There were so many parties riding on the back of Art Basel Miami Beach, according to the Times, that “anyone without a crib sheet, or the power publicist Nadine Johnson on speed-dial, was lost.” So legion were the corporate-scented art-design-fashion fêtes, in fact, that Manhattan socialite Lee Schifter’s speech pattern was reduced to something akin to gibberish. “Did you Pucci or Choo?” she asked at one point, referring to a pair of concurrent parties—one given by Jimmy Choo founder Tamara Mellon and the other by Emilio Pucci’s daughter, Laudomia.

And those who didn’t Pucci or Choo were able to Swarovski, Audi and Cartier. Oh, and a few lucky people could also Klein, if they so desired, by dining with the 65-year-old designer, Calvin, at his new, art-free, Greece-or-something manse. No lazy affair, the planning for Mr. Klein’s party reportedly took several weeks and included “casting” and “importing” actor-waiters from New York. Art for promotion’s sake? It’s safe to say that Andy Warhol would be quite pleased. [NYT]

If I lived in the suburbs—where feet travel in cars—maybe I’d stop looking down. But summer in Manhattan is one endless heel parade. How the hell do other women keep their nether parts so pink and creamy while tromping around all day in the barest Jimmy Choos? And their skin never gets dirty. I soak and soak and scrub and scrub, but after five minutes in flip-flops, my feet look like twin street urchins from a casting call for Les Misérables.

Perhaps you find such cosmetic concerns petty. Welcome to 21st-century New York, a city bent on bodily perfection. It wasn’t always this way; back in the mid-80’s, I knew only two people who belonged to a gym. In those days, this particular use of one’s leisure time was considered bizarre and uncool, on a par with joining the Shriners and zipping around the sidewalk on weekends in a tiny car. Sure, people preferred to be thin, but that’s what smoking was for. Anyway, in an era when everyone wore head-to-toe black and Lycra was reserved for leotards, flawlessness wasn’t required. Certainly not for feet.

If only I could return to those innocent times. I’ve lived here for 25 years, and for 20 of them I’ve felt totally comfortable with minimalist grooming practices—wash hair, shave legs, occasionally tweeze eyebrows. This was New York, after all, not L.A. I made it to my 40’s without one professional pedicure. But as backless sandals gentrified my closet, I happened upon a short story (by the British author Helen Simpson) in which a woman’s heels were likened to “hunks of Parmesan.” For the first time in my life, it occurred to me to look—really look—at my own heels. Omigod. Parmesan. Aged Parmesan, exposed to the world in a new pair of mules.

Off I raced to get the first of many, many pedicures. There was no going back. But does anyone stop to consider the social cost of this insanity? This city was once vibrant with storefront psychics, Chinese laundries and bodegas. Now all we have are spas and salons tempting us with herbal foot soaks. In my neighborhood alone, there are enough of these joints to make Starbucks jealous.

I guess we could fight back by staying home to soak our feet in the bathtub, but that would hamper our multitasking. Try exfoliating your own heels while yakking on a cell phone or, like the woman next to me at my last pedicure, cradling a Chihuahua.

No, resistance is futile: With no backs to secure them, our shoes snap against our soles and cause calluses, so we run to the nearest day spa. A half-hour later, we emerge in strappy sandals to show off our rosy appendages, and the whole vicious cycle begins again. Before we know it, we’re pedicure junkies.

In desperate need of a last-minute baby-sitter for a recent evening out, I phoned a normally eager young woman from our roster of starving artists. Airily kissing $80 goodbye, she declined. “I’d love to,” she said, “but I’m going to the beach tomorrow and I have to get a pedicure.” Who needs food money? That was her jones talking.

Most straight men remain oblivious to this addiction. You’d think they might catch on. When I walk down the street with a guy who asks me, in tiresome fashion, whether a passing woman’s breasts are the ones she was born with, my reply is always the same: “I don’t know.” I was looking at her feet.

I think my husband may suspect something, though. Recently, he’s begun teasing me about my shell-pink toenails. To which I say: Get with it, buddy—we New York women have dumped our inner earthy Janis Joplins and embraced our outer plastic Jessica Simpsons. We stop at nothing: dermabrasion, bikini waxing, Botox, laser hair removal (speaking of which, it’s hard to believe I used to shave my underarms with a twinge of guilt for succumbing to arbitrary standards of feminine beauty; these days, I grimly annihilate any unwanted hair that asserts its right to exist on my body).

