Would you like a glass of pink champagne? March 29, 2010

Gizzards thoroughly glittered and pink ruffle butt rompers waltzing, stilted, 10 feet above my mind. Mum texted me twice to tell me her location (in front of Tommy Bahama!) I glanced up from my smart phone screen and thar she blew.

My mother, the nautical nurturer (and newly nudist,) had driven her Jeep all the way across town to meet me at the Domain for a Betsey Johnson Fashion Show. Her hair was still wind-blown from sailing at the lake all day. She zipped up her bright blue NorthFace jacket to protect her from all the couture. Her weight shifted in Sperry deck shoes; she seemed occupied with herself.

I missed her enthusiasm, but I dismissed a potentially catastrophic conversation about my absence as of late.

Together, we browsed the lush jewelery under the glass counter. I tested an over-sized, Swarovski encrusted whistle pendant. Just as I realized how quiet she was and how clashy the whistle was with my outfit, my Mum reached down into her shirt and around her neck was a real, live water safety whistle that she had employed during her oh-so-daring day on the sail boat. To the horror of every hearing individual within a 2 mile radius, she sounded this device as if she were in hurricane waves with failing floaties. Fashion fail. Demode.

Unique knits and last seasons sale distracted me long enough to decide that dinner at California Pizza Kitchen was not in my tarot cards this evening. The Fool was following with all four suits. My runes should read differently. Escape plan enacted.

“Can I help you ladies with anything? Would you like more pink champagne?”
“Oh yes! Go ahead and fill ‘er up.”

“If you need anything, my name is Claire! Just let me know!”

“OH, CLAIRE! THANKS GURL! I was just shopping with my daughter, Blair. I almost named her Betsey! Then her name would have been ‘Betsey Johnson’!! Iddinnat cool?! OMG I know!”

A thorough eye roll was not enough.

Cool is so fucking boring.