stockholm Archipelago. That was addictive, and one twitches a little on backing off from addiction. But certainly happy in my little ranch house, with the fading family fortune, a Pottery Barn sofa and my wildly growing herb garden. Happy with the little set of rituals I live by. I think almost everyone is glad to be home, when it happens. True home.

The only thing is that I have had a terrible sore throat. So bad I couldn't even drink tea. I don't do well in the absence of tea. I went to the doctor, twice, to make sure it wasn't strep. High WASPs with a New England mother do not like to go to the doctor ever, much less twice in one week. It implies that we do not know how to Buck Up and Get On With Our Responsibilities.

But it wasn't strep. At which point I started to wonder whether a wayward Baltic organism had made its way into my swallowing regions. The doctor looked at me like, "Oh dear god. Not another person who has watched too many episodes of 'House.'"

He prescribed opiates. He even used the word, "Opiates." At which point lauren reminded me of the opium trade and I couldn't go there, even though I take Xanax to fly, but that's psychology which is an entirely different matter. High WASPs believe in nerve tonics. Emily Dickinson told us they were all right.

Fortunately, after dizzying quantities of ibuprofen (in place of codeine), some chocolate, and a lot of ice water, I'm feeling much better. And feeling better reminds me of the good part of coming home. I think to myself, "Oh, that's right. It's a joy to be alive. Oh good."

I always feel like I've gotten away with something unspecified when I recover from illness. You know the glee of a child who gets to stay up late because their parents have a party and everyone drinks too much?

Although I can't say I've really given up on the Baltic organism. Have a wonderful weekend.

The Rapture Of A Northern Maritime

There were no berries this year, on Ingmarso. We traded them in, apparently, for sun. Day after day of sun. No rain means few berries, and the ones that do grow are small and dry. Even the moss on the rocks was crisp.

I arrived Monday morning, and was at the mainland harbor by midday. Clouds briefly overhead.

We took a boat to my stepfamily's house Some time, not too long after we arrived, the sun began to set. I watched from the steps.

Eventually some darkness. Even in the long days of Swedish summer it gets dark eventually.

My youngest sister and her family arrived later that night. But we woke up early in the morning and went to swim in the fresh water pond behind the house.

A dry forest crunches underfoot.

Ponds, however, are ponds. My nephew fell in. The rest of us got out covered in pond vegetation. Commonly known as slime. It was a wild time. Other bacchanalia included frog-catching and fishing with worms off the dock.

The next day we took a boat out into the Baltic. One can say many things about this part of the world. None of them complex.

Granite rocks slope directly into brackish water. The sky is wide, the sea brightly lit. There are houses, here and there. Boats, here and there. More boats than houses. More trees than boats. More sky than anything. Well, except perhaps sea.

The Stockholm Archipelago is either a place simply defined, or a place of worship for the erstwhile soul. Imagine Gregorian chants, only blue, and windy. Some people like the tropics best. Others prefer the blasted purity of a Northern maritime.

The thing is, it's just so beautiful. We walked to the harbor, where there were boats, as is common in harbors.

The next day we went to Sandhamn. On what can only be called a yacht. We flew the Swedish flag, of course.

We passed the Royal Yacht Harbor, where royals keep their, well, yachts.

We passed houses. A small one.

A red one.

We went to sleep. We got up. We took the smaller boats to a smaller island. Where children played and made the rocks into worlds. I remember what that was like, when I was small.

The sky was pretty blue.

You can survive the sea, maybe. You can survive the sky, maybe, But the next sight, and there will be one more and then another, will roll your eyes back into your head. I said several times that if this kept up I might faint. I should perhaps have worn a life preserver on the boat, to float, overcome, when I careened overboard.

With so little on the horizon, one's middle opens a space in recognition. You swoon but you remain. All the voices and startles left over from running an ordinary life take their leave. Consciousness stays. Which means you meditate without trying. Or maybe the landscape itself recites, " Sky, land, water, sky, land, water," until you reach a clear mind.

One gains perspective, floating, head visible, on a large dark blue green barely salt sea.

It is a time when empty means beautiful. Not lonely. Not void. Not sorrow. It convinces you that man's natural state is rising joy and elation.

On the last day, my stepbrother-in-law and one of my sisters and I took a hike a little off the beaten track. I found room for water-lilies. There's more room for beauty than I would have guessed.

As though every breath is some kind of drug.


Images: By me, except the red house and Swedish flag, by my brother-in-law.
Note: My apologies for the breathlessness here but there's really nothing else that I could say. We will return to regular immediately.

What Everybody Ought To Know About Swedish Home Style

To some, Swedish home style means something like these below. Seats? I'm not sure.

The Grandes Dames among us might dream more grandly. Maybe of Swedish gilt.

In fact, as lived, Swedish home design is above all endearing. Made for smiling. Some things are fuzzy, some anthropomorphic. White for dark winters, and color for long summers - woven, or bended, or carved. But little seems to be made without thought, or placed without care.

The Swedish interiors I have experienced are places of comfort. Where each detail warms your heart. Sort of like one long wedding, of family to itself. Even in summer, when the interior is, well, outside.

