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Well, the morning went smoothly. At least on the surface. Ask anyone who knows me, and you will find that nothing goes smoothly. Underneath, I am a seething cauldron of chaotic emotion and thought. Still, that's no reason I can't alphabetize my socks right? Plus, a calm exterior has the advantage of lulling your enemies into a false sense of security. Who Teresa? Nah! Don't worry about her. Vanilla thinks she's ordinary...and then...snap! I have them in my clutches.
Not buying it, huh? Oh well, your loss.
On my way to volunteer at Adventure Boy's school, I stopped off to get Krispy Kremes to share with all of his classmates.
Those of you that do not have school aged children might be unaware of the tradition of spending a certain amount of money on or near your child's birthday to get treats for his whole class.
I was. I found out about it when Adventure Boy came home from Kindergarten the Friday before his birthday. He was in tears, and it took almost an hour for me to get the story that his classmates were angry with him for not bringing cupcakes. They all knew it was his birthday. They were all primed for cupcakes. When mom didn't show with the goods, they took it out on poor Adventure Boy. Name calling, ridicule, the silent treatment...they all had their own take on how to handle the disappointment.
Well, now the extorted protection payment is 30 Krispy Kreme dougnuts. And you better not forget the paper hats. These little bastards can't do without their hats.
I don't honestly think that he would have been subjected to any hostilities at this age if we skipped the class treat. Really, I brought the doughnuts because I know these kids from seeing them every week, most of them are nice kids who deserve a treat once in a while, and because $12.47 is a small price to pay to grease the wheels of your child's social acceptance.
I can still smell those damned things in my car. They disappeared down the gullets of 29 hungry children and one embattled teacher hours ago...yet their scent lingers on.
Funny thing about that smell. It's repulsive, cloying, heavy, and yes, it is a sticky smell. Don't ask me to explain that. Go find someone you know well and trust. Preferably someone who has done lots and lots of acid, and ask them how something can smell sticky. They will explain it to you, and when you don't get it, they will probably offer you some notebook paper to chew on. Don't take it.
Anyway, as revolting as that smell is, and I do not exaggerate...it somehow managed to make me hungry. God help me, I wanted a Krispy Kreme. Someday, we will find out that they glaze those things with coccain.
So instead, I went shopping. Normally, a day of shopping runs a close second to stabbing myself in the eye with a fork. Maybe it was the coccain-laced doughnut fumes, but I felt like it today. So I went to a place that I would never never shop. Why? Because I wasn't myself, silly. I went to Von Maur. Sounds expensive, doesn't it? I think it costs you a fee just to say the name.
I picked out half a dozen dresses that I would never ever ever wear, and tried them on. Now, if you had ever seen me in a dress...you would have been attending my confirmation, my graduation, or my wedding. When I was a tiny girl, my mom used to make me wear dresses sometimes, but she quit making me because she got tired of total strangers seeing my underware, she got tired of sewing them up after I tore them, and because there are some stains that just don't come out...especially if the girl wearing the dress is determined to find them and apply them liberally to said dress.
But I digress. I got the dresses, went into a changing room, and laughed myself silly. They were, on the balance, members of that class called "little black dresses". Strapless, spagetti straps, filmy non-sleeves...bare shoulder, bare arm stuff. Not for me.
I've got the kind of build that you get when English peasants marry Norwegian peasants, and their children marry German peasants. In other words, put me in a strappless evening dress, and I look like one unit in the Buffalo Bills second string line-up...in drag. My legs are a LOT nicer than any of those guys, though.
But then I got to the last one, and I stopped laughing. I guess this must have alarmed the saleslady even more than the laughing did, because she came to the door and asked if I was alright. I said I was fine...but I wasn't. I was standing in front of the mirror like a beef cow post slaughter-house sledgehammer. I might even have felt a sharp, blinding pain between my eyes as my world view shifted ninty degrees to line up with what I saw in the mirror.
Damn! I was HOT! This one had sleeves, of course...not big sleeves...they were barely there...but they covered up the brawniest part of my arms. Cleavage...slit up one leg...the skirt ended just above the knee, and my calf muscles would make Tina Turner envious (editors note: This writing, and all others by this writer are rife with hyperbole...please read with caution and a healthy dose of skepticism).
Still under the influence of coccain fumes and whatever it was that hit me on the head in the changing room, I decided that I should try the one that was a size smaller. Down from a 16 to a 14. It was tighter than I usually wear my clothes...but it fit.
So a wave of motion sickness came upon me due to a shifting in my body image. My disorientation was complete. I paid $160.00 for the little black dress, and nodded obediently to the suggested pair of $76.00 high-heeled shoes.
I'm still not entierly sure what happend. I swear to you that I ate none of those funny doughnuts, and I haven't chewed on any paper for years.
So tonight, I have an invitation to dinner at the neighbor's house, and later I'm going to listen to a jazz band with my best friend Sue. She knows one of the guitarists, I guess. Rick said that he would drive up and babysit.
But the little black dress is going to hang in the closet like the hallucination it is. I'm going in my black leather boots, black jeans, black wife-beater tank, and silver-grey blouse. Comfort clothes.
Guess the coccain doughnuts are wearing off. I'm me again. |