Summer is here, and I’ve returned to the pedicure circuit. A stubborn crack has appeared on the edge of each foot. My heels are once again whispering nasty things about me behind my back, and I’m sure the entire town is listening.

But I refuse to despair: A change of shoes, I believe, can change the world. I dream that somewhere deep beneath the earth’s surface, thousands of cast-aside loafers and pumps are gathering to prepare for battle. One day soon they’ll emerge, joining forces with a band of sturdy lace-up oxfords who survived by hiding in a nursing home. Then this army of sensible footwear will storm the shops, driving those evil mules back into the slipper department where they can’t hurt us anymore.

I pray the revolution comes before global warming removes any excuse for wearing boots. And before—heaven help us—the podiatrists wrest this city from the shrinks.

If I lived in the suburbs—where feet travel in cars—maybe I’d stop looking down. But summer in Manhattan is one endless heel parade. How the hell do other women keep their nether parts so pink and creamy while tromping around all day in the barest Jimmy Choos? And their skin never gets dirty. I soak and soak and scrub and scrub, but after five minutes in flip-flops, my feet look like twin street urchins from a casting call for Les Misérables.

Perhaps you find such cosmetic concerns petty. Welcome to 21st-century New York, a city bent on bodily perfection. It wasn’t always this way; back in the mid-80’s, I knew only two people who belonged to a gym. In those days, this particular use of one’s leisure time was considered bizarre and uncool, on a par with joining the Shriners and zipping around the sidewalk on weekends in a tiny car. Sure, people preferred to be thin, but that’s what smoking was for. Anyway, in an era when everyone wore head-to-toe black and Lycra was reserved for leotards, flawlessness wasn’t required. Certainly not for feet.

If only I could return to those innocent times. I’ve lived here for 25 years, and for 20 of them I’ve felt totally comfortable with minimalist grooming practices—wash hair, shave legs, occasionally tweeze eyebrows. This was New York, after all, not L.A. I made it to my 40’s without one professional pedicure. But as backless sandals gentrified my closet, I happened upon a short story (by the British author Helen Simpson) in which a woman’s heels were likened to “hunks of Parmesan.” For the first time in my life, it occurred to me to look—really look—at my own heels. Omigod. Parmesan. Aged Parmesan, exposed to the world in a new pair of mules.

Off I raced to get the first of many, many pedicures. There was no going back. But does anyone stop to consider the social cost of this insanity? This city was once vibrant with storefront psychics, Chinese laundries and bodegas. Now all we have are spas and salons tempting us with herbal foot soaks. In my neighborhood alone, there are enough of these joints to make Starbucks jealous.

I guess we could fight back by staying home to soak our feet in the bathtub, but that would hamper our multitasking. Try exfoliating your own heels while yakking on a cell phone or, like the woman next to me at my last pedicure, cradling a Chihuahua.

No, resistance is futile: With no backs to secure them, our shoes snap against our soles and cause calluses, so we run to the nearest day spa. A half-hour later, we emerge in strappy sandals to show off our rosy appendages, and the whole vicious cycle begins again. Before we know it, we’re pedicure junkies.

In desperate need of a last-minute baby-sitter for a recent evening out, I phoned a normally eager young woman from our roster of starving artists. Airily kissing $80 goodbye, she declined. “I’d love to,” she said, “but I’m going to the beach tomorrow and I have to get a pedicure.” Who needs food money? That was her jones talking.

Most straight men remain oblivious to this addiction. You’d think they might catch on. When I walk down the street with a guy who asks me, in tiresome fashion, whether a passing woman’s breasts are the ones she was born with, my reply is always the same: “I don’t know.” I was looking at her feet.

I think my husband may suspect something, though. Recently, he’s begun teasing me about my shell-pink toenails. To which I say: Get with it, buddy—we New York women have dumped our inner earthy Janis Joplins and embraced our outer plastic Jessica Simpsons. We stop at nothing: dermabrasion, bikini waxing, Botox, laser hair removal (speaking of which, it’s hard to believe I used to shave my underarms with a twinge of guilt for succumbing to arbitrary standards of feminine beauty; these days, I grimly annihilate any unwanted hair that asserts its right to exist on my body).

