I don't mean this as a self-serving statement oozing bravado; I happen to wear a lot of bowties and embroidered western shirts and sharp hats--so I get the attention because clearly I crave it. Occasionally the heads are turning away from me to snicker. . . but that's neither here nor there.
I have this super excellent new curling sweater. Don't take my word for it; take the thousand words that leap to your mind when you look at these photos:
Tonight, at Costco (my first official shopping visit to this mecca) my wardrobe curried unexpected favour from a mother and her daughter.
B- (on the phone with my mother) "Blah blah blah."
A- (a near whisper)"Oh my God!"
B- (still on phone) "War in Iraq! Har har har!"
A- (interrupting) "Excuse me? My father had that exact sweater!"
B- (holding down the phone) "Really? It's a sharp sweater--the old pheasant hunting motif!"
A- "My father's dead. . . but I remember him wearing that sweater so clearly."
She was looking at me with the same dazed wonder a blind man looks at the sun. I, for once in only a handful of times, was at a loss for where to take the conversation. Dead relatives are a tough thing to discuss with strangers.
A- "Where did you get it?"
B- "Oh. . . I got it in Kensington. . . in Toronto."
The daughter piped up:
C- "Mom. Check the label--see if it's his."
At this point I thinking, 'Shit. I hope this isn't dear ol' dad's sweater. I love this sweater! I don't want someone crying all over it and offering me $20 so that she can have a sentimental piece of her dearly departed!"
A- "No. It was such a popular design, I guess. I had a deer on mine."
B- "Yeah! They're very popular! I know this guy has a football player on his."
C- "Check it! Maybe it's his."
B- (staring daggers of the Teen Queen)
A- "No. It likely isn't his."
B- "Would you like to check?"
A- (puts her hand on my woolen arm) "No. It was just a nice coincidence to see it. Here. On you."
That hand on my arm, I could have sworn, felt like it was creeping up my sleeve.
B- "Well. . . I better keep shopping for large quantities of things. Take it easy!"
And we parted. Thank God.
The last place I want to start hashing out old Electra complexes is in the pickle aisle of Costco; I would fear over-stimulation.
3 comments:
THat's my sweater... I got it when I was playing for the Calgary Lesbian Pheasant Curling Team. They kicked me off the team when they found me "experimenting" with boys. They said, and I quote: "You're not fit to be a Pheasant! Give the sweater back now, and get out...~!"
I packed up my broom and left, crying into the cold night air and cursing the day I decided to give up ringette for curling (ringette lesbians are much more forgiving about the experimenting thing... some of them are even married to dudes).
I haven't curled since... it's been horrible, I have nothing to do with my free time anymore. And when the roads in Calgary turn to ice... so do the tears filling my eyes. At night I dream of buff women holding brooms and calling my name... they're all wearing pheasant sweaters, only pheasant sweaters...nothing else.
Where did you get that sweater? Toronto? I think they had a game there directly after they gave me the boot, they must have ditched it there and you picked up.
I want it back, Brad, I want that sweater back.
I mean it.
Double T--
You don't stand an curling sheet's chance in Hell of getting this pheasant sweater back.
Sure, it's a touching story of loss--but I'm unmoved. If there is even a remote chance of attracting big, buff lesbians while wearing this sweater, I'm keeping it!
Or even better--I could use it as a disguise to gain access to the Pheasant Curlers Dressing Room. Straight from a scene in "Porky's", I could be treated to showering lesbian washing each other's lady lumps and pink canoes! Sen-sational!
So the short answer to your question is "no".
I guess that I should have saved you all that reading, and put my short answer first, huh?
Brad, I'm going pheasant hunting.
You're going to wake up dead, in a pool of bird blood,with your head chopped off and your feathers plucked out.
In the words of Rivers Cuomo:
"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Oh NO. It Go.IT gone, bye bye. Who I think, I sink, and I die..."
It's a metaphor, Brad, a riddle if you will... I don't want to make things too transparent here, cause I'm a writer and I like to paint a picture through words - but, I think you catch the drift... get what I'm driving at... Understand what I"m barking at... have a pretty solid idea of what kind of a web I'm weaving.
Don't pull my threads again, unless you're ready to steal those threads, turn them into strings attached to tiny little marionettes, and take on the puppet master.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA (evil laugh)
I have to go now, the phone is ringing.
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