Please allow me to reintroduce myself. I’m Angela Petrelli. As you may recall, some time ago I was arrested for shoplifting a pair of socks. Of course Nathan was mortified when he came for my release. “What could I possibly need so bad that I had to steal it?” This is what he wants to know. Not WHY would I steal, but WHAT.
I had two replies to him:
#1: I believe the correct question is, ‘What could I possibly need so BADLY that I had to steal it?” Did I raise a troglodyte? Did he skip English class before my very eyes? Not the sharpest tack in the box. But the ladies claim he’s “ripped,” and he can fly. I can sleep better at night knowing that he’s got that going for him.
#2: The answer to his question is Socks!
Yes, socks! It’s the cheap thrill of the five finger discount of lightly lifting the perfect and divine foot shroud. Have a look at it from these old, tired eyes. I married at 16 to be married for 41 years to an emotionally stunted man who left me widowed at his own hands at 57. At least I wasn’t left intestate. (That means with out a will, you perverts.)
At this age, clearly I’m not going to don a bobby top and hot pants to slut my way through the latest watering hole to make it in this month’s issue of Time Out New York. I need to get my ya-ya’s too. My drug of choice; a foot fetish which manifests in pair after pair of luscious socks. All of which are neatly tucked away in my Chanel clutch as I sashay out the door past the store “securite.”
I’d like to take this moment to share some of my favorite finds with you. Call me a voyeur. What can I say?
These were an obvious choice to add to my collection. Part of the beauty of these is that they actually came as a three pack. More so, I got them at Daffy’s. Pret a Porter in the slum? Classic! They had to come home to Momma.
You are looking at the infamous socks of said shoplifting arrest. The fringed trimmed yarn alone makes them worth the trouble. How was I to know the other lady planning on shoplifting them for herself would turn me in to get even. Women are so catty, no? I may have went to jail, but I got my socks. As for my traitor, clearly there were other socks to be stolen, so she is no longer with us.
Look at this delightful sock. I had to have it. Simply had to. I didn’t care if there was only one! That little runt wasn’t too eager to part with it, even with all of the “suggesting” that I did. She too, is no longer with us. As for the sock, it is on my perfectly pedicured tootsie as I type.
How do I love these socks? Let me count the ways! Perhaps tenfold, one for each toe. Or perhaps its because they say “HO,” and I like to wear them in front of Nathan whilst he’s on his monthly extortion call to that bleach blonde hussy of a baby momma in Texas.
What’s that you say? Christmas spirit? Do I seem like a woman who has time for such things? I’m busy too making and breaking lives…and stealing socks.
I managed to get Victoria Pratt to embrace the glory that socks can bring to our empty, hollow souls. Her striped ones are very fitting for her. But mine are better. They say “JUICY!”
These were stolen from my grandchild Claire. Any one who doesn’t appreciate the fact that they’ve just discovered that they come from old money, and is getting a free trip to Paris on top of it, does not deserves classic Argyle socks.
Finally, these are my crowning glory. I feel they bring me good chi; like imported incense at a Shinto Shrine. I find they are the most inspiring when worn to make those hard core choices that impact not only my immediate family, but the world as well. Fleeing town while everyone chars like weenies on a beach grill was a wise choice made whilst wearing my bunny socks. When the chips are down, bunny socks are a moral imperative . One cannot rely on their friends, any of the 11 of them. But one can ALWAYS rely on their bunny socks.
Yours in cashmere covered foot goodness,
Mrs. Angela Petrelli