Let's face it. There comes a time in every relationship when you have to admit that it has run its course. With some mates, it happens sooner than you thought it should or had wanted it too.
Posts from the ‘Fashion’ Category
Mom walked up behind me, and in the second before I turned around, I had a flashback.
I was in elementary school. The inside of Coker's Department Store was a cave. Fluorescent lights spotlit stuff. Clothes and shoes. Sheets and blankets. China and fancy table linens.
And lingerie. Racks and racks of lace and silk, elastic and cotton.
Ripped Guy at Dick’s: Welcome to Dick’s Sporting Goods! Can I help you find something specific?
RGAD: I’m sorry? What was that?
RGAD: (Nervous laugh) Sorry. Still didn’t get that.
Me: I’M LOOKING FOR A JOCK STRAP!
(Every eye in the store zeroes in on me.)
Me: I mean. I’M not looking for one. I don’t need it. Um. (Cackling, crazy laughter.) It’s for my husband. HUSBAND. HE needs it.
RGAD: Core Supporters are this way, Ma’am.
Me: (More crazy lady laughter.) Oh? THAT’S what they’re called?
RGAD: Yes Ma’am. Here we are.
Me: (Staggering.) But…….but……..Good God, there are THIS MANY different ones?
RGAD: Well, yes. Some guys like firmer support. Some go for breathability. You know.
Me: No. I DON’T know. I told you it isn’t for me.
RGAD: Did your, um, HUSBAND, tell you what he likes?
Me: That’s none of your business.
RGAD: Okay. Okay. I’m just going to leave you to it. If you need any help, I’ll be on my lunch break. (Disappears.)
Me: Who – WHO – would buy a hot pink cup with glitter? WHO? And, all I see is cups. Thin cups. Fat cups. Long cups. Deep cups. All CUPS. NO STRAPS………….A PEE-WEE MODEL???? Seriously? They have one called the Pee-Wee? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
RGAD: (Materializes next to me.) Ma’am, um, you are being a little disruptive. Um. Here’s a strap in size large. Will that work for your husband?
RGAD: Great! Let me walk you to the register and get you out of here.
Me: (Drying my eyes.) You can bet I’ll never call MTM again and ask him to pick up a box of TAMPONS on his way home.
When I was little, my Mom had this incredible purse. One of those highly-structured bags from the 1960’s, it was covered in tan snakeskin with an off-center brass clasp along the top. Even the interior was lined with leather. Oh, I was too tiny and oblivious to appreciate all of these details back then. I merely thought the purse was pretty.
Mom had this bag made for her by someone in Nashville, Tennessee. I don’t know whether she designed it herself or if she let the maker draw it up for her. Either way, it was, to me, a priceless work of art.
My Mom is the most beautiful woman I know. Still. But, carrying that purse, she was electrifying.
The chic designs of the 1960’s gave way to the fashion disasters of the ’70’s, and Mom put her out-of-vogue pocketbook away, storing it far in the back of her closet, on a shelf at the top. For years, I never saw it.
But, I never forgot it.
When she asked me what I wanted for Christmas a couple of years ago, my mind raced back to that vanished bag. Of all the things I could think of that conjured my mother, nothing did it for me better. “Do you still have that big snakeskin pocketbook?” I asked, trying to be casual and not give away how much I craved it.
“That old thing? THAT’S what you want?” she asked, incredulous.
When I nodded, she said distractedly before hurrying off down the hall, “Well, I’ll have to go get the guns out of it first.”
MTM and I exchanged a look before quickly following her to her bedroom, the doorway into which we both saw her disappear. When we got there, she was up on a chair, rooting around in the top of her closet. She moved boxes and shoes and all manner of detritus before, finally, pulling that purse from the farthest corner. Even covered in dust, it was gorgeous. My breath caught in my throat, and I reached my hands out eagerly to touch it again for the first time in years.
Instead, she moved past me and put the bag on the bed, clicking open the clasp to reveal two guns: a Glock-type handgun and an antique pearl-handled pistol. She started to stick her hand in there and pull one out, when MTM stopped her. I don’t know whether this was all too Southern Gothic for him or what, but he did not want my mother handling her own guns. He eased them out of the purse like he was handling nuclear weaponry.
He and I were both shocked to see that the antique gun was loaded. Every chamber contained a bullet. MTM cried, “What are you DOING with this in the house? I’m taking these bullets out right now.”
My Mom – my prim, proper, dainty, Southern-lady Mom – said, “But, if someone breaks into the house, I want to be able to defend myself.”
How she planned to defend herself when it took her at least five minutes to FIND the bag that contained the guns in the first place was a mystery to both of us. MTM unloaded the weapon and left the whole mess there on the bed, and we’ve never seen those guns again.
Who knows where she’s hiding them now. If I ask for her wedding dress, will it come with guns attached?