Sunday at the Park

Yesterday I was at Peacock Park. I was wearing Two Blonde Lizards, though I'm always but an ear's--or neck's--length away from Elizabeth Showers. Although I didn't pop into the Neiman's, I spent some time at the Betsey, discussing wallets and whatnot with a new--but equally bubbly--salesperson. Overnight, I purchased a watch via Bluefly: no crashing into counters, allowed. And today is Sunday.

Let's get this show on the road:

SUNDAY AT THE PARK

PEACOCK BAZAAR

Deciding to check out Neiman’s Last Call pre-sale earlier today, I headed straight for the designer jewelry counter. Elizabeth Showers: I was trying to find some of this designer’s signature danglies. I soon found myself picking out the most attractive – yet smallest – chandelier earrings from an impressive lot. The sole counter person was busy with two ladies who were fussing and fretting over watches. After major haggling between themselves, they decided, no, and left. The counter person came over to me.

Are these earrings Elizabeth Showers? I asked her. Many of them are, yes. Asking her about several necklaces, she finally showed me one I liked, a double-tiered delicately chain-linked silver one with a swath of equally delicate seed pearls in front. As the earrings I had selected also had seed pearls dangling between delicate gold filigree work on top and smoky, purplish-hued iolite on the bottom, she commented, I like pearls.
Me, too, I said.

A man, a woman, and several noisy children all but crashed into the counter and began to ask her about the watches. Giving me a brief look, she went over to attend to them.

In the meantime, a woman with a mole on her cheek pulled up next to me, almost at breath level, and began to comment on the earrings. They’re too long for me, she said. I’m too old. Yes they are, some of them, I responded. I’m too old, too: I’m fifty. I’m fifty-eight, she responded. We continued to take turns commenting and commiserating, until she spotted the pair in front of me. Or, rather, the two pairs, as the iolites were not well matched, and I was hoping I could make an even exchange between pairs.

Ooh, I like those, she said. I quickly put my hands over them, protectively. The counter woman returned: the foursome had departed, empty-handed. Before she and I had the chance to resume our conversation, the woman asked about “my” earrings. I piped in: can I make the exchange? Yes. The woman continued to butt in: they’ll make me look young and pretty. But you already have a husband, I blurted out. Yes… and he’s the best husband in the world, she said, reaching out to point out her obviously very patient husband to both of us.

Behind every great man there’s a great woman, the counter woman countered. I quickly agreed with her. The woman stepped aside long enough for us to finish our transaction. And then she and her husband left: they’d really been looking for computers, she’d mentioned. To keep her best husband busy, she’d said.

Are you married? I asked the counter person. I’m separated, she said. And I’ve been divorced for over thirteen years, I responded. We nodded in assent. We’d both had enough of peacocks at this bazaar, at least for today.

473 words

THE BARK

Once is not enough. Ambling over to the Betsey Johnson store, I had no sooner opened the door, than I heard a screech. Yes, a screech: a woman was screeching at her dog, which was actually standing in front of the window. A Yorkie, I thought.

The super-bubbly salesperson greeted me, “Long time no see!” I’d been in the store several times, and, yes, she looked vaguely familiar. As the dog began to approach me, I cowered. I’ve been a little more scared of dogs since this past summer, when a rather large one bit my forehead when I leaned in too closely, while expecting a cat-like snuggle.

I’m scared of dogs, I informed the clerk. The owner appeared from the back of the store and screeched at the poor thing. I’ll put her in the back room, she said. Sheepishly relieved, all I could muster was, thank you.

Looking around, I found two skirts I liked on sale. Trying on the green skirt richly, yet delicately, decorated in brocade, it was a go. The black skirt with the peasant piping was not a go: too big. Wandering out of the dressing room, I found a fuchsia wrap dress that looked interesting, so I took that back in and tried it on. A wrap is a wrap: it hugged me nicely. But I wasn’t sure about the color.

In the meantime, the screecher – who actually seemed to be a pretty nice woman – was paying. Nice woman = nice dog, I thought to myself. Feeling a bit guilty, I said, please let the doggie out. I’ll be ok. She’ll come right to me, her owner said.

Which she did. What a nice dog – it’s a Yorkie, isn’t it, I asked. NO, she’s a Schnauzer. Yorkies are mean. Oh. And then the dog came over to me and jumped up on me. Dogs always do that, I commented.

She’d been pretty silent, until someone paraded outside the window with a real Yorkie: a definite frou-frou, whom the Frau most certainly did not find to her liking. The two began to bark at each other. My store companion began to screech, yet again.

The fuchsia was all wrong for me, I decided. Exiting the dressing room with the two skirts in the midst of all the screeching, barking – but at least no biting – I asked the salesperson to try to locate the black skirt in a smaller size. Calling the other Betsey, she did. I’ll return later on this week to purchase both… assuming they’re still a go.

With not a screech, bite, or bark around, who knows? 435 words