I spent the day running errands — mailing a package to Amanda from the post office in Uptown, checking out the Lincoln Square Block Party in (duh) Lincoln Square, buying a pair of Wörishofer sandals after I read about them in Blackbook. I feel like I should be ashamed to buy a pair of sandals just because Blackbook liked them, but I am totally not. I found them at Salamander, where they were comfortable and adorable and, most importantly, on sale.
But to be serious for a moment.
While I was waiting for the bus to Lincoln Square, my heat-induced reverie was interrupted by a small woman in pink whose boyfriend? husband? kept getting in her face and yelling at her. It was something about how they didn’t have to wait at the bus stop where we were standing, on a hot, sunny corner of Lawrence and Broadway. They could have waited in the shade, under the tracks of the red line that cross Lawrence east of Broadway. Did they walk back? No. Did he keep yelling at her? He did.
I didn’t know what to do, and for that I feel incredibly bad. What made it worse was that we were soon joined at the stop by a young mother and her two young daughters. Who could not stop looking at the asshole as he continued to hiss and yell and criticize this woman even after we got on the bus. When we were on the bus, the lady in pink tried to sit by herself. But I guess to get the man to quiet down, she eventually sat next to him so he could continue to hiss abuse, this time quietly, in her ear. But it wasn’t any less noticeable.
I got off the bus at Western, and they kept going.
So I needed the bougie niceness of Lincoln Square. I needed to touch and see pretty objects, happy families with their triple strollers, and delicious food. I felt like I should rub my belly, pretending to be pregnant so I could fit in with all the other yuppies. I got a pink lemonade and a croissant from Cafe Selmarie, sampled the scented lip balms at Merz Apothecary, and went home to get ready for the evening.
Jacinda had proposed a ladies’ night. Ten years ago, this would have involved endless bottles of Point Beer at the Beachwood and even more cigarettes. In 2010, it’s stuffing our faces with tacos at Belly Shack. Which was amazing, by the way. After dinner, we tried to get a drink at some place fancypants in Wicker Park. The Violet Hour lost power just as we showed up, and the crowd at The Southern was a bit too Trixie (or “Bixie” or “Wixie”) for our tastes. So we went to Molly’s Cupcakes instead. It was perfect.
Sunday, July 18
While the kids were getting roasted in the heat or drenched by brief but intense thunderstorms at the Pitchfork Music Festival, Kathy and I headed out to Oakbrook for a little browsing. And a little buying. But not much, I swear. We had lunch at California Pizza Kitchen, where we were seated near all the Asians. That was a nice touch.
I wasn’t so impressed with the plus-size selection at Nordstrom. I thought they would have brought out the heavy guns (so to speak) given that their anniversary sale is going on right now, but no. Still a lot of shapless shifts and muumuus. I held up this spangled, mother-of-the-bride outfit and deadpanned to Kathy that I’d be trying it on. She just said “Okay” (she was actually shopping for real, and had no time for my foolishness) and so, instead of putting it down, I took it to the dressing room. I nearly laughed in the sales associate’s face when she told me somebody had bought the same outfit the day before and loved it. I refused to believe her. On the hanger, the dress looked like gay unicorn vomit covered in sequins. On my body, the dress looked… Well, I’ll just come out and say it.
It looked great.
How is it possible in this world that a dress that looks like this (see below) looks good?
It looked better without the jacket, I’ll say that much. But the color and the cut were gorgeous. I could have done with less rhinestones. Eventually, I talked myself out of buying it to wear to Celi’s wedding because it just wasn’t me. It looked pretty, felt good, but it just was not me. It felt like the older drag queen version of me, only I’d think any drag queen version of me wouldn’t look quite so fussy. If Dame Edna Everage had an Asian sidekick named something like Countess Lily LaFawnduh, this is what she’d rock.