It’s mornings like today’s that make me feel I’d be better off dead, or at least anywhere but here. Suddenly my two days “off” each week are gone, and I’m back at Sovereign Collection, huddled behind the desk, on the world’s most uncomfortable chair, praying the sweet strains of Mazzy Star will help this hangover go away. I scared off two customers soon after I opened at 9 am, I think because I did not notice I was still wearing my oversized sunglasses while rocking back and forth behind the desk in partial darkness because I chose not to turn on half the store lights.
You might be thinking “her poor boss, what a bad employee!” but stop right there. My boss, Lori - 20 some years my senior but more fun than most people that I know who are my age- also owns the store, and she is the one who took me out last night and forced one or two bottles of wine down my throat. She’s probably fast asleep at home right now, and really doesn’t give a shit if I open late, and that’s why I love her. However, due to the strong sense of loyalty I feel to that fabulous woman, I was right on time, always am. Give me nothing and I’ll run a mile, but give me an inch and I’ll only take half.
Also part of my promptness was due to the fact that I was wide awake at 5:30 am (despite crawling into the sack, fully clothed, at about 1:30), feverishly and sloppily trying to finish two articles, due to my editor by 9am this morning. I had originally planned to finish them upon my return last night, that did not happen. They actually turned out ok though, I hope, I pray.
Despite my current misery, yesterday was a wonderful day, though, like every day of my life, full of quirks.
I spent the morning working at the newspaper office editing and uploading. One of the gifts I received for my birthday last week was a certificate for a massage at The Spa At Sacred Grounds- lame name, cool place. My masseuse’s name was Pat, and boy was she/he a Pat! After a blissful hour there I made my exit, stopping to take a photo of an interesting sculpture in the Spa lobby. Just as I snapped the shot, a hippy-dippy looking man- wearing linen everything, long hair, long beard- walked into the frame.
“I’m sorry did I get in your photo?” He asked.
“Yess.” I said with mock irritation.
Where any other might have just said “sorry,” and carried on, this dude goes “Oh. Let me see” and walks over to me, very close to me, uncomfortably so as my personal space shield is quite large, and stared eagerly at my phone screen.
I just got a new phone, and I really haven’t figured out many of its features, like the camera, so to get to the photo of him, I had to scroll through all the pictures saved on the phone. They started off with about 30 of my former dog, Barley. “You got a dog?” He chirped. Not wanting to venture down Julia’s Failures Lane with this stranger, telling him the sad truth, that I gave Barley back to the shelter, I just said “yes.” Then, in excruciation, we also had to get through about 50 photos of my new kitten. Finally, I found the photo of Mr. Hippy which made him chuckle. I mumbled some form on "Gladyoulikeitgottago" and ran away.
After the spa, I went home to get ready to go to an art showing at a local gallery of the artist Pamela Murphy (to see her stuff go here: http://www.pamelamurphystudio.com/gallery.htm), who is also a frequent patron of Sovereign Collection. Lori was coming with me, and I picked her up at the store around 7. Lori commissioned Pam to do a piece for her years ago in exchange for clothing from her store. This year they finally broke even,which was another reason to celebrate.
We got to Fine Line Gallery not too long before the show ended. Luckily we made it in time for wine and hors d’ oeuvres though. Mrs. Murphy looked stunning, dressed in an outfit I helped her pick out in the shop the week before, and Lori and I were, as usual, walking advertisements for the store as well.
In typical Lori fashion, she wasted no time getting to the bar and pouring herself and me a large glass of wine. We walked around chatting and looking at the paintings, enjoying the advancing liquid calm. Just as I was starting to feel really great, I saw him staring at me from across the room, the Hippy man from the spa. I tried to look away but I was spotted. Trapped, I smiled, and he came at me.
“Well fancy seeing you here!” He exclaimed, just three inches from my face. This guy obviously must have been raised by a pack of Europeans. His disregard for getting too close wasn’t really creepy, just unnerving.
“Oh hi, how are you?” I asked.
“Great, great,” he nodded, then “Gees you look great.”
I tried to smile, but cringed, hating compliments.
“Thanks,” I shrugged, “I showered.”
Instantly I wished to take back my words as I noticed (and how could I not? He was standing so frickin close to me) that he had not showered since I saw him last, nor anytime in the last few days it seemed.
He didn’t catch it though, or maybe he just didn’t care. Instead, Dan- we managed introductions - launched into one of those conversations that begins “Man, I’ve had such a crazy day,” then rambles back and forth, pausing only so I could nod. Before I knew it, I was up against the wall and he was bracing himself, one arm on the wall over my left shoulder, telling me about his band, “Toivo.”
The conversation was made even more uncomfortable as he stared intensely into my eyes while talking, and though I tried to respectfully maintain eye contact, I had a lot of trouble because he had the kind of eyes that were such a dark brown that I almost couldn’t see his pupils. They were little bead-eyed rag doll eyes.
Luckily, after not too long, Lori seemed to catch my rigid body language message of distress, and she came over and said “Julia I want to show you the painting I want.” I excused myself.
Several glasses of wine later, the gallery folks were putting away the appetizers, signaling the end of the show, so we said our congratulations to Pam, and I waved goodbye to Dan, running out before we could exchange any actual words. Lori was especially giggly as we headed to the car and proclaimed “I’m drunk!” so I drove to T. Ashwell’s, my favorite DC restaurant, for drinks and more appetizers.
The bartender at T. Ashwells, Zak, is a mastermind. He makes the best martini I’ve ever tasted, and he is a fantastic conversationalist. I was delighted to show up with company since the last time I went there I was alone, which caused Zak to ask one of the most depressing questions one can ask a young woman at a bar, “Flying solo, Kennelly?” Yeah, Zak, rub it in.
Lori and I sat at the bar and had appetizers- Ahi tuna spring rolls, coconut encrusted goat cheese crostinis, and beef carpaccio-, a martini each, and we went through two bottles of wine. Recounting our favorite stories of nightmare customers, and moving on to the inevitable “I just love you” s of drunk conversation between good friends, we passed hours and hours at the bar, making friends with everyone around us and having a grand ole time. Unfortunately, perhaps too grand as I have spent all of today holding in vomit and counting down the seconds until I can take more ibuprofen.
I am excited to get back to St. Louis in a week or so, but I’m gonna miss Lori to pieces when I go. I never really used the word fabulous before I met her, but there really is no other word that describes that woman. Life in general is just more fabulous when she’s involved.
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