Priced to Move

summer afternoons, and above all else, love, blossom in me like a field of daisies under the summer sun. At the landing, I hug myself, and turn a slow, happy circle.

Then I grin. Forget about that approaching three-oh hill. No one’s around. No one’s gonna bust me. So I hike up a leg, and . . .

“Yeah, baby!” The banister’s as slick as ever, the exhilaration the same. Thank you, Jesus, for Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, and the faboo banister too.

That was then, three days ago. This is now. I’ve crash-landed into The Twilight Zone.

Time? It means nothing. Days zip past me in a hazy blur. I now have a good—bad, actually—idea of what sleepwalking feels like. And I never wanted to know in the first place. Now I’m in this new dimension—well, my body is—and I hear and say all the right things, but my mush-for-brain can’t quite get around it all. Day after day of meetings with gemstone vendors and jewelry suppliers go well. I know most of them from my years in New York, and I do know my gemstones. But then there’s the other. You see, I’m suddenly the victim on a manic version of What Not to Wear. It’s not one of my fave shows anymore, not after what I’m going through. What’s worse, my survival isn’t assured in this Groundhog Day cycle of planning meetings, rehearsals, and millions of fittings for the clothes Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby want me to wear on-screen.

But surprise, surprise! By the time two weeks of this madness have gone by, they have disagreed over every shirt, skirt, dress, and pants each has suggested.

And I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything they choose. Starting with the inverted lampshade Aunt Weeby calls “darling.” When she pulls it out of the dress bag, I go into shock. My reaction hovers between laughing, crying, and running back to New York and a fresh new ulcer. It’s the exact shade of her cast and that diarrhea medicine.

What was she thinking?

“If you like it so much,” I tell her, “buy yourself a lamp base and stick it on top. It’s not going on me.”

“But it’s the perfect dress for your launch show, sugarplum. See how the lights make it glow? And retro’s back in style.” I look again at the shiny pink satin, extreme Audrey Hep-burn shirtwaist with the bouffant skirt. There’s enough reflective fabric here to turn me into the world’s tallest, crinkliest, pinkest lamp. Let me backtrack. Ms. Hepburn wouldn’t have been caught dead in this thing. “Not this kind of retro.”

“But pink’s wonderful for a woman’s complexion.”

This shade of pink doesn’t work for anyone—except maybe Miss Piggy. And I’m not that short.

By three o’clock, I dig in my heels. Enough is enough. “I’m not wearing pink! Would you buy diamonds from a Charlie-Brown’s-little-girl-with-red-hair lampshade? News flash! I’m not in third grade anymore. And pink’s toxic for redheads. No way.”

Aunt Weeby’s no pushover. “But it’s such a happy color, sugarplum.”

Miss Mona clears her throat. “I told you she should stick to cool colors like the greens, blues, and purples rather than your pink.”

Aunt Weeby crosses her arms. “Everyone wears blue, green, and purple. We want her to stand out.”

“Oh, she’ll stand out in pink all right. I’m just not sure I want a Pepto bottle look-alike to try and sell my gems.”

After a couple more go-rounds of this, I’m ready to offer them—and their pink monstrosity—to the first pasty troll I find. With two index fingers in the corners of my mouth, I whistle. Life comes to a standstill in our little corner of suburban Louisville.

A girl could get used to this kind of power.

“Here’s a novel idea, ladies. I choose what I’m going to wear. And how about I stick to neutrals so viewers can focus on the gems and jewels?”

Amazing how brilliant my two geriatric fashionistas suddenly find me—about the neutrals, that is. They still don’t trust me with my on-screen wardrobe, and nix my solo shopping spree.

Know what I find out? Louisville’s got some primo shopping going on.

The next day, I do like a homing pigeon and hit Ann Taylor for a fab black floral jacquard jacket and pencil skirt, a caramel knit wrap sweater, and black wool pants. One day later, at Macy’s I pick up a yummy BCBG dark green wool jersey dress with a cummerbund of the same fabric, a V-neck, and buttons all the way down the front.

Finally, after a twenty-four-hour hiatus from our extreme shopping safari, we hit the mother lode. Miss Mona drags me into a small, exclusive boutique—think Marc Jacobs, Donna Karan, Monique L’Huilhier, and a bunch of English and Italian design stars too. Suzi, the owner, finds me a Diane Von Furstenberg silk wrap dress, then leads me straight to the racks of killer shoes.

But by the time I get there, exhaustion zaps me. Try to do all I’ve done the past few weeks, then add helping Aunt Weeby clump around with that massive cast. It feels as though it weighs as much as she does. And she’s not above playing on my sympathies to get her way when I dare suggest an extended break.

“Oh no, sugarplum,” she says. “We’re not done. Everything has to be near perfect. It’s all because I love you.”

I can almost hear the violin strings in the background, but what can I say? It is Aunt Weeby we’re talking about here. You know I’d do just about anything for her, even cut off my nose . . . you finish the cliche.

Let’s face it, anyone can tell I’m not myself when I balk at shoe shopping. I’m so all about shoes. But get real. Who’s going to see my shoes behind the host’s desk? I could do my shows in—shudder —Birkenstocks, and no one would know the difference.

And while I’m at the point where I’d rather wrap myself in my five-hundred-thread-count linens than shop, and the geriatric fashionistas give me no vote on the colors or styles,

I do fall in love with the shoes they choose for me. I score a pair of dark green velvet Stella McCartneys, some Manolo Blahnik beige patent leather Mary Janes, and a pair of Stuart Weitzman Kiss black kid leather pumps.