Last night I dreamed that I was sitting with my dear friend April in a shopping mall, chatting about hair, when I remembered I had ordered an apple danish from a cafe far across the mall and had abandoned my table by mistake. Without offering an explanation I sprinted up to retrieve it just as a largeish man was viewing it with pleased surprise, and dashed back with it poised on a paper plate. Halfway across the mall it shot off the plate and slid for miles, landing underneath a bench, and I had to fossick around to retrieve it and drop it casually in a bin, before sauntering back to my dear friend April as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.
Apparently even my subconscious thinks I’m a bit of a doofus.
Tonight my dear mother is coming over for dinner. Helpdesk Man is abandoning us for a start-of-year barbecue hosted by his marvy young vocal collective, at which they will probably sit in a circle holding hands and talk about their Direction and Branding and Vibe. Mother and I will watch Pieces of April, a short but pleasing film which combines hideous depressingness with uplifting cheer and charm. I like that sort of film. Plus, Patricia Clarkson is amazing. Even with no chest, for which attribute she is justly famous. But we shall not dwell on this.
In preparation for Mother’s arrival I must now head to the groggery and buy some rum. It’s not what you think: I like my mother; but she likes rum and raisin ice cream, and I thought, why not? Normally I would go with a caramelly or butterscotchy ice cream, but I found out recently that Mother doesn’t like caramel. Or, get this, vanilla. I must have been switched at birth. (Wasn’t, though. Scoliosis.)
Ooh! I bought a top yesterday, a thing I never do. $12 from the Red Cross thrift shop. A bit steep for a thrift shop, but it’s one of those arty ones in which they have tasteful headless mannequins instead of freaky carnival ones with fake eyelashes, and change them every day into clothes that match each other so as to create an aura of visual continuity in the window, offsetting the unavoidable hodge-podgeness of the goods within, which they do attempt to arrange by colour. And it doesn’t have that op-shop smell, which is a phenomenon I must investigate more closely. Anyway. The top is sort of brownish and vaguely military with lots of hardware and pockets, and yet looks a leetle bit like that steampunk coat dress Lizzie likes on Clockwork Couture, only vaguely more dieselpunk and trench-coaty and less frilly and, let’s face it, skungier, but come on, people, twelve dollars. Plus, Clockwork Couture makes their stuff in China. I’ve been meaning to write them an email about that. They’re all anti-leather and everything, so you’d think… ach well. Rum. Yus. Bye.
Mother Says: