So there I am on the weekend, scouring just about every store in the city to find a decent powder-blue dress (or 'frock', as my mother still calls it - a term, that I have tried to remind her many times, people stopped using circa 1963) that fits me well, and doesn't make me look like a cross between a mermaid and a crazy bird. I finally find one that looks rather nice, and I am praying, that if there is a God in heaven, I will find the perfect shoes to go with this dress. Nothing, nada.
This sounds like a job for B. B, I'll have you know, is the equivalent of Imelda Marcos in my life, because, honestly, I have never personally known anyone who owns so many pairs of shoes. And she kind of views me as the equivalent of a homeless person when it comes to shoes, since I own only about 30 pairs at last count. But I figure that since I am not Gabrielle Solis from Desperate Housewives, I can live with myself. I call her.
ME: When it comes to shoes, is there a HUGE difference between powder-blue and baby-blue?
B: D-uh!! (and knowing B as I do, I can picture the eye-roll that accompanies this)
ME: I need powder-blue shoes to match my dress and I can't find them anywhere!
B: Okay, send me a picture of your dress and I'll have them sent to you. You're about a size 7, right?
B has this amazing ability to take one look at a person's feet and guess what size they are, and retain this information for further use, quite like the guy at store from where I buy lingerie, who has the ability to look at a woman's chest and hand her the right size bra, which is a considerably more creepy skill, but you get the idea.
I wait till the package arrives, which is pretty quick, considering that she lives in another country. I don't know how she manages to get those shoes to me, and in record time too. I just know that I get a box with a note that said 'These will be perfect.' And they are. Trust her to swoop right in and save the day. She's my very own Lara Croft. I take a moment here to wish that God (or whoever's responsible for dishing out useful abilities ) had given me the ability to be clairvoyant, or read auras, or even read bloody tea-leaves, which would only be fair for having given B preternatural powers such as this.
So, feeling rather smug that I had managed to get my act together before the big day, with time to spare and all , and realising that she would be so envious that I was so perfectly and uniformly powder-blue, I wait for DQ to call me, which she does after a couple of days.
DQ: Well, I have good news!
ME: Yeah, me too. ("I am perfectly coordinated in powder-blue from head to toe, baby!!!" I want to yell, but decide to play it cool.)
DQ: Well, since it was impossible for me to get the correct shoes, I told Annie about it and she totally understood.
ME: So you're going to wear baby-blue shoes with a powder-blue dress? ( I have to bite my tongue and hold my breath to stop myself from snorting in contempt)
DQ: Are you nuts? No way! Annie was a doll about the whole thing, and she has decided to change the theme of the whole wedding to cherry-blossom pink, just for me. So now you can shop for pink instead. Gotta go now! See you at the rehearsal! Byyyyeeeeeee!!!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
So I answer the phone.
DQ: Ohmigod! You will not believe this! The worst thing has happened!
ME: What do you mean? Like Chernobyl?
References to Chernobyl, or man's landing on the moon, or even independence, are inconsequential and unnecessary to her since-
a) they happened to someone else, somewhere else, and do not impact her life directly in any way.
b) they have nothing to do with clothes, shoes, men, bags, food, shopping or flirting.
ME: Nothing. So why don't you tell me what happened?
DQ: I told this friend of mine to buy me powder-blue shoes and she has gone and bought me baby-blue ones! Can you believe it?
ME: No, of course not! I believe everything that the people on the Home Shopping Network say about everything they sell, and I also believe the astrologer who told me that I was a murderer in a past life. But this, no way! Unbelievable!
DQ: (sighing) Can we never have just one normal conversation?
ME: Ok, fine. Why is this important anyway?
DQ: Because! Please tell me that you haven't forgotten that it's Annie's wedding in a month's time and the theme is powder-blue? Please! Come on! You're part of the wedding entourage!
ME: Er...yeah, kind of.
DQ: Are you serious? Really? Wow! Annie's going to have a shit fit about this.
This was not good. Annie is a mutual friend, and is much closer to She Who Must Not Be Named than she is to me, and dealing with the drama generated by both these women together was like witnessing, all at the same time, Moses parting the Red Sea + swarm of locusts + Jesus' ascension into heaven + Lady Gaga in her most OTT outfit splattered with fake blood and performing on stage, hanging upside down suspended by cables, while all coked-up. I think you get the picture.
DQ: Ohmigod! What am I going to do? My clothes and shoes don't match!
ME: What is the big deal? The ushers are going to turn us away if our clothes are not perfectly colour-coordinated when they examine us from head to toe with their magnifying glasses?
DQ: You know, I thought you would understand.
ME: Of course I do. In fact, the only reason Mom ever gave birth to me was because she had the foresight to know that 30 years later, when your clothes and shoes didn't match and you needed someone to run to, there'd always be me.
ME: Hello? Hellooooo???!