|4:45 p.m.: a horrifying discovery|
So: although this is very much our local weekend, I found myself, at an unaccustomed mid-afternoon hour today, having to get myself dolled up (to the extent that one does) for an Important Office Do.
Earlier, Mr. Muscato and I had been lazing about the Villa Muscato, playing with the dogs, enjoying the last fragments of the pre-inferno weather, as is appropriate for a weekend morning, before bestirring ourselves to actually get a little shopping done so that we don't either starve this coming week or rely entirely on the questionable mercies of the local delivery-industrial complex (which leans heavily toward heavy Lebanese, heavier Indian, inedible pizza, and the regrettable messes that pass for Chinese in these parts).
We also squeezed in a quick lunch at a very swish new Italian gourmanderie not too far from the house, meeting up there with our pal The Bodybuilder (a physical-wellness professional and general eyeful), who predictably asked for a plain chicken breast, steamed, please, while we piled our trays (it's a sort of haute-cafeteria, as it turns out) with mozzarella salads, antipasti, lasagna, and heavenly calzones. Oh, and cheesecake, which came with a side of biscotti. It's a pretty impressive hangout, actually, and we'll likely double our body mass by June at this rate.
In any case, all this took some time, not least because the BB had some choice local gossip, and so I had to hurry rather more than I like to get dressed for Tea with the Clients. The location in which we were entertaining these out-of-towners was a Very Distinguished Residence (whose Resident actually spells it with a capital "R") we obtained for the afternoon by pulling in an alarming number of chips from hither and yon. In any case, it was distinctly, at least for the time of day, a Hightum sort of affair, and so I really did have some dressing to do.
Which leads us, distressingly, to the photo above; she is, of course, the third Mrs.Gingrich, the effervescent Callista Lou (at whose photos I look and think to myself "she's years younger than you," which is true).
So - I was in a hurry. Rushing suits no toilette, and least of all mine. Perhaps it was just that I'm used to dressing either early in the morning or later in the evening. Perhaps I was just a tad heavy-handed on the product, or uncautious with the blow-dryer, or both. Perhaps it's all just the evil hand of fate. Whatever it was, having showered I did my usual routine, threw on a dashing weekend-y sort of afternoon costume (blazer, pale blue shirt, rather bright tie to look devil-may-care) and ran down the stairs. There, between the stairs and the front door, is a large mirror. Turning to leave, I saw reflected therein a shocking vision: something, something - humidity, haste, I know not what - had conspired against me, for looking back was a rather startlingly convincing salt-and-pepper reinterpretation of the trademark Callista helmet, complete with the tendril that the formidable Peteykins (aka Princess Sparklepony) once hypothesized might be prehensile.
It was alarming.
But I was late. The product betrayal (for such I think it was) was fierce - it was all I could do to try and break up some of the stiffness before I simply had to go, and after which spend two hours standing around looking, I fear, like an oddly butch discarded political first wife.
Now it's hours (and several cocktails) later, and while padding about the house I caught another glimpse in that infernal mirror. At first, I sighed with relief, for the Callista-do has relaxed significantly and I almost, again, resembled a human being.
|8:45 p.m.: less rigid, but not, noticeably, an improvement|
My relief was short-lived, for on the next pass past the glass (and try saying that ten times fast), I discovered that, while I was now delivered of political spouse-resemblance, I was apparently (and wholly unknowingly) calling up the spirit of Seventies Jesus. It's a very specific era and look, mind you - not Hippy Jesus at all, but rather one fit for a (portly) Nazarene who might be at home at a fern bar, or working backstage on Merv, or attending an EST meeting (or all three at once).
Clearly, it's time to get the hair cut. If I'm not careful, at the next wrong turn, I'll end up with Barry-Gibb-on-Barbra's-Guilty-LP-cover, and however fetching he was, I just don't think a case can be made for that in 2012 - not, at least, on a round gent who actually remembers Guilty when it was new.