Saturday was my day to play. After having a reunion lunch with our old colleagues, my cohort in crime, my Ya-Ya, my theatrically creative friend, otherwise known as Patti and I went on a play date!
First we went shopping for costuming for her grandkids for an upcoming Renaissance Faire. Whilst shopping, we briefly tried on the roles of tourists from some obscure Scandinavian country, but quickly ran out of vocabulary. By the time we were resorting to using Ikea furniture names for adjectives and smorgasboard fare for nouns, we knew the jig was up.
Me (holding up a pirate costume): Ektorp da alhagen?
Patti: Ya, ya! Da lutefisk is fibbe karlanda!
So we switched to an obscure Balkanized country - but my slavic accent always ends up devolving into that of a 2-bit actress in a grade B Dracula movie. Which really makes people nervous when you're in a store that sells these.
Then we went and tried on hats (of which there is a very small selection, nowadays; note to storebuyers: I miss hats! Get some inventory), and wigs...some of which looked like poodles; some looking like a Pekingnese was perched on our heads (and we have a pact - no matter how old we get - no beige-bubble hair allowed; the poodle hair came dangerously close. It was scary.) Here are some of the photos of our fashion crime spree in progress...
But we found hair! Patti bought us hair - we have hair now! I always wondered how they achieved that "I just tossed my hair up here in a clip and it's all care-free, yet each strand falling gracefully in place" look (because when I toss my hair up in a clip, it just sort of lays there limply, sighing). But now, I know the secret. (If you really want to examine the evidence, you can click on the little mugshots to view them bigger. I'm the short, worried-looking one. Must be my guilty conscience.)
I wish Patti had a blog so you could get to know her - but ever since she's been chained to a computer in a gray cubicle nine hours a day, through technologically advanced behavior modification techniques, she's been conditioned to avoid computers in her off-time hours. Which is a shame, because she's my co-author of a couple of the many novels in the teetering book stacks in my head.
We would co-write by phone (this was long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and only an elite few had personal computers, which, at that time, were the size and cost of a VW beetle). Somehow we did this, with me, hiding in my laundry room from a teenager and a toddler - perched atop the washing machine with my portable typewriter; she, a single mom - hiding in her bedroom closet from teenagers. Not surprisingly, given our circumstances, they were modern-day gothic horror novels. Though we only managed to knock out a few chapters, and despite the fact that I still jump when I hear the washer switch from rinse to spin - I think that was some of the most fun I've ever had while writing.
Everyone needs a cohort in crime - and an arch-nemesis. I recently discovered Alexandra's friend, Heather's blog. She had an excellent post on adding interest to your life by acquiring an arch-nemesis - well, maybe not so much acquiring one, as giving that name to those around you who drive you nuts. Since reading her post, I now have a different scenario to play in my mind, when the supercilious bagboy calls me "ma'am" and acts as though I'm 98 years old:
In today's episode, the role of MenopauseWoman will be played by Tinker...
Scene in Action: MenopauseWoman pays cashier and picks up her 3 oz. package of teabags from the counter.
BagBoy: Ma'am - can I help you out with that?
MenopauseWoman: You talking to me? I think I can manage.
BagBoy: Are you sure you don't want me to help you out to your car with that, Ma'am?
MenopauseWoman: It's fine, thanks. Really. It's only tea.
BagBoy: Well, if you're sure, Ma'am...
MenopauseWoman (raising her fist and shaking it in BagBoy's face): Curse you, BagBoy! How old and feeble do you think I am? You'll rue the day you dared call me "Ma'am"!
Yes, having an arch-nemesis does make life more interesting. So does having a cohort in crime...please don't call the Fashion Police on us. We'll go straight, officer - we'll never wear poodles again--