I was sick this week, just a cold. But enough of a cold to render me grouchy, stuffy, coughy, achey and did I say grouchy? Not even lunch with the YaYas could save me from self-pity. I worked very little, which makes me angry. Not moving forward is my irritant. If only I could turn it into pearls–I’d be swathed from head to toe.
By week’s end, I wished to dump my life, move to the South and fan myself on my wrap around porch. Wait, that’s everyday.
Achey led to sitting, which leads to more aching which creates the grouch circle in which I wallow. Milania’s blue dress almost pulled me out but not completely. I did however, have some deep thoughts in my stillness.
Really, can we talk about the dress? Hard to go wrong with Ralph Lauren. Powder blue with that stiff cowl and three quarter length sleeves and we’re oozing Jackie comparisons. And the gloves–my goodness girls, we need a pair. Get up now. Go. Even here on the surface of the sun it’s cold enough to don elbow length stunners that smell like we were well-bred.
And did y’all (I figure since I’m moving to the South and sittin’ on my wrap around porch, I should practice) notice the pumps. Squee. What did I tell you months ago? Platforms and chunky shoes out, classic pumps in. Why, oh why, is the world not turning to me for fashion advice?
I spent Saturday night trying to perfect “the do.” A side swept dip curled into a classic French twist. After about seven tries I got close and it may just be my go-to between visits to Miss V who does my hair. Hair swept up, I took a bath with scented Epsom salts combined with philosophy and sweet pea hoping for snot and ache relief. Donning a nightgown not worn since The Norwegian graced the scene, I was back in the chair. But I feel pretty classy in that fifties chick kind of way. Hair all swept up, flowing nightgown and my tissues. Where the hell is a gentleman with a hankie when I need it? Pfft. Flip on the telly and what’s there? Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood. Send a note to my YaYas reminding them of my love and fall asleep by nine.
Wake this morn to Sunday shows. Why watch? My inclination is to talk back, a mix of Halleluias and FUs. This morning–more of the same. Trump gaffes. Press secretary is a lying dorkasaurus drowning in his first suit. And Madonna tells a group at the women’s march she’s thought of blowing up the White House? Had those words been uttered toward an Obama White House, discussion this Sunday morning would revolve around arrest.
There is egg on the faces of both sides. Except in the deep deep South where I’d be far too busy enjoyin’ chicory coffee, my hair newly chignoned, sittin’ on my wrap around porch thinking about where I should wear that powder blue dress. Does somebody have my fan?