Well, people, I’m feeling mighty fine at the moment.
Yup, it’s been a pretty wonderful day — so far (Caveat is necessary because hubby and son have not yet returned, there is always the possibility that some drama might ensue tonight …!!!)
Not that I did any writing, mind you. Now, why would I want to do that, so close to the New Year? And house is still a mess. But, hey, a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do (Which is what exactly? Dear long-suffering blog reader, I do not know the answer to this question, am using it here merely as a rhetorical device …)
This morning I lined up bright and early at the neighborhood post office and heard a rooster crowing. There was a man standing just ahead of me in line who looked like he’d just walked off the set of Brokeback Mountain. I am not kidding! He was in wrinkled denims (jacket and pants) and even had the exact same hat that Heath Ledger was wearing in the first scene of that movie. Upon hearing the rooster, he turned, and we both smiled sardonically at each other. We were both thinking, I am sure: Are we hearing what we think we’re hearing?
Finally, I go: “Is that someone’s alarm clock?”
Because brother-in-law gave son an alarm clock one Christmas, and the thing does a funny dance and actually does crow (usually at the crack of dawn — how’s that for versimilitude!).
And the post office clerks go, “No, no, that’s a real rooster.”
“What? Is that someone’s pet?” I ask. (Must be a Filipino, I think. Knowing how much we love roosters — ha ha ha!)
“No,” said the helpful post office clerks. “Someone shipped it by overnight mail. It’s just waiting to be picked up.”
And darn if that poor thing didn’t start crowing and crowing and crowing, and, really I thought how wonderful it was that I was here in Redwood City, California, listening to a sound that I associate so much with the provinces back home.
OK, that was the first nice thing.
The second nice thing was — I decided to go shopping. So I headed to the Stanford Shopping Center. To Eileen Fisher. And I decided to only select things that were red, since I had “M’s bible” with me (Actually, a Bloomingdale’s catalogue that good chum M, who is the nicest dresser I know, dog-eared to mark “looks” that she thought would be spectacular for me in the New Year). So, think red, right? I go into the store, and everything is so simple: I simply pick anything red that I see hanging on the racks. Pretty soon, I have quite an armful of silk satin jackets and cashmere throws (Don’t look at the prices yet, I tell myself! Just worry about that later!)
The salesladies are impressed. I know because two of them are immediately at my elbow. “Ma’am, shall I get you a room?” says blondie. “Why, yes, I think so,” I say, handing her a pile. (This has never, OK, happened to me before? Normally, when I walk into a clothing store, salesladies do not approach. Ever.)
So, eventually, I go in to the fitting room and try on the extravaganza of red clothes, red scarves, red tunics, red cardigans. And there’s one in particular I’m looking and looking at, because it feels so soft, it’s a combination of mohair and silk (don’t ask me how this miracle was accomplished), and finally a kind saleslady with white hair comes up and says, “You know, let me show you how to arrange it so that it drapes better.” And she pulled and tucked and then marched me over to a mirror and I can tell you that, at that moment, my heart melted.
“Is it on sale?” I asked.
Regretfully, no.
But that’s OK! Because I have a secret weapon in my wallet, which is to say, the gift card hubby so thougtfully surprised me with this Christmas. So I whipped it out, and there was only a teensy bit of nervousness when at first the saleslady said the card was “invalid” (I wonder how many times this happens? Or does it only happen to neophytes like moi?) and she had to call the manager, but I kept that smile pasted on my face and said, “My husband got that card from THIS store. Shall I ask him to fax you the receipt?”
Oh no, no, no, ma’am (Oh my God, listen to this! I’m a MA’AM!!!)
So, afterwards, I leave the store with a HUGE, and I mean a HUGE shopping bag that says Eileen Fisher in six-inch letters on the side. And I’m so proud of toting around this evidence of my whatever that I decide not to go home right away, even though I’m actually very broke. I go into L’Occitane, and then I go into Crabtree & Evelyn, and then I go into Pottery Barn, and you’d be surprised at how many salesladies approach you when you are toting around a HUGE shopping bag that says EILEEN FISHER in six-inch letters on the side.
So, I was hugely enjoying the attention, and I walked into Pottery Barn and PRETENDED I wanted to buy a sofa. Not the ones on sale, the floor models. Oh no! I wanted the grandmother of all sofas, in Scotchtreated sage canvas. I had a very kind woman plump me back on said sofa, surrounding me with expensive throws in all colors. I stretched out my legs and said, “Hmm, I think this one’s nice. Yes. How soon can it be delivered?”
And the lady went running off to call the delivery department and gave me a couple of dates. She also threw a book of swatches at me and her business card.
Hmmm, I could get used to this …
Then I go home. I watch Judge Hatchett. The case involves a woman who does not know which of her three boyfriends is the father of her four-month-old baby boy. OK, this is interesting. I have no idea who this Judge Hatchett is, but she has a very interesting, mobile face, and you can’t deny the case IS interesting, only I think it’s some kind of set-up because afterwards, they reveal the results of the paternity test, in something like the last two minutes of the show, and it turns out that none of the three named “possibles” is the ACTUAL father of the baby. And then the show ends.
@@##!!!
Next is Judge Alex. Judge Alex’s background is that he was a law enforcement officer and then he studied law and became a judge. His first case involves a pair of gay litigants. They are arguing about the lizard wallpaper in a toilet. Hmmm. Regretfully, I can’t watch to the end because I have to go to Safeway and buy cooking oil, of which there is NOT ONE DROP in the house.
When I get back, decide to try one last time to call dear Mum in the Philippines, who I haven’t yet greeted for the New Year, and what do you know, the call actually does make it through.
“Sino ho sila?” says the maid in my brother’s house.
“Batchoy,” I say.
“ANO???” the maid practically screams. Then she drops the phone and says to someone, “Si BATCHOY DAW.” Which means, she doesn’t believe that Batchoy is my real name, because in Tagalog it means “Fatty.” It would be like calling John Goodman FATTY to his face, but what can I tell you; my mom, who gave me this nickname when I was six months old because, she says, I was such a fat baby, has SUCH a sense of humour.
And then dearest Mum comes, and what transpires is perhaps the one depressing part of my day. Our conversation goes like this:
Self: Happy New Year!
Mum: So, how did you spend it? By yourselves?
Self: Yup!
Mum: Andrew with you?
Self: Yup! He always spends it with us!
Mum: That’s good!
Self: I hope 2007 is a wonderful year for you!
Mum: Thanks.
Self: And, um, I was trying all week to reach you but the circuits were busy.
Mum: That’s because of the earthquake in Taiwan.
Self: There was an earthquake in Taiwan?
Mum: Yes.
Self: Oh, well. But now I’ve reached you!
Mum: Yes.
Self: And, Happy New Year again!
Mum: Fine.
Self: So, that’s all I wanted to say.
Mum: Fine. Good-bye.
And afterwards, I can’t help it dear blog reader, but I begin to feel somewhat down. Only for a moment, however. Because next thing you know, I’m parked in front of big flat-screen HDTV, watching Tyra, and Jada Pinkett is a guest and she is explaining how to get a wonderful complexion …
To be continued . . .