Happy Friday my little whomp biscuits, how’s every little thing?
Me? I’m peachy except it JUST occurred to me that I have to drive across the country on Sunday and I don’t have a thing to wear to a place where it isn’t six thousand degrees outside with the notable exception of a lynx, a blonde mink and a pair of jeans. I’ve also got to magically conjure up an outfit for today that will take me from the wake of a really kick ass priest, to the Wales vs Ireland Rugby quarter finals at the expat bar, to a scorching midnight rock show at a place called Skinny’s Ballroom which I suspect is not technically a ballroom.
P to the S how much do I love that the Welsh sing “Bread of Heaven” at the rugby? Nothing quite like an 18th century Methodist hymn to get the fans all riled up. Truly, these are my people.
I’m also in the nerve-wracking position of picking out an outfit for when I finally meet Hot Latin Boy’s mother and man, that is one increasingly adhesive wicket. The last time I had to prepare to meet someone’s mother was in 2008 when Andre wanted to drag me to gay Paree to meet his terrifyingly chic and none-too-pleased maman, which –fun fact– is what made me crop my hair. It was bad enough I was American (vulgar) and Fat (triple vulgar), I couldn’t just go traipsing around the streets of La Rive Droite with hair that was anything less than painfully bon chic bon genre.
Now I need to come up with something that says “Please don’t hate the fat white girl who is corrupting you son, the treasure of your old age, with her iPhone and her sunscreen and her capitalist pigdog ways.”
I think it might require a petticoat.
Anyhoodle, for the weekend I’d like to know all about the toughest outfit you’ve had to select. No fair saying your wedding gown, but if it’s true it’s true. Put it in the comments and tell me how it went!