There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


La Veccia y il ragazzo.

OK, so a lot has happened recently -- I've been to Ireland (I think), London, seen some Shakespeare, etc. But all that can wait because I recently had one of the most horrible moments of self-realization...

You know, when you haven't seen your man-meat for months and you want everything to be all pretty and special and perfect (which is to say that yes, I finally shaved all my bits and pieces and am no longer a Yeti) and you try really hard to be sexy and pretty? What if you tried that hard but then realized that you'd gone horribly, terribly, squeamishly badly wrong wrong wrong?

The setting: New Year's Eve in Oxford. An impromptu reservation is made at a swanky restaurant (one of the few that would answer their phone -- national health care has ruined this country and there is no longer any motivation to go to work). Primping begins.

The tools: I hadn't brought many dressy clothes with me seeing as I hadn't planned on many formal occasions. I brought one all-purpose black dress with long sleeves and a scoop neck. It's somewhat slinky. Black pantyhose. Black shoes. Necklace. Sparkly scarf/belt thingy.

The result: After I had gotten dressed, made an attempt to make my hair look less yak-hair-like, and put on make-up, I looked in the mirror. I realized that if I took off the belt/scarf thingy and tied it over my head and picked up a large black handbag, I would look just like an Italian lady on her way to church.

This was not sexy. It was not pretty. But I didn't have anything else to wear. Even if I'd had more time, I would have needed a loan to buy a new dress in this land of no Target.

So we went to dinner, Mamma Lucia Vittoria Speranza and the Greggers. He was nice enough not to ask me when Mass was.

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