Dear Diary,
My sister is coming for Thanksgiving. Her boys and husband are coming too. That will be fun. I've been studying alot so I haven't blogged. It is hard to do both. I've been doing all I can to Avoid house cleaning. I've painted a toy highchair and been making monkeys like I have jungle fever! I am addicted to making monkeys. It's like I am possessed by Charles Darwin or something similar. But I digress.....
My baby sista, Sarah Ann (Who we lovingly refer to as Precious) and I went shopping in Solana Beach, California, a couple of years ago. That town is pretty as a picture ( I can't spell picturesk). It was a beautiful day and we had money in our pocket books. A perfect time to spend. The first shop we entered was full of bric a brac and other wonderful accessories just begging to be picked up and fondled. We virtually had the run of the store because the employees /best friends/owners were oblivious to us - they were off to the side dressed in chic black outfits with blond flowing hair and perfect makeup. The "help" were chatting and laughing and so enthralled with each other that it would have been a shame to interrupt them. We left that store empty handed and headed to another.
The next shop looked like a magical snowy fairy land. Everything in the store was a shade of white. It was all crisp and cool looking. Nothing practical for a family with dogs, children, husbands or us. In my fantasy life, my cottage by the sea would be furnished like this store. George Clooney and I would be so happy, often looking into each others eyes and sighing a content sigh....... This shop, like the last had beautiful, blond, black clad proprietors. I'm being critical but thought they should have dressed in something paler and gauzy. But, they didn't ask me. In fact they didn't address us at all. Like in the other store, these ladies had so much to tell each other. They talked in hushed tones and were pouring over what looked to be a catalog. Never looking up. I don't think they even heard the bell that rang when we opened the door. Since we were raised right, we kept our voices at a respectful low and tried not to disturb them as we browsed.
We entered a boutique - same scenario, an art gallery, ditto. We were beginning to suspect that we were invisible. I reached out and touched my sister, she felt real, we stared at our reflections in the store front windows, we could see ourselves. What in the hell was going on?
Over lunch we discussed this strange phenomena. We came to the decision that these ladies must not have to sell anything to keep their stores open. Hence, the poor customer service. Maybe they had trust funds, alimony, made it rich on the stock market, or wealthy husbands that just wanted them to be happy. Maybe the stores were their hobbies, something to do to get them out of the house. Keep them from getting in the maid's way. The more we talked about it the more jealous we got. Baby sista and I were down right indignant when we left Solana Beach that afternoon. Why wasn't that our beautiful life?
Some times Precious and I fantasize about owning a shop together and how we are going to giggle and teehee and fix each others hair, stare at our painted finger and toenails, pose, flip through magazines, and ignore our customers . Wouldn't that be the life?
