Living in Paris I learned to select clothing the way I selected a piece of art. This went a long way in creating the perfect Parisian look (and perhaps also why I always looked so comfortable in a museum), but what seemed fine in Paris, I was starting to realize might be a little over the top in Boston.
Image courtesy of TeddyBear[Picnic] at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
A shopping spree was long overdue for me…and possibly also for Casey. Fortunately, there is no shortage of shopping avenues in down town Boston, from Newbury Street to the Copley Center which extends into the Shops at the Prudential Center. I had not bought anything new since I got here and the more I thought about it, the more I was itching to say those infamous words…charge it!
I was momentarily derailed when Casey pulled up in the driveway of my building in a car that may have been my grandfather’s ride.
“Where did you get this?” I said getting into the 1977 Rolls Royce Shadow. “No wonder they don’t make these anymore.”
“I’m holding it for a friend. Don’t ask.”
Good thing the Prudential offers valet parking, I thought as we drove off in the closest thing to a cruise ship I had been in since I was fourteen. When we arrived the lunch frenzy was coming to an end.
Casey’s family was hoping her time at Harvard would land her an eligible bachelor. Casey however, was getting stir crazy and was more inclined to trade in eligible bachelor for irresponsible affair. I had convinced her that a more risqué wardrobe was the way to invite more excitement into her life, “you mean because I look like the poster child for Holt Renfrew and Talbots,” she had laughed.
I had a mental list of designers I wanted to check out. Casey’s look made her the ideal blank canvass and I wanted to paint her with broad colorful strokes. We walked the mall from end-to-end but it was pretty apparent that Casey was the perfect candidate for Thomas Pink brightly colored shirts; Ann Klein dresses and Burberry’s sophisticated trench coats with shoes from Jimmy Choo, Chinese Laundry and Armani. In the end Casey walked out with a wardrobe that looked more academic chic rather than dowdy royal.
Casey in turn had been giving my clothes bemused glances and was angling for my look to be more artistic and less walking piece of art. Casey was there to veto my ultra-chick and perhaps flamboyant choices, so that in the end I was left with sophisticated sweaters, tunics and jump suits from, stylish halter tops and an array of jeans from BCBG to Barney’s. “There,” she said. “Now you look more like a cosmopolitan urbanite rather than someone who was on break from rehearsal.”
If spending the afternoon creating the perfect wardrobe does anything, it definitely sparks the appetite. We finished the day with an early dinner at the Top of the Hub. There are views…and there is being fifty two floors above Boston’s Back Bay to give you a perspective of the world!
Image courtesy of rakratchada torsap at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
I started with the Spicy Lobster Soup which was as rich and as comforting as your favorite pair of slippers. If I could curl up on my sofa with any soup this would be it. Next, I had the Pan Seared Scallops and finally we both ended up licking our dessert spoons from the Crème Brulee and Warm Chocolate Cake – mental note that it was time to join a gym. Any day that starts with a shopping spree and ends with chocolate cake has gotta be pretty good. Even if you have to go home in ride that makes the Titanic look demure. Casey dropped me off in front of my building.
Heels in hand, bags in tow I made my way up to my apartment hoping I wouldn’t drop anything. I was wondering if I could shimmy open a button on my pants, which suddenly, had started feeling tighter when I