Saturday, April 30, 2011

Run Llama Run!!!

Every woman has had a million (hyperbole thy name is Elaine) moments of internal strife and struggle when she stands in front of her closet and says in all sincerity, 'I have nothing to wear.' If that woman is me, she will also stomp her foot and might possibly fling the nearest pillow for full diva effect because I take my melodramatic moments quite seriously.( Owing it to my adoring public of one; a small black calico who is more interesting in licking her ass than my performances. Critics can be so brutal. Still the show must go on.)

Glorious spring is here and I can already smell summer in the air, which in the country is actually quite pleasant although sometimes the fragrance from the prizewinning llama farm just down the road can get a little ripe. I do remind myself that the owner of aforementioned farm is also a philanthropist and conservationist and sells that llama hair (it's hair, not fur) and milk for a fortune and that he's also a sentimental crazy old coot as evidenced by the fact that he will only sell his llamas in pairs (because they get lonely and who wants a lonely llama) after a strenuous and lengthy adoption process in which there's a distinct possibility you may not even be approved. And for the love of God, do NOT insult his devilled eggs which are lovely dyed pink in beet juice by his manservant and secret lover, Teddy.

I get to see the llamas for free because he throws an open house once a year to the public but also a separate neighbors' get-together on the veranda (I shit you not) where we sip champagne with berries and eat organic (grown in his own garden, fertilized by llama poo) tomato and llama mozzarella appetizers while perusing pics of llamas and gossiping about that asshole who keeps building houses where the deck bannister is built into a kitchen window which renders it impossible to open or the time the deck support beam stopped 18 inches ABOVE ground. We wondered aloud who would buy such a house, not realizing the new owner was sitting among us. Awkward and here's your welcome basket.

I don't need a llama because some kid with too much time on his hands keeps going back to the private road none of us are allowed to use unless a state of emergency is called because evidently prizewinning llamas are in such demand that more than once very bad people have pulled up to the back gate of the farm with a tractor trailer and stolen some of the beloved camelids.

The boy himself doesn't want to steal them, though. He just likes to open the gate and let them run free sometimes so it isn't an unusual sight for me to see from my patio door one munching on a white pine in the woods behind my house. I call the philanthropist's secretary, she calls one of the stable boys, llama gets apprehended, I get a lovely flower arrangement (and depending on the time of year, a half ton of organic zucchini) and am ensured another invitation to the next neighbors' wine and cheese party.

We ooh and ahh during the tours and at the array of ribbons on the stalls and doors and are encouraged to take as many prints of photos as we'd like. We also get little souvenir bags of llama silk, which I'm told is worth a lot of money and I ponder how much silk it would take to make me something to wear to this First Holy Communion my sister-in-law's sister's kid is celebrating tomorrow.

I find something new and lovely with the tags still on and feel triumphant and do a little happy dance around the room while Wonton enthusiastically chews on one of the ribbons I never throw out but tie to the drawer pulls of my antique dresser because I think it looks so shabby chic but since her arrival now just appears shabby.

Spouse comments on this frequently which is why I will NEVER remove the ribbons if only to irritate his decorative sensibilities which extend mostly to wondering aloud if particleboard is an endangered wood species and naugahyde no longer exists because wild herds of naugas were hunted into extinction in the 70's.
I don't speculate on his obsession to recreate a casino in the basement (five slot machines and counting) so I dismiss his opinion on such matters with impunity.

The top/tunic is flow-y and I've found the perfect pair of faux olivine earrings to go with it (thank you Heidi Daus and HSN) but it is an off-the-shoulder top and it's too late for me to find a strapless bra in my size which is not 'plus' or 'queen' but 'empress of the universe' and therefore fittingly rare, but I vaguely recall owning one that not only is exactly what the doctor ordered BUT doesn't make me feel like I'm going to spill over and do a burlesque number every time I reach for my martini.

Now another source of contention is that I have a lot of clothes. No, really. I used to model for a short time (the putting the clothes ON, type of model) and was fortunate enough to work for and collaborate with some great designers and their advice (and perks) is priceless but THAT comes with a price; there are three closets in the room and two large dressers and except for two drawers for Spouse' tees, boxers, socks and jeans, they're all mine. There is also a large dresser in the bathroom filled only with my panties because I have a very slight lingerie fetish.

And I can't find that bra.

Okay I have other bras I can wear. One is nude and convertible but I can't find the damn extender and the clips to switch the straps always come undone at the most inopportune time, like when I'm curtsying before the Queen, so....pass. Then there's a couple that I could technically wear while tucking in the straps, because they are pretty supportive but they're all lace and will affect the appearance of the top I'm wearing so, although quite beautiful and the perfectly appropriately matchy-matchy to them too and now I'm getting desperate. Oh damn, I should have followed Ginny's advice and just bought a smaller one with boning and just mofo'd the hell out of it with extenders but I'm so freakin stubborn. SHIT.

And then....while I'm hopping from foot to foot because suddenly I have to pee but am too willful to give up my search, I reach into the back of a drawer and not only pull out the equivalent of winning the lottery (okay, okay, a free scratch-off ticket) but the little bag containing ALL the convertible accessories and I HAVE SCORED!!!!!! And I forgot because it's been so long but it's silk, hair...awwww...

I look for Wonton's approval to share my success but she's left the room which is unusual because of our four cats, she is MY shadow, MY confidante, MY furkid as opposed to the other three who only deign me to live in THEIR house with Spouse. She thinks they're all peasants so I'm quite content to be beloved by her only, because of her impeccable taste. My outfit for tomorrow properly assembled I walk downstairs in search of a Diet Dr. Pepper and my cat.

Evidently there is a union meeting and I wasn't invited to serve donuts and coffee. All four have come to a temporary truce and are sitting shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Because it's a warm breezy day, it's open to the screen and four tails are twitching in unison, four rumps are hitching for a pounce. I look for the squirrel who frequently comes to visit them at the door and burst into laughter.

There's a llama on my deck.

1 comment:

  1. Thoroughly love this! Great callbacks, delicious story, and of course anything with cats gets bonus points in my ledger, which places this piece in the cup runneth over spot. Sweet.