Summer is here, and I’ve returned to the pedicure circuit. A stubborn crack has appeared on the edge of each foot. My heels are once again whispering nasty things about me behind my back, and I’m sure the entire town is listening.

But I refuse to despair: A change of shoes, I believe, can change the world. I dream that somewhere deep beneath the earth’s surface, thousands of cast-aside loafers and pumps are gathering to prepare for battle. One day soon they’ll emerge, joining forces with a band of sturdy lace-up oxfords who survived by hiding in a nursing home. Then this army of sensible footwear will storm the shops, driving those evil mules back into the slipper department where they can’t hurt us anymore.

I pray the revolution comes before global warming removes any excuse for wearing boots. And before—heaven help us—the podiatrists wrest this city from the shrinks.

Alice Evans, a leggy blonde who has dated Mr. Fantastic (Ioan Gruffudd) for five years, hobbled about in a broken Jimmy Choo heel. Jessica Alba couldn't talk to the press—she was seasick, according to her publicist. And when asked how he felt on this grand occasion, Mr. Fantastic himself replied in one adjective—"Moist."

Hoping to calm the livid reporters who they had literally stranded on an island, one well-intentioned publicist ventured on the red carpet to give a statement: "To anyone who this concerns, Julian [McMahon] is not wearing Hugo Boss, he's wearing Ted Baker."

Press: "Okay. Thanks."

Two second pause.

Raucous laughter.

"Who cares?"

Twenty minutes later, the fireworks display started—of course, they had been scheduled to pop off after the film, not before it. Since the first ferry had been arranged to head out after the fireworks, those who felt a bit antsy were overjoyed. And the bangs were grand! After a heartbeat-paced shower of stars, in a pause, a photographer hastily clapped. When the show started up again, he could be heard above the gunshots: "You lied to me!"

Indeed, the mood was somber when the finale went off: fireworks in the form of—are those fours?—exploded in the night sky. But the majority of fours were backwards, aimed to resemble fours to, perhaps, those safe, dry, lucky people who were still on a much larger island—Manhattan. Reporters giggled. And Jessica Alba was probably wishing she hadn't worn a barebacked Gucci gown. The chairs were soaking, and the only food was ice cream.
—Adriane Quinlan

It was a new word for me, too, and at first I was appalled. How could seemingly nice married men sit around and talk about other people's wives as fantasy lovers? I was repulsed by the idea that my husband of 15 years was going around checking out other women with children. If some mom we happened to be socializing with was hot, she might be a potential MILF, and therefore a threat to my marriage, at least in theory. Although the operative word in the term is "like"-meaning that these are not mothers that my husband would literally consider having sex with-just the fact that he wanted to was enough to rattle my sense of sexual security.

Once I learned the MILF word, things were never again the same at family-oriented events. I started looking warily around at birthday parties, calculating the competition at circle time. There were the women in tight clothes who were freshly Botoxed and glowing, or the ones who wore leather pants and Manolos to a gym party. If a sleek woman bent over to slice her son's pizza, her low-riding jeans revealing an expanse of black thong, I was sure none of the rest of us stood a chance of being noticed by the time the "Happy Birthday" song kicked in. I was also pretty sure that my husband was taking notes, to see if she would be a runner-up or a winner. And there was no talent portion to the contest-it was a purely physical award, with no chance of accumulating points for poise or charm.

The insidious thing about the MILF is that she is not a young, sexy celebrity; she's the mom next-door. This means that just about every mother is a contender in what I began to see as a competition. The idea of a competition wasn't pure fantasy on my part, prompted by my own insecurity. No, my husband perpetuated it, often mentioning that I was in second place for MILF (or perhaps, on a rare occasion, first) at a particular gathering. He thinks this is all good-natured fun, but I am usually not amused. It's not like this happens all the time, but it does happen enough to get on my nerves. Even when it feels good to measure up to other moms in a purely physical way, I can get angry with my husband for being so superficial.

But instead of just pouting, and to show I'm a good sport, I started playing along with the MILF game. I began rating women myself and telling my husband when I thought a woman was hot or not. After attending the endless stream of children's birthday parties, you need something to break up the monotony. And parachute time does seem more fun when you're thinking about a three-way. So I got into it a bit. The idea of the MILF both repulsed and titillated me.

