Shireen Fashion Blog
A Fashion Felony
Posted by Shireen Sandoval 03/15/13, 2:00am
I was in a deep sleep when the raid happened. It was the middle of the night. The sound of the front door getting kicked in jolted me from my slumber. My heart raced. I knew it was over. I had the premonition a few days prior. I just didn't think it'd be so soon. I'd prepared myself - going over and over it - hundreds of times in my head. But now that it was actually happening, I wasn't ready. I looked through the darkness, toward the door of my bedroom and saw flashlights flooding my apartment. A cop yelled my name, demanding my surrender. I couldn't let them take me. Not now. Not like this. I was vunerable, disheveled and undressed.
Naked, I rolled off the side of the bed, quickly reaching for my new silk Wolford stockings (the thigh-high pearl'd stay-up ones.) They were exactly as I left them. Crumpled-up on the floor, after a few hours with a sexy Argentinian man I'd seduced at a local restaurant. He wasn't the marrying type (his words, not mine.) He snuck out earlier, as I pretended to lay sleeping. Trembling with fear, I threw on my Burberry Prorsum (mid-length, cotton-sateen trench coat.) Don't judge me, I got a good deal on net-a-porter.com, so it wasn't ungodly expensive. My feet felt around for my towering - but at the moment - toppled over, beige round-toed Nicholas Kirkwood kicks. I coyly snagged a pair from his 2013 Collection with my couture connections. It's just the way the fashion world worked. I snatched-up my Louis Vuitton Speedy bag (with my matching monogrammed wallet) and waited, in an attractive "caught off guard" pose.
"Hands over your head, NOW!," screamed one of the guys on the EFFC Team (Excessive Fashionista Faction Control.) They shined their bright lights straight into my eyes. I flinched. I was lit up like a red carpet on Oscar night and I was loving it. I stared straight ahead; posing. I was a train-wreck. I knew it. They knew it. Yet, no one could look away. My hair & body reeked of a glamourous night out, which consisted of: Capellini Pomodoro from my favorite Miami restaurant Cafe Prima Pasta, Clive Christian's Imperial Majesty perfume and perfectly smeared, smokey eye make-up. I was impossibly pret-a-porter. "Turn around! Slowly, Miss Sandoval!" The agent screeched like a hyena about to overcome his prey. Later, I would learn, he'd been bargaining knock off sources for months, trying to find my exact location. When he figured out I only wore the real thing, he bought my whereabouts from the bottom of a sale bin and enjoyed my capture more than a Blue Light Special. I begrudgingly obeyed his barks. In a stylish way, of course. I turned around with my best end of the catwalk pivot; body first, head last. I put my hands over my head in an outstretched pilates pose. I was about to be arrested for A Fashion Felony. Sweat beaded on my upper lip. I'd take it like the woman I was, but if the garment gods themselves were my witness, I wasn't gonna be chased down and charged in my birthday suit.
I smirked when they threw me in the back of the squad car (a 1970's Dodge Coronet.) It looked like it was straight out of the movie "Gone In 60 Seconds" (the original one.) Toby Halicki would've had a good laugh over this. I wasn't impressed by Hollywood the way I used to be. I was jaded from years of entertainment reporting. The agent in charge stared at me through his Rear View Mirror. I smiled seductively. Even though my body was twisted up, with my hands cuffed behind my back, I managed to apply my dark red Coco Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick, right before they threw me against the wall, searched me and read me my Carmen Miranda Rights.
The station was dark, dreary and damp. A sign in the corner, that read EFFC: gave off sporadic bursts of red neon light. The intermittent halo effect made the place look better than the dump it actually was. It reminded me of a joint I used to frequent down in the East Village of Manhattan in Alphabet city. It was called The Library. I didn't open a book there, but I learned a lot about life, love and the classic cut of Lanvin (the oldest fashion house in Paris.)
The agents led me to a small, dim room and handed me over to two burly guys, with tattoos and bad shoes. The overhead lighting was brutal. Like a bad department store, where you'd have to try on a bathing suit blindfolded, while drinking a dirty martini with extra Vermouth. They threw me into a steel chair that folded out, uncuffed me and asked if I needed anything. I demanded a tall, skinny latte from Starbucks (with soy milk and a dash of Stevia.) Instead, they handed me a half-filled, Styrofoam cup with stale black coffee and offered me a butt. I don't usually smoke but I took one. I puffed on it, nervously (only because it was one of those electronic cigarettes you use when you're trying to quit.) I crossed my legs, tilted my chin up and exhaled.
