Spent the holiday weekend in Portland, vacationing with some friends and visiting with M’s grandmother.
God should really grant me a very long life, because apparently when you hit your nineties, you can say whatever the hell you want.
She is a remarkable cook, even if it seems that at any given moment she may set fire to the entire kitchen. I asked her how she made her chicken.
“First I brown it, then I put it in the oven.”
“How long do you brown it for?”
She looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
“Until it’s brown.”
I’m used to her uncensored comments about other family members, but I’m not used to being at the wrong end of them myself.
“You’ve changed your hair.”
Yes, I said. My ends were fried and the layers will make everything a bit healthier… I babble, trying to convince myself that I like it.
“I liked it better before,” she said.
“And that bag,” she said referring to a bright blue purse I bought when my friend N came to visit from LA this past week. (I hate to shop alone. Visiting friends = shopping trips where we buy identical items which can make us feel a tiny bit closer. Just ask H from London, who now owns the same jeans as I am wearing right now.)
But I digress.
That bag. “It’s ok for travel,” she begins. “But it’s not for a fancy girl like you.”
I am secretly thrilled to be a fancy girl. So thrilled that I don’t care about the bag slight.
The hair is still annoying me. I needed to get it off my face today, and I asked Francie to borrow one of the 16 ponytail holders she wears on her twiggish wrist. She flatly refused me, even when I pointed out that I bought all of those bloody elastics.
“Fine,” I said. “Fiona will give me one. She’s the generous one. And when I die, she’s going to get ALL of my jewelry.”
Maybe I don’t need to wait until I’m 90.