At times it does feel strange, to be sure. My husband's friend, Mike-one of the guys who introduced him to the MILF word-checks out women all the time in front of his wife, who laughs it off. At a recent dinner with Mike and Sharon, his wife, at Mr. Chow, some women walked into the restaurant, and the men appraised. After commenting on their appearance, Sharon and I said we thought another woman was hotter. "I could get into her," I said naughtily. I was a little emboldened, having just watched The L Word . If the men thought I was turned on by another woman, even a little, would it make them shut up about her? They were a bit taken aback by my comment, but it didn't faze them as much as I had hoped. What was I trying to do? Should we have stewed like angry old wives? I thought twisting the comment around a bit would help, but I didn't feel much better. I still felt inadequate and annoyed.

But after a while, I began to understand that there were two sides to the coin, after all, and if someone considered me a MILF-well, it was flattering. How many mothers in their mid- to late 30's would not want to be the object of another man's desire, even if that man is a 45-year-old father with a gut and a receding hairline? As annoyed as I can get over my husband's occasional roving eye, I now see myself as potential MILF material-and frankly, it makes me a little excited. I am convinced some men are checking out my ass next to the SpongeBob cake, and I am feeling hotter than ever. I may be scooping my crying 5-year-old up off the floor, but on the other side of the room, some father may be thinking about how cute I look. Just knowing that he could be thinking about having his way with me on the gym mats makes going to yet another Jodi's Gym party worth it.

With MILF on my mind, I now dress for children's parties. Not dress up, mind you, just dress strategically. I'll usually reserve the dowdy look of tailored slacks and flats for weekday-afternoon parties, when I know most fathers won't be around. After all, I am a lot more comfortable doing the limbo or painting clay sculptures at the Craft Studio when I have some breathing room in my pants. But on the weekends, I have been perfecting my casual-yet-sexy look for parties.

For a recent Gymboree party on the Upper East Side, where I knew there was sure to be a high MILF content, I had dressed for action (or, more accurately, reaction). In my new Citizens of Humanity jeans, ribbed cotton sweater and high-heeled boots, it wasn't easy dragging my two kids and the heavy Zittles shopping bag with the present over to the party, but I was a MILF on a mission: to out-MILF the others.

I had guessed right: The competition was fierce. It was a hotbed of MILF-dom. I was particularly intimidated by a leggy brunette who looked like she spent more time with her trainer than her son, and by a tall blonde with implants. While I think I caught a few men giving me the eye, I can't be quite sure. But when my husband showed up, I knew my efforts had paid off: "You're up there with the best," he whispered to me by the fruit platter.

I'll admit that perhaps form-fitting clothes are not practical or even really appropriate for children's parties, but women with young kids don't have that many social opportunities to strut our stuff. It may not be easy to do the chicken dance in my Jimmy Choos, but for doing the nasty, they're perfect. And while I may not feel that great next to nubile hotties on the streets of Manhattan, in the pool of middle-age mothers, I rock.

But now that I've begun perfecting my MILF-ability, I need to start working on that other thing: checking out the FILF's, and letting my husband in on the game.

Cheer up! That hangover will eventually evaporate, and-best news of all-those bunions can be accommodated. No, I'm not talking about debilitating foot surgery! Just shuffle/stagger on over to the legendary Shoe Service Plus at 15 West 55th Street (212-262-4823) and demand to see proprietor Carlos Mesquita's miraculous new bunion-stretching machine. You never know whom you'll run into.

In a town where shoes are a religion, Carlos' shop is something of a midnight mission for worn-out soles. Blahnik lovers, Broadway hoofers, strippers, actresses and Vogue -ettes of all ages (Anna Wintour's sling-backs and mules are refurbished by Carlos himself) and genders (ditto André Leon Talley) line up every day clutching damaged and worn designer shoes, giving this establishment the air of a trampy, trendy soup kitchen. Though many customers seem to have come to flirt with the ultra-distinguished Carlos, 53, or his attractive son David, 23, all of the women I spoke to extolled the amazing service and value. At $25 a pop, Carlos' legendary refurbishments are a total bargain. "He can bring shoes back from the dead," said patiently waiting P.R. chief executive Lisa Linden, who will not even think of wearing new shoes until Carlos has Scotchgarded them and given them the once-over.

