Mom, you would have been so proud. I wore the little black and white dress you got for me 10 years ago, yes, not exaggerating, it's been ten years now! From Bloomingdales in New York City, one of the first times we went to visit Erin in Brooklyn. Fun trip. Somewhere I have the photograph of us at Coney Island with cotton candy hanging out of my mouth.
Added a fat-ass coral necklace and the turquoise earrings you got me in Santa Fe New Mexico, the big, Frida Kahlo, Gypsy Queen style ones.
In fact I looked a bit Frida-ish, only with big hair and cowboy boots. I did it on purpose. Is that wrong?
Walked right up those stairs, didn't even pretend to speak a little Greek, just walked right up there and said, "Hi! I'm here to talk to someone about hosting a Texas Music night."
If only I could have kept channeling Frida.
Look, when it comes to it, I don't talk well to snobs. I don't know that he was a snob, but the fact that I couldn't tell, the fact that he was someone who knew a lot, it always throws me off and probably, PROBABLY I start trying to sound like I know stuff too. I don't know. That's what I mean, I mean really, deep down, Texas charm and gorgeous earrings aside, talking to people makes me really, really nervous. Most people. In fact, everyone except for computer nerds, wise women, and little children.
My personal opinion is that it's irritating reading the writing of someone talking about their own insecurities so while I'm going to resist the delete key, winking at me and showing a little leg from the top of my keyboard, "Come on, baby, you know you want to.." I also think I'm going to close for the night. Drown out the self-doubting voices in my head with some good anti-religious literature.
Sorry Mom.
