Perhaps I’ve just read “Valley of the Dolls” a few too many times, but I’ll tell you, I found it utterly hilarious that the Store Formerly Known as Lerner New York has giant signs up that say, “The Caftan: The Season’s Must-Have.”
The CAFTAN? Honestly? Can’t we come up with something else to call it, as we did with bell-bottoms, which mysteriously became FLARE PANTS once past their prime? Because man, caftan just evokes images of Anne Welles whipping out a Mother’s Little Helper and sporting a flip-do with a lot of hairspray. Oh how I love that book and everything it represents (fluff fiction, absurd vicarious debauchery and … the caftan? I don’t know).
We’re home, by the way, and really, it’s so NICE to be back in our own beds, for we were like an ad for Hotels.com in my nephew’s room, all snuggled up in separate bunk beds (my nephew was relegated to the basement). Although can I confess that there’s something so delightfully awesome about having your own set of sheets and comforter? Adam and I share a king-size bed — I am decidedly NOT a snuggler, and I NEED MY SPACE. If he touches me, in fact, I freak out, because I need FREEDOM. I am also a hot sleeper, emanating sweat and heat in waves off of my prone, drenched body, so ah, snuggling with me isn’t exactly appealing.
A king works just fine for that, really it does, but where things go wrong is the sharing of the blankets. I like to be wrapped up like a burrito, my feet exposed out the bottom, whereas Adam, too, likes to be wrapped up like a burrito, and two people cannot be burritoed unless they want to be burritoed TOGETHER, which sounds awful and very … close. And sweaty.
At any rate, I’m home, only to leave again on Friday for my nephews’ play, only to sleep in the same bunk bed — this time with my mother on the bottom (uh, ew? That sounds … wrong) as Adam is staying home. And so, on Saturday afternoon, I’ll be in the audience of a (very tiny) production of High School Musical. I know. It’s … it’s bound to be sort of cute, but honestly, it’s guaranteed moments of pain, particularly because both nephews have assured me that it sucks, using those exact words. “It sucks, Auntie. It’s really, really awful.” But honestly, what does one expect of a play cast with 9 to 11-year-olds? Of uh, High School Musical, no less? You expect wonderful, in that awful way, yes?
I neglected to mention, by the way, that I hit Target this weekend, and you know how some things take on a golden glow after you leave them, in a way they never glowed before and never will again? Target SHONE LIKE THE SUN AS IT HAD NEVER SHONE BEFORE. It … it IS that great, and I bought … well, a lot, including an inordinate amount of those swingy shirts that graze the belly area rather than cling to it like Saran Wrap that Target (or, I should say, Mossimo) is so outstanding at producing, despite the fact that they fall apart after three washings (which is why I bought thirteen! Or you know, THIRTY. And yet? My grand total was only $80! THAT IS THE BEAUTY THAT IS TARGET.)
It’s everything I remembered and … and more. And suddenly, I’m wondering if living here isn’t as wonderful as I thought, because Target is love. (That reminds me of the book, “Who Needs Donuts?” wherein they discuss “Who needs donuts when you got love?” Because LOVE replaces DONUTS. BUT NOT TARGET.)
I also walked around an actual mall that featured an actual Apple store and actual STORES THAT PEOPLE SHOP IN TO BUY THINGS MADE THIS DECADE other than … Fashion Bug. Which, again, it appears I am desperate enough to shop in and even appreciate after months of abstinence. Country girls need earrings, too.
And now, if you would, and you have some free time this week, please go to Target. Revel in the aisles, and buy a cheap necklace, buy some Mossimo T-shirts! Isaac Mizrahi! PLASTIC WELLINGTON BOOTS. CHEAP TOTES. WHO CARES? BUY IT ALL. OR AT LEAST A CAFTAN. At a bare minimum, caress it all, every moment you can, because I can’t, and I wish I could.
And finally, a word of caution: even if you LIKE prunes, as I do, they are not nature’s most perfect snack, as Sunsweet promises. They are, in fact, nature’s cruel joke, and are nothing more than the Road to Endless Bloat, which means that if you see a (again, totally fake) stripey redhead floating by your place of residence today — or hell, even THURSDAY, for I will be UP THERE THAT LONG — would you take her out with a rock to put her out of her misery? Please?
Have a great Wednesday.
29 comments April 29th, 2008