So... I was shopping the other day (shut up, it was for work, people, work!) with some clients (see... my clever use of the word "clients" subtly denotes the fact I was in fact, working and not just screwing around downtown!).
True story - part of my job includes selecting various items (ie dresses, invitations, linens, etc) with my clients. So shopping is part of the deal for me - the irony of which does not escape me. Why is it ironic, you ask? Because the only shopping I do for myself is: shoes, underwear and the occasional tank top or dress (provided such are under $40). Darling S. is one of a series of blokes that I've dated that were so much, much more fashion-concious than I'll ever be. At times, it's been a bit embarassing. Put it this way: of the last six or eight pairs of pants that I have, he's bought ... five to seven of them. It's not that I am unable to pick
Moving on - let me just say the clients I was shopping with were a baby, his mom and her mother, a nice tri-generational bunch, plus me. We tooled around a bit, before we stopped for chai and cookies at Pierre's (Two words here: Farm . Cake. Share, they are huge!). Since it was a sunny day and all of our limbs were working, we ventured into the wilds of Macy's to see if we could find a formal dress for Nana. I say Nana because she does not look at all like a "Grandma" type. Now let me say: My previous expeditions to Macy's (Scroll down to the bottom of "Dirty Pretty Things") have not been completely successful, but I'm nothing if not an optimist.
I should have known better. The four of us wandered around for a bit, and then I decided to ask where we could find womens' formal dresses - a reasonable query in a department store, I thought. Nana (again: very young looking) was holding little "Short Round", as I call him. "Hi, we're looking for your ladies' formal gowns...where would those be?" I asked the sixteen-year old sales girl.
"Oh! What for?" she chirped.
"We need a mother of the bride dress," I replied, nodding towards Nana, who was dealing with the baby at the moment.
"Congratulations! Wow! You look so young! Well, we don't really have a formal-wear section here, but you could look around and see if you find anything you like..." (she was still addressing me at this point, folks. Me. As though I was the Mother. of. the. flippin'. bride?)
"Ah-ahemmm....No, nononono, its notforme," I said, feeling something halfway between a huge roar of laughter and a primal scream of "Ohh gaaaaahd! Where is the nearest Botox station located?," bubbling up inside my sternum like so much acid reflux. I stood and watched as the slow, gradual realization of the fact that Lil' Miss Macy's had just mistakenly referred to me as the mother of the bloody bride dawned on her face.
"Ohmygosh! I'm sorry! Well, you do look really young to be the mother of the bride..." L.M.M. replied, doing a ditzy backpedal. She kept staring at the three of us, looking as though I'd just given her a trigonometry problem in Latin.
"I'm twenty-six.... I am really young, this is our lovely mother of the bride," I smiled back, hoping that neither tears nor flaming daggers were shooting out of my eyes. She widened her eyes as though I'd given her the answer to the problem, and the real backpedaling started.
"Ooohhhh, I'm. so. sorry! Ohmygod, I'm so, so sorry!" - she squealed, not realizing her profound apologies had now just insulted Nana by default. I could tell she was waiting for me to be REALLY. REALLY. ANGRY. (Nana and her daughter are already starting to giggle.)
"That's ok, now if you could just direct me to the firming eye cream department...," I snarked back with my best sweet smile. The three of us dissolved into the kind of laughter I usually try and save for happy hour or Eddie Izzard.
The question still lurks though... Do I seriously look old enough to be THE MOTHER OF THE BRIDE? Please, click to enlarge both of these pictures and give me your eye-cream suggestions.