We have a date in downtown Boston. The former Police Chief of Boston, New York, and L.A. — William (Bill) Bratton — is speaking at the 60 State Street. That’s the really tall building on the edge of the Harbor in Boston. He should be an interesting speaker. He’s smart and he knows cities and crime and probably more than a little something about politics.
I’m pissy about it because, for the first time since who knows when, I had to put on make-up. Make-up? What’s that?
I tried to go with pantyhose and nearly normal shoes until I realized I didn’t know when I’d bought the hose — or if they was any chance of them being my size. Or if I remembered how to put them on. I found thin socks and pulled on my “dressy” boots. They could be shinier, but they will have to do. Presumably no one will be staring at my feet.
I slid into a black dress I bought from L.L. Beane two years ago and never wore. Remarkably, it fits. Put on some jewelry. Perfume — a hint.
Then I extruded myself from the bedroom — smelling yummy and looking not too bad, all things considered. The dogs jumped all over me.
Now I’m wearing black — which is not orange because I wore an orange dress yesterday and there was nothing black about it — with makeup and boots and plenty of dog hair. I yelled at them for jumping on me, which I’m sure confused them. Honestly, I’m a little confused myself and not averse to sharing the feeling. Besides, confusion won’t ruin their lives. Especially when followed by a biscuit.
They got biscuits. Now I get coffee. Then we are off to Boston — an hour and a half (if we are lucky) drive through some of America’s heaviest traffic — so we can park at the garage. For … are you ready? $42.
Forty-two dollars for a rubber chicken lunch. Drinks are no doubt free, but neither of us drink. Why did we agree to this? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Remind me I said this.
I’ll try to get back to you all when we get home. If we don’t get stuck in rush hour and end up coming home sometime tomorrow.