A handsome Portuguese heterosexual, Mr. Mesquita has an almost kinky rapport with his customers. "I can tell everything about a woman by her shoes," he said when I spoke to him recently as the lunchtime midtown rush was subsiding. "The way she takes care of them, or not; where they are worn; how they smell…." Eeeuw! "I have a closet like a woman," the French-raised Carlos continued provocatively, adding by way of clarification: "I wear the best shoes-John Lobb and Gucci-so I understand the feelings and needs of my female customers."

As we spoke, Carlos cradled-as if it were a bird with a broken wing-an injured Jimmy Choo cat-poo-colored, knee-length boot with a broken heel (again, a mere $25 to repair), prompting me to ask: Who makes the crappiest shoes? Which schlocky brands are most frequently placed in his healing hands? "Some shoes are prettier than others, some are stronger," replied Carlos diplomatically as he demonstrated his bunion-stretching machine, which is about the size of a small George Foreman grill. "Any shoe can give you bunions," he added, marking the area on the shoe which corresponds to the peak of a big-toe adjacent, Mt. Saint Helens–sized bunion. "And once women are becoming 30, the bones in the feet get flatter and the foot is getting wider. Then comes the bunions." Along with his regular refurbishments, Carlos performs about 40 bunion-accommodation procedures per day. At $10 a pair-$5 per bunion-Carlos' bunion-stretching is more economical than your Ibuprofin habit ($12.99 for 500 caps at Duane Reade).

N.B.: If your pedi-problem is truly dire, contact groovy Central Park West podiatrist Dr. Lewis Galle at 212-262-4588; he tends to the Rockettes' overstressed hooves.

Re shoes: Postmodern juxtapositions are big news this summer. Last winter, we had the high-heeled Timberland boot (originally created by Manolo Blahnik and subsequently knocked off ad nauseam). This season, Mr. Blahnik brings us an exquisitely rendered high-heeled basketball sneaker/mule ($455) that comes in, of all things, pink. Meanwhile, downtown at Sigerson Morrison, the high-heeled rubber flip-flop is provoking Baghdad-like riots. By early May, this fabulously engineered, perverse little item ($85, in fluorescent orange, fuchsia, red, lime green, chalky white, chocolate or black) had already become a sold-out footwear icon. The Mott Street store just received a fresh shipment. The next one doesn't arrive until mid-June, so get in line now (the store opens at 11 a.m. from Monday to Saturday; noon on Sundays).

And no, the high-heeled flip-flop is not just for young Calypso and Scoop-type chicks. You former gin-swilling funsters should also be eagerly partaking. All that freedom and unobstructed vision will be like a Fresh Air Fund weekend for those crusty bunions. Don't forget to sun-block your tootsies!

He was eating a wedge of cod, its skin seared to a crisp, that sat on a bed of corn kernels in a custardy sauce, encircled with a stencil of balsamic vinaigrette. "This is the best creamed corn I've ever had in my life," my friend said.

And Frenchmen used to sneer at Americans for eating corn. Food for cows!

We were having lunch at DB, Daniel Boulud's new bistro in midtown's City Club Hotel. Like a fashion designer with different lines, Boulud now has three tiers of restaurants to his name: Daniel, with its classic haute cuisine and expensive price tag, is the couture; Café Boulud, an Upper East Side neighborhood place, is for more casual wear; DB is the hipper version, pared down and laid-back, wearing its initials like a logo.

At lunch, the restaurant's front room is filled with sleek, well-dressed women picking their way through small crab and asparagus or Niçoise salads, their Louis Vuitton and Chanel bags tucked under the table next to their Jimmy Choos. "I think it's great," said my friend as he looked around the room. "It gives them an opportunity to get off Madison Avenue and into the side streets. After all, this is a safe neighborhood."

DB is a vibrant, energetic restaurant with a friendly, attractive staff. It is divided into two dining rooms. The one near the entrance has a festive ambiance, its plaster walls rubbed with lipstick-red paint and hung with photographs of red and yellow tulips, and black-edged mirrors tilted over olive velour banquettes. Adding to the casual feel, the polished veneer tables are laid without cloths, and the gray leather chairs have short legs, like those in Harry's Bar, so that you feel like a basketball player as you rise. The back dining room, connected by a vestibule set with a couple of high communal tables and a wall of wine bottles, is more businesslike and a little quieter, with pale gray-blue glass walls and mirrors and paper place mats set over linen cloths. Bistro or not, no attention has been spared in the restaurant's details, from the oversize dinner napkins wrapped with twine to the Bernardaud china and Christofle silver.

