There is another person I often see on my morning commute with an inimitable sense of style. He is deft with a pair of scissors, and almost everything he wears, he has altered. He is fashion-forward, as they would say on Project Runway. Michael Kors would say that there is a clear sense of who this designer is, although he might not be able to figure out who “the girl” is to whom this is geared.

I took a few photos surreptitiously. He has these head scarves in a variety of materials. One morning I watched as he made one.

And here are his high-top sneakers, carefully crafted into very on-trend gladiators.

The leather jacket has been cut away and its closures replaced by self-fabric (or leather) ties.

Another day on public transit, and another life story that I’ll never know.

Human beings, it is said, are creatures of habit. Miz Shoes can attest to that, as she has ridden in the same seat in the same car (more or less) during the last 17 years of her commuting life. And because work hours are pretty typical, she has seen a lot of the same people day in and day out for the same 17 years.

There is a woman on the afternoon MetroMover who fascinates me. She is a kewpie doll of a woman: short, prone to wearing short little skirts. She is possessed of a tiny button nose, puffy lips and a blonde bouffant flip (none of which appear to be hers by birth, but of acquisition). She wears t-strap pumps of moderate heel that look like jazz dance shoes and sheer support hose. Her face is a study in botox and eye lifts. I’d would love to take a picture of her, but there is just something about her that is a little scary.

The other day, another woman of Miz Shoes non-acquaintance, but similar work schedule got on the shuttle at the same time as Kewpie Lady. This other woman has spoken to me once or twice, unsolicited, and displayed a sort of innocent mild looniness, so it seemed safe to approach her with the following question: How old do you think that woman with all the plastic surgery is? She is a cipher to me.

Well, with that question, we went from cordial impersonality to Miz Shoes was the Crazy Woman on the Train. The Other Woman looked around and said “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.” Really? Because there are not a lot of crazy Kewpie Dolls with Too Much Plastic Surgery on this shuttle. “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT.” and she scooted a little bit farther away.

So this has left me free to imagine Kewpie’s life story. And this is what I have decided. She is, indeed, a woman of a certain age, but she was not always. In her youth, how ever far away that really was, her name was Juan, and she was the star of a cabaret show where she portrayed Charo. Juan was fabulous and made a fabulous living as a drag queen Charo, enough to retire from the life, and have the ultimate surgery. Unfortunately, this did not work out the way he had hoped (i.e., he was not asked to marry by some handsome millionaire playboy), and so Juan-Charo has had to go to work as a secretary in a steno pool somewhere here in downtown Miami.

Yesterday was the old man’s birthday. He would have been 93. In May, it will have been seven years since he died. It doesn’t get easier, it just gets farther away. I miss him every day. I hear his voice in my head every day. I hear his advice. I heed his advice. The nurse practitioner for my mother called me yesterday, just to tell me what I already know: that Mummy is on the downside of the bell curve and declining. She’s been switched to soft foods. She’s losing weight. She’s not in pain, nor is she of this world, really. I am so glad that Daddy never saw her like this: it would have killed him.

My SisterGirlCousin went to see Daddy yesterday and lay a stone on his grave. She says that she let him know she was standing in for me. I’m sure he understood.

My current obsession, let me share it with you.

It’s been so long that Miz Shoes doesn’t remember when it happened, but at some point in January or December, the faithful big-screen hi-def TV blew a component which rendered it unwatchable. (The color wheel fried its bearings or some such nonsense, and it screams like a banshee. The picture is still perfect.) Here at the Casita des Zapatos we missed the Superbowl (quel horror!) and more importantly, the ads. This week we missed the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, which, as faithful readers know, is Miz Shoes favorite thing in the world. We sit on the sofa, the dogs and I, and read aloud from our AKC book of dogs as the breeds go by. One of our neighbors took pity on us, so we did get to see the second night and best in show awards. How about that Irish Deerhound, huh? Ain’t she a beauty? First time in 135 years that one took BIS. The PBGV was lovely in the hound group, and we all agreed that the Doberman couldn’t hold a candle to our own Miss Rosie the Pony.

In any event, there is no television in the house, which means no movies. No streaming movies, no dvds. Nada. Miz Shoes is suffering from severe withdrawal. Miz Shoes has often said that she’ll watch anything with sprocket holes, and not having Netflix is killing her. The RLA has vowed to fix this his own self, downloading pages and pages of instructions and an hour of video how-tos. It remains to be seen.

On the other hand, there has been an decided increase in studio time and productivity, as is evidenced by this entry and the fact that my little Etsy shop is getting updated tonight. Closets have been cleaned. Cooking has been done. Feh. I’d rather bee watching Farscape.

Ahem. A little Doberman haiku.

Rosie’s tail is short,

So she chases her hind leg.

She catches it, too.