Recently, I became significantly more entrenched in the world of fashion. And, by recently I mean Easter break, but the semantics are basically the same.
Picture it. I wrote a beautiful Tasty Tuesday (read here) last week regarding the concept of food and travel. My mother and I bonded as I said. We had decided to drive up over the holiday season to see my sister and her family. This is my youngest sister, we hadn’t talked in so long we were practically estranged.
My mother got into it with grandfather in a very passive way. They were both kind of at each other’s throats and my grandfather is a horrible person, but in a respectable upper middle class way. My mother doesn’t want to see him and he recently had surgery and he might be dying. They nicked a vein and he’s bleeding out.
Anyway my family is very functional and orderly. My great aunt is displeased that my mother is not working out with my grandfather and my mother did not understand my insistence on wearing a pink floppy hat on Sunday. I told her. It’s Easter. You’re allowed to wear pastels.
Two girls cried in the bathroom. Saying they can’t believe their boyfriends were checking other girls out and that they can’t believe they got dragged here again. It was a horribly wonderful bar.
However, it was Sunday. The day my sister and I went through my deceased grandmother’s hordes of clothes that we found our true style inspiration. I took home three trash bags full of clothes. A pant suit. Prosthetic pearls. A Pierre Cardin button up. Tragically there were no Oscar de la Renta couture pin ups in the closet.