This is my stepfamily's house on Ingmarso, in the Stockholm Archipelago, taken early one morning as everyone else lay sleeping.

Being infinitely wise about people living in close quarters, they have also built an attached little house, known as, The Little House.

My stepfather acquired this land almost 50 years ago. Recently his daughter remodeled the main kitchen, beautifully. The counters, I believe, are teak, the cabinets stainless steel, all from Ikea. This should surprise no one.

When you wake up early, pull open a drawer and find pastry from the local bakery. The plastic bag closes with a miniature clothes pin, decorated with what appears to be a sailing flag. I want 65, please, since I'm sure I would lose many and feel sad if I could not return immediately to Sweden for replacements.

As you can see, the kitchen is now part of the living room. And, other than four small bedrooms and one bathroom, that's it for the main house. Can you see the red-painted wood chairs? My favorites.

There's little need for space in vacation cottages. You live outside. You shower outside. You eat outside.

The first night, we had salmon, salad, and potatoes. This should surprise no one. Potatoes are to Swedes as snow, mythically, is said to be for the Inuit. They have even invented special potato-poking tools to assess doneness. Often decorated with a carved wooden moose head. See the printed napkin on the right? Blue, white, gold, and paper. Oh boy.

Warmth, humor, and detail carry out past the home and into restaurants. One day we all got into a large boat, owned by my stepsister's colleague, and went to Sandhamn. Another island. One with a delicious restaurant. Where they serve chilled water in glass bottles decorated with a rope braid collar. My sister held the bottle and poured. Thanks, sister.

The napkin ornamentation was nice too. I love a monogram and chain stitch.

The kind restaurant owners had painted the ceiling a gorgeous cerulean blue, and mounted cobalt chandeliers for contrast. A gorgeousness overdose, really.

The brass hinge on the window next to my seat. They had me at cerulean, hinges were unnecessary.

What appears to be Libby's Corned Beef Hash, below, is in fact a dish called Pytt i Panna. Cubes of beef, ham, potato, onion and beets. While my tongue craved a crayfish stew, Pytt i Panna is what my stepfather wanted me to cook when he first got out of the hospital so I felt that fate was saying this needed to be my lunch. It was pretty good. Jamie Oliver agrees with me.

Even the most casual of places cater to aesthetic sensibilities. Later in the week we ate at the Ingmarso harbor cafe. This place used to be called something like Armadillo Willy's but came to its senses for the most part and reverted to cultural roots. Except the nachos but we will gloss over those quickly. A blue metal pail full of utensils and napkins. Sigh.

To say nothing of something called Planka, meaning "board." An aquavit and sealife taster. For my brothers-in-law.

I had beer and fried Baltic herring, or strumming. I can't eat pickled herrings, no matter how they pickle those poor critters, but fried in batter and nestled into some mashed potatoes and melted butter? Oh boy. Oh boy.

Finally, the stairs leading from the inlet dock up to the house. Whether the builder knew that the top landing would make a perfect place to sit, mug in hand, and watch the sun play on the water, I do not know. In a Swedish summer, home style includes skylight. And I love the way unfinished wood smells when it gets warm. Especially when it's old enough that you don't have to worry about splinters.

I can't forget my manners. The only Swedish word I know is thank you, but it's the most important here. "Tack," Swedish family, "Tack sa mycket."

Images:
Bended thingies from life is carbon, all about Scandinavian design
Mirrors from Cupboards & Roses, specializing in Swedish antiques
All others by me

Note: The scenery is yet to come. I haven't forgotten that all these home goods sat in the middle of the sky on some water.

12 Critically Important Travel Notes

1. My uniform of black yoga pants, black tee, black pumas + LV and diamond studs usually works fine for travel. A shortage of water for laundry on the island meant I wore a white tee on this return trip. Not so good. I was almost saved by orange Havianas. Not quite.
2. Some airports you have to take your shoes off, some you don't. The ones where you do it's bad to wear flip flops. It's good to have Purell. Just pour it on said flip flops after you have walked with naked toes across that icky floor. Insert feet.
   
3. The Stockholm airport deposits you right into the center aisle of a Duty Free shop, once you come through security. Leaving people like me stunned and unable to proceed in a linear fashion. All I remember is the words Must Have. They were printed in many places.
4. I will need to carry a camera round my neck, if I intend to continue blogging about travel. And to know what that camera does, of course.
5. I do think that older couples, he in a blue blazer and khakis, she wrapped in a shawl and wearing large gold shell earrings, look terribly dignified.
6. SAS service is fantastic. The flight attendants smile at you. They appear to mean it. They do a good job of pretending if they don't mean it.
7. It's not terribly fun when your plane aborts a landing. You might have to shriek a little bit. "Woo!" is sufficient.
8. It's unclear why business class, given all the stuff they give you wrapped in plastic, doesn't also provide trash bags.
9. O'Hare is torture. New methods are devised every day. As a result, I can tell you nothing of use. Just prepare your soul.
   
10. Fathers who travel with two young children and then read Alice in Wonderland to them on a Kindle are endearing.
11. I've never come home from vacation before without a stressful job awaiting me. It's a pretty nifty system.
12. Impatience gets you nothing. At least in airports.