Sometimes you shake your head in disbelief. And praise the stars above you were born before rap.
It’s the weekly dinner with the chicks. The Goddess hosts at her abode and The Other Norwegian (remember, The Norwegian’s cousin?) cooks the fare. The Goddess and Sweetest G are there. So is She Who Shall Not Be Named, a girl I thought I knew well.
My palm flies in front of her face as if to stop her comment from making it all the way out. “You did not just say that.” The shock cannot be contained. Another sweet young thing, Longtime Friend Daughter, looks in amazement.
What brings such an outburst over meatloaf?
The Goddess and Sweetest G spent a weekend in Ohio. Who knew the Buckeye state houses the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Perhaps we’re so busy hating on their football team, we never look further. I should be embarrassed at the knowledge lack, but admit it, you never would have guessed Cleveland, am I right? Anyway, they have pics.
There’s a big Elvis display. There’s Prince’s tiny purple suit, Joan Jett’s guitar (squee), and a spot to record yourself should you so wish, with live accompaniment. Goddess is swiping to the right.
“Wait, wait, back up,” say I. “I have that album.” I point to Rumours, Fleetwood Mac’s 1977 opus.
“Oh, yeah, that’s Fleetwood Mac. But here’s Stevie Nicks dress.” I lean forward in awe. There it is, a black, flowy Nicks badge of honor.
“I don’t get her. Never been a fan,” says She Who Shall Not Be Named.
I watch my hand, of its own accord, wave toward her face, palm stopping her thought. “What? You did not say that.”
“Look at the hand in the face,” laugh the table inhabitants.
Color me flabergast. “Did you not watch AHS Coven? Do you not know the White Witch?” I’m grasping that perhaps she is too young to have been taken in by Fleetwood, the magic of Stevie, Lindsay’s buffoonery. This is a woman that, in response to a breakup, made the guy continue to not only work with her but sing love songs to her on stage. That’s a girlboss. Desperation fills my explanation of this grievous error.
“I didn’t,” she says. “I heard it was good and I like the witch thing.”
“You have to fix that.” The retort holds my incredulity. Who did not fall in love with Misty Day, understand her obsession with Stevie, muse what hell may actually be?
Then there’s the Rhiannon rendition round the grand piano, solo excellence, with The Supreme serenely taking in the perfection while Misty spins herself, cocooned in the famous Stevie wrap. Shame on any woman who has failed to immerse herself in such unmatched spectacle, non?
She Who Shall Not Be Named agrees to watch but remains unmoved. Poor thing. Young, beautiful, talented. Has no idea there’s a hole in her soul only Stevie can fill.