Mockery

Mr. Tangerine took Ben up to his folks' this weekend, leaving me behind to do grown-up things. I watched some TiVo (Maureen Dowd's recent appearance on "Charlie Rose"), did some crosswords, and ate some Thanksgiving leftovers before I motivated myself to shower and get dressed this afternoon.

Then I hopped on the bus downtown and went to Nordstrom's—my lingerie mentor Bitch Ph.D., a.k.a. the Distinguished Professor of Brassiere and Shoe Studies, had advised me that I must shop for bras at Nordstrom's, and that Felina was the brand that would offer foxy styles in my size. My goodness, those Nordstrom's employees are solicitous! They more than made up for the pestilence of out-of-town shoppers polluting Michigan Avenue this weekend. And if the good Dr. B ever gives you advice about bras, for the love of cleavage, take her advice! She is wise in the ways of the brassiere. Earlier this year, she recommended the Wacoal brand, and I now own five Wacoal bras. This fall, Dr. B said Felina, and I now own a lovely Felina demi-cup bra in a deep raspberry hue. I try on other brands, but invariably, what fits is what Dr. B has told me to try.

After my shopping expedition, I cabbed it to the local art cinema to meet an old friend, K., for the Claire Danes/Steve Martin/Jason Schwartzman movie, Shopgirl, which we both liked a lot. After the show, we crossed the street to a French restaurant I like so I could partake of poulet au curry crepes (yum) and French wine (two glasses, my tipsy-making limit!). Regrettably, the table behind K. contained six reasonably quiet men at one end and SEVEN LOUD WOMEN at the end closer to us. "Howler monkeys," K. called them. The woman in the mustard-colored sweater had a laugh that was bleatingly reminiscent of Tom Hulce's laugh in Amadeus. (So charming!) The rest of us in the nonsmoking room partook of a shared mockery of the jackals/monkeys—lots of eye-rolling and whatnot—but alas, the jackals/monkeys remained drunkenly oblivious to the how much their LOUDNESS really IRRITATED EVERYONE ELSE. K. and I concluded that this group Came From The Suburbs. No North Side woman would be caught dead wearing a velour Royal Stewart tartan top, I assure you. (Who knew such a thing even existed?) Nor a black sweater festooned with sparkly marquise-cut rhinestones. Nor so many bad, bad highlights in not-really-blonde hair. The LOUD laughter was punctuated at times by vigorous foot stomping, which did not abate even when the guy behind me stomped his foot in a call-and-response form of sheer mockery. Occasionally K. or I would bray in Amadeus-style laughter, to no avail—they who Came From The Suburbs were beyond reach. And good lord, they were intent on closing the place down. We'd hoped to outlast them, but did so only because we stayed to enjoy the peace for a few minutes after the LOUD PEOPLE left, even though the busboy had blown out the candles at all the empty tables.

Can you make me a promise, dear readers? If you happen to own any apparel in the velour tartan category, would you please burn it? It's for the best. Honest.