dimanche 29 février
Last night I dreamt about
dreadlocked cats,
crows in the tree outside,
giant furry pink (but not malevolent) monsters,
stick men woven in the sheets coming to life,
and woke up with a headache. And there wasn't even any drinking involved.
I think I'll... err, go back to bed now.
// posted by belle @ 3:28 PM
samedi 28 février
Yesterday Mum and I went shopping. We haven't been unleashed on a retail palace together in years, but believe me, the shop girls will be telling the tale to their children and their children's children. We're loud, we're efficient, we're armed with serious credit and can not be stopped as we tear a smoking trail from shoes to lingerie.
She's after the Palm Beach look (well, what matron at her age isn't?). Lily Pulitzer-esque prints, bright brights, silky jumpers, white trousers. I'm genetically programmed to want the same, but live in a grimy city and you can't wear cream-coloured wool where there's any chance of sitting in schmutz.
We hit the shoes first. Same size, same taste; she cleaned three shops out of strappy sandals in spring green and blue; I did the same, with versions in camel and black. Handbags, suits, smalls: all fell before the might of our campaign of terror. She must have bought at least three outfits to wear to the wedding, as well as enough holiday gear to clothe an army of Mum-clones. I had to forcibly restrain her from beaded, flower-printed twinsets while she advised my ankles 'look chubby' in vintage-style shoes.
{{/usCountry}}We hit the shoes first. Same size, same taste; she cleaned three shops out of strappy sandals in spring green and blue; I did the same, with versions in camel and black. Handbags, suits, smalls: all fell before the might of our campaign of terror. She must have bought at least three outfits to wear to the wedding, as well as enough holiday gear to clothe an army of Mum-clones. I had to forcibly restrain her from beaded, flower-printed twinsets while she advised my ankles 'look chubby' in vintage-style shoes.
{{/usCountry}}Such is the power of unconditional love. Only a mother can shriek "VPL!" to her daughter at a volume loud enough to rock the foundations of the building and live to tell the tale.
She: "Honey, you looked so adorable in the green! Are you not getting that?"
Me: "I don't know, it makes me look too busty."
(thrusting her own ample chest to the fore) "There's no such thing as looking too busty. What, you want to look like an adolescent?" And she threw the garment back on my pile.
I quiver in the shadow of a superior intellect.
// posted by belle @ 2:16 PM
vendredi 27 février
Am spending some quality time with my family before they go abroad on holiday, catching up with the local gossip and generally causing trouble and getting in the way, as is the eldest daughter's prerogative.
So, my mother is going to a wedding next month. A commitment ceremony in which the two brides will be dressed in white and will exchange rings and live happily ever after. Old family friends. We couldn't be more pleased. Except that Mum can't find a date for the date. Because her usual squeeze, my father, has been deemed Not In the Right Spirit.
It's not that he disagrees with the notion of lesbians (what man really does, at least in theory?) or has some bizarre hangups about the sanctity of marriage (note to world leaders: in an age where the highest selling female artist worldwide can drunkenly trip down the aisle in jeans and a garter only to have the transaction annulled 24 hours later, but committed life partners can not call each other wife and wife, something is a little rotten in the state of Denmark. But no mind). No, it's actually Dad's overenthusiasm for the blessed event that has led to him being stricken off the guest list.
Because he insists, completely seriously, on hiring strippers to come to the reception. My father is not the sort of man who makes jokes, and worse still, he has social antennae legendary in their insensitivity. We were lingering over bagels and he was relating the story to date. Mother rolled her eyes as if it was a genetically-encoded reflex, which I suspect it is. "Male strippers or female strippers?" I asked with just a touch too much interest.
"Oh, honey, no," Mum groaned.
"Female strippers!" he cried. "Naked ladies everywhere!" Have I mentioned that my father is an embarrassing perv? Runs in the bloodline, I suppose.
"Dad, I'm not certain that's entirely appropriate for the wedding," I said. Mum nodded sagely, her enamelled black bob bouncing.
"You're right," she agreed. She turned on my Dad. "You see? You see? NO ONE thinks it's a good idea-"
"Yes," I said. "No good at all. Now, a hen night with strippers, that would be cool..."
"Don't encourage him!" Mum shot me the evils as he gleefully contemplated the possibilities.
// posted by belle @ 5:36 PM