My pal Joanne and I were en route to Saks to buy cruise wear. No we’re not sailing, but every year we go and pretend to be. Camille usually comes too, but she’s home in bed with the flu.
Against Joanne’s better judgment, we decided to walk.
“Nobody told you to wear heels Joanne.”
“Well, nobody mentioned we’d be hiking either.”
As we tooled down Fifth, we couldn’t get over all the couples, tourists I’m guessing, canoodling at the crosswalk causing major traffic delays. What I particularly found fascinating were the women and how smitten they were to be on the arm of a man.
There was a busty blonde in front of us at the Clinque counter who looked surgically attached to her guy preening like she caught a big fish. Imagine Pamela Anderson draped around a very large halibut.
Alright, she was thirty if she were a day, and I’d like to think she just suffered from picket fence syndrome, but by the looks of her cleavage, housekeeping was the last thing on this little lady’s mind.
Her beau of course was oblivious, his eyes glazing over while she tried on lipsticks asking his opinion. “Which do ya like snoogie, Pansy Pink or Raspberry Rush?”
Cosmetics and Fine Cremes may not have been the best place to drag him to. I’m betting he’d perk up in Sleepwear and Intimate Apparel.
“What do you think they talk about,” asked Joanne as we watched them disappear into the elevator.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
We then came upon an Asian girl walking behind her man with the subservience of an overly labeled Geisha. Her head, weighed down by one too many pearls, might have been the reason it was bowed so low. You’d think the schmuck she was with would have had the sense to at least say, be careful not to trip honey.
He resembled an Italian wrestler with a chest that came with special effects. Don’t know about you, but I don’t like pecs that dance during conversation. I was waiting, any minute, for his ribcage to light up. At least the girl got designer duds out of the deal, unlike Blondie who looked as if she shopped from the Speigel Catalog.
What’s wrong with Speigel? Nothing, if you’re buying lawn furniture.
Joanne and I drifted upstairs to drool over the winter whites that my Connecticut conscience would never let me wear, even if I was going to the Bahamas. Joanne bought shorts that were really dinner napkins Oscar De la Renta decided to stitch together. That’s what happens when you smoke pot at that sit down dinner party.
“They are awfully pricy Joanne. They cost more than the trip we’re not really going on..”
“I know, but I’ll turn the heat way up in my apartment and wear them with a colorful halter.”
“And after you drink enough, you can put on suntan lotion and pretend not to burn.”
“You have to be imaginative Susannah, especially when you’re on a budget.”
“Some budget…and whatever you do, don’t tell Camille what you paid for those…you’ll never hear the end of it.”
When we called Camille to see if we could bring her anything Joanne, not being able to help herself, blurted out what she bought. I stood there shaking my head ready to say, I told you so.
“Okay, let’s have it,” I said when she got off the phone. “What did she say?”
“That she wants a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Liz Lemon and did they come in a size 6.”
“Did she really say that?”
“Yes…she’s watching 30 Rock reruns.”