One of the burly guys shut the blinds as he left the room. They were going for the whole good cop, bad cop routine. The first undercover 5-0 told me his name was Jigsaw John and said: "I'll help you, if you help me." I eyed him suspiciously. His wardrobe was beyond styling. Jigsaw did have a certain sex appeal though, I'd give him that. He spread-out a dozen or so pictures in front me. "Is this your closet?" He asked. "Who wants to know?" I replied, taking a toke from my e-cig. His face twisted up in a crooked smile. He told me, in no uncertain terms: "A person that owns this many mind-blowing, magnificent pairs of shoes is in direct violation of code 15 of the EFFC handbook." The violation states: "Gluttony or greediness of excessively gorgeous, fabulous footwear is punishable by a life lived-out (incarcerated) in frumpy, unfrivoulous, flat shoes." I gasped aloud. I demanded to speak with my attorney, then pounded my right fist on the table, showing off my Cartier Love Bracelet and screamed: "What happened to my ONE phone call!! For the love of Christian Louboutin!"
When Jigsaw left, the "bad cop" made his entrance. When the partners passed each other in the doorway, I overheard Jig call him by his first name, Serpico. I could tell this man must've hated corruption and I'm guessing Haute Couture, too. He just stood there, hovering over me, with a sh*t-eating grin plastered all over his face. His sheer presence sucked the air outta the room. I needed a South Beach oxygen bar STAT. It didn't look favorable for me. He slapped both of his hands down on the table; I jumped back in my chair. Then he leaned into me. We were so close I could have kissed him or spit on him. He held his position for a good minute. I held mine, too. "What's it gonna be, Sandoval?" His saliva spattered my face. Grossed out, I spitefully whispered: "You ain't gettin nothing outta me." Serpico said they had a search warrant: "Like it or not, we're going into your closet as we speak. Unless, of course, you have something to confess." I stared at him with my "hungry model look" and he backed off a bit. "Suit yourself," I said and polished off my stale coffee like it was a highball of Scotch. A warm feeling came over me before I gave in.
They asked me for my John Hancock. Which I gave in good faith. Swooping, then looping up both S's in my autograph. Before they took a few pictures and booked me with A Fashion Felony, I was allowed to make my one phone call. I rang my stylist, naturally. She rushed down to the station, with a few different "looks" that I quickly changed in and out of before I mugged for the camera. They shot me from every angle. I like my right side best.
I didn't want to, but I had to face the facts. The evidence was insurmountable and so was my shoe collection. Some things in life you just can't apologize for. Like my most recent aquistions: The Gamma (an open-toed sheer bootie) by BCBG, two pairs of Talula spring wedges (light pink and black patent) from designer Jean-Michel Cazabat and last week, with the help of an "inside shoe source" (a known and wanted shoe lover - Bel Nerey) I was able to secure Nanette Lepore's new, bright green "Addicted To You Heel" pumps. Honestly, I didn't know how to size up the situation. I just knew I was in trouble, but I wore it well.
Right now, I'm out on bail. I want my stylist to know, I'm good for the money. I'm "suppposed" to go on trial in a few months. Until then, like a typical shoe addict, I'll be trying to score the perfect fit. If you don't see me around town, it's because I need my freedom. They knew I was a flight risk. I just can't imagine forcing myself or my foot (for that matter) into something I'd need a shorehorn just to turn around in. Jigsaw and Serpico did a good job, but you can't take the Fashion outta nista - even if it means getting slapped with A Fashion Felony. The design of this story is simple: Guilty as charged.
(This blog is based on untrue events. Yes, I made it up. The love of fashion however, I take complete and utter responsibility for. Including my expansive shoe collection. It's one of my Favorite Things. If you think any of the aforementioned shoes will set you free, you can buy them a www.bcbg.com www.kokopalenki.com www.nanettelepore.com
or save your money for a good bondsman, because you never know when you'll be the one WANTED for A Fashion Felony.