“Top Definition. nelipot. One who walks without shoes; one who goes barefoot. The nelipot walked slowly, letting the mud squeeze up between his toes.”
SURE, SURE, I drove over to Ft. Wayne, Indiana for Tarantino’s HATEFUL EIGHT–in the dead of winter! I became submerged…immersed beyond redemption…inside realistic, gritty, merciless cowboy land and shall never exit — at least, from his version. Thus, when my cable TV’s evangelical channel, carrying westerns all day long and saving souls late into the evening, fills my screen with the Technicolor azure buckaroo skies of New Mexico (the only exotic land to which I ever travelled), I try to contemplate and in so doing comprehend the sheer villainy of Bruce Dern or Lee Marvin or Gene Hackman or Lee Van Cleef or Jack Palance of SHANE or Forrest Tucker (of all people? Forrest Tucker, who starred as THE MUSIC MAN which I once saw at the Shubert in the Windy City and who was the beau of AUNTIE MAME. Oh, and he is a HOOSIER BTW?). In fact, these days, I earnestly emulate their Bad Bart rotten attitudes whenever my own Dagwood (Don, to you readers out there) challenges my authority: “I got something you want, right? Well, I got a list of chores for ya first! And just tinkering ain’t good enough!” Following my pointedly sober and stern and gruff directive, I slide a cold beer across the length of the kitchen table in his direction–if back talk ensues as it often does, I reply, “Smile when ya say that, pardner!”
Now, this unsolicited church channel with its gun-slinging right and left is case in point that Prez Obama was onto something at that country club in San Francisco a few years back when he very nearly shot himself in the foot. I shall not revisit what I felt to be his strongest declaration ever and one which I heartily approved, because I’ve no choice but to live out the rest of my days in a Midwestern, very RED, rustbelt state. (That said, his comments might have had something to do with “guns and Bibles” … but you didn’t hear that from me!) Yet, our “pious” Governor Mike Pence himself has flown the coop to cuddle with THE DONALD J. Trump, who, the guv’nor’s protestations to the contrary, is about as pious as a turnip! One of life’s little ironies!
Let us address HEELS…no, not that kind (mentioned above)! Consider little pedestrian old houswifey me. NEVER with false eyelashes, like all the too, too glamorous one-room schoolhouse marms or Audrey Hepburn fashion plate types who evidently populated the old wild west once upon a time…a hint of cleavage via bodice-busting gingham dresses, long peroxided or inky dyed hair swirled into incredibly lacquered beehives, and always those sensual mouths coated with iridescent hot pink lipstick shimmering and glistening for the cameras. “Oh my! Those naughty marauding Indians (from central casting) are galloping over yonder hill and headed our way…I shall stop crimping pie crusts and grab my rifle.” I, though leading a traditionally dull life, have shared those unconvincing Mesdames’ familiarity with tons of…HEELS!
Yes, I recently tackled autumnal closet clutter: an accumulation of pretty, pretty ingénue girl crap and tons of stiletto heels; Mary Janes; wedges; gladiator sandals; platform atrocities; clogs; and street-walking footgear – the kind my parents would have spanked me forever for purchasing. I bagged up all this unsuitable, impractical, and often unworn footwear for the Whitley County Humane Society’s latest fund-raising effort, shoes shipped to barefooted denizens of Third-World countries. This was one of the happiest moments of my entire life, where two of my passions (slipper collecting and animal advocacy) at long last complemented one another instead of colliding. I presently prefer animals to shoes because…I AM AN ADULT! Money for shelter pets, clothes for the poverty-stricken, and least importantly – though still crucial to my well-being – I acquired much needed SPACE! I found my heart — buried deep inside where it did not show.
POSTSCRIPT: Hillary and I are virtually the same age, and I recently noticed that she herself no longer even sports those sensible kitten–heeled dress shoes, consistently coordinated with her inspired AND inspirational pantsuits (of which I totally approve). Rather, one lately can see that the flattest flats (the French refer to such as trotteurs!) available on this or any other planet allow her to scoot about at rallies and debates and Wall Street lectures with aplomb. No more fainting spells nor rubbery legs. This is another of myriad reasons that she deserves our votes. I can hardly wait to view her attire at the inaugural balls. I have only one request: that President (Hillary Rodham) Clinton looks not only comfortable in her own skin but also in a sequined jacket and flowing trousers. Furthermore, if she cannot go barefoot (“nelipot!”), she should permanently toss all HEELS aside and be allowed to HEAL this nation on DAY ONE (as they all say … AD INFINITUM)! And may her ascendant escalator ride glide all the way through that metaphorical glass ceiling. God Bless Hillary, and God Bless America! I am Susie, and I approve this message!