This morning, I had a fight on my hands.
Tata: I don’t wanna go to work!
Tata: We’re going!
Tata: I don’t wanna! You can’t make me!
Tata: Aw, come on, little camper! We can get some fresh coffee…?
Tata: That’s it! I’m throwing you in the shower!
Man, she’s a BITCH! So I got dressed in the dark because Pete wasn’t really asleep. I can’t explain that. Anyway, some time later, I realized I was inching away from me.
Tata: What in glamorous tarnation are you wearing?
Tata: Pants. My co-workers like when I wear pants.
Tata: And what else, Missy?
Tata: I’m wearing – oh, help.
Tata: Yes, exactly. Your Inner Angry Toddler dressed you in pretty, pretty colors. In fact, all of them.
So I tried buttoning or unbuttoning, to make it look like I’d assembled this ensemble on purpose.
Tata: That shirt you gave me. I suppose you knew the buttons don’t unbutton.
Mom: Are we playing Anagrams?
Tata: I cannot unbutton this shirt. You have cursed me.
Mom: Are you at work?
Tata: I am, and they like when I wear shirts. But this one, I cannot unbutton, even on purpose. It’s permanent or something.
Mom: Now I remember: you didn’t graduate from high school!
Tata: That was then, this is now, and I have lefthanded scissors.
I am now wearing a modified, less terrifying version of the this morning’s outfit in tones of purple and brown. I’ve also discovered that standing in front of one’s co-workers and shouting, “HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT I’M WEARING?” will produce a wide variety of responses largely dependant upon what you’ve shouted beforehand.
Thus, you will be surprised I had the nerve to stare at this Go Fug Yourself picture of Traci Bingham like dogs stare at ceiling fans. I’d never heard of her before, so I figure she’s one of those starlets on a reality show I can’t name. She’s got lovely skin tone, a super shape, and she doesn’t look like one of those meal-skipping waifs, so yay. Anyway, Kali knows I’ve put on some get ups in my day, including a gold lamé toga I should have had dusted for fingerprints, so I observed this dress with milder mirth than others might, at least until Miss Bingham turned around. Irridescent fake snake skin is one thing. Fake dress is another one altogether.
In fact, it’s not a dress. It’s someone’s resumé.
Dear Traci’s Plastic Surgeon,
I once went out wrapped in cellophane, showing less skin than this. However, on the day you issue the demand for better video of your grandson, it’s mighty weird to mention your erstwhile hotness. You must trust me that I would never have mentioned either Miss Traci With An I, my closet full of industrial kitchenware and mismatched knits or my super-adorable grandbaby who now says, “Hi!” if not for the third picture, which caused me to scream, frightening my cats. My poor darlings! I simply wasn’t prepared, as a gal who treated every day of her late teens, twenties and thirties as one long costume party, to meet the almost certain Guest of Honor. Said Jessica of Go Fug Yourself:
…what can I say? There are literally no words in the human vocabulary that can express my horror/glee at the fact that you have gone out wearing a dress with a giant detachable ruffle, which you, at some point, removed and presumably shoved into your purse. I am terrified, and yet thrilled to the very marrow of my bones. That is all. I have no further witticism. I am so confused/excited. I’m going to go lie down with a washcloth over my forehead and attempt to parse my own emotions. Farewell.
Bravo! This is a fashion crime on a par with the Brinks Armored Car Heist, and I say that as a little old lady with her hair in a ponytail, wearing black shoes with a brown outfit. Even I was left – briefly! – speechless by the color scheme, texture and clashing patterns when I quit screaming. This dress reminds me of the weirdest parts of childhood, like pretending to be a mermaid and not noticing you can’t move. Like pre-teens auditioning for a dance troupe to “Hey Big Spender.” Like at every little girl’s birthday party before 1970 where Barbie stood in the center of a bundt cake, not at all like a human sacrifice up to her neck in festive butter cream. Friends, we are in the presence of greatness.
Fortunately, I smell clean.