But Mr. Boulud is having fun with this place. There's even a hamburger on the menu–albeit one made with short ribs braised in red wine, taken off the bone and shaped into a thick patty and tucked inside a Parmesan roll. Instead of French fries, pommes soufflés are served in a paper-lined silver container. The mustard and ketchup don't come in squirt bottles, but in little hand-painted porcelain jars. Not your average bistro burger in any way, it's priced at $26 at lunch; add another buck for dinner. (Even "21" only dares to charge $24 at lunch, adding two dollars for dinner.)

DB's menu is short. At dinner, it's divided by ingredient, such as "Tomate," "Asperge" or "Volaille," with both appetizers and main courses listed beneath. It's a little confusing at first. Mr. Boulud takes deceptively simple bistro dishes to another level. Sometimes he puts together such seemingly incongruous ingredients that you marvel at his imagination. Salmon carpaccio is served with a mound of smoked eggplant caviar, garnished with radishes and celery and encircled by a bright green rim of lovage oil. It's not only visually stunning (as are many of his dishes), but the tastes all complement each other. He serves tuna tartare with sweetbreads, and boeuf en gelée with foie gras and horseradish–in a martini glass. A tomato gazpacho is made with a perfect balance of diced vegetables flavored with cilantro and studded with avocado and smoked shrimp.

The argument over whether a classic salade Niçoise is made with fresh or canned fish isn't settled at DB. Boulud makes his version " thon cru-cuit " with two preparations, one seared rare and sliced, the other a confit baked under olive oil. The confit is wonderful; you'll never want canned again–even if purists insist it's authentic. The salad is garnished with silvery fresh anchovy fillets, house-cured in vinegar, and hard-boiled eggs with beautiful deep yellow-orange yolks, making this one of the best Niçoise salads I've tasted.

Maryland crab and asparagus salad is exactly what it says and just what the ladies who lunch want. (It's a shame that they wave away the bread tray–they're missing a sensational whole-wheat peasant bread.) The pristine crabmeat is spooned onto a bed of lightly dressed greens and topped with spears of asparagus. What more could you ask for?

At dinner, an open ravioli is filled with chunks of lobster, peas and morels and served floating in a frothed sauce made with lobster broth, mushrooms and cream. "That fellow from El Bulli again," said my companion, referring to Spanish chef Ferran Adria, the mad scientist of the kitchen who has inspired chefs all over the world to froth away with a hand-held blender. The sauce is extraordinary, with an intense mushroom flavor. Mr. Boulud serves daily bistro specials, such as pork breast with truffled lentils (Monday), frogs' legs (Thursday) and bouillabaisse (Friday). On Tuesday, it's confit de canard, which is moist and silken under a fine crispy exterior, served with sautéed garlic potatoes.

Desserts are also listed under ingredients–strawberries, cherries and chocolate. The tarte du jour, apricot with a cherry compote and whipped crème fraîche, is flawless. So is the cherry and blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream. In place of the traditional cherries, clafoutis is made with chocolate. It's really just a fallen chocolate cake, nicely gooey in the center, served with blueberries and vanilla ice cream. The chocolate praline cake is not memorable, but the accompanying caramel ice cream nestled in a tuile is stellar. There's also a peach melba made with fresh peaches, not canned (as we used to get when I was growing up).

The food at DB is as stylish as the setting. If Mr. Boulud can make a hamburger taste this good, I'd like to see what he does with a hot dog, now that Nathan's has been obliterated from nearby Times Square.

DB BISTRO MODERNE

* *

55 West 44th Street

391-2400

Dress: Business or Madison Avenue chic

Noise level: Fine

Wine list: Interesting, reasonably priced, wide-ranging choices, mostly French and American

Credit cards: All major

Price range: Main courses, lunch, $22 to $26; dinner, $23 to $29

Lunch: Monday to Friday, noon to 2:15 p.m.

Dinner: Monday to Saturday, 5:30 to 11 p.m.

* Good

* * Very Good

* * * Excellent

* * * * Outstanding

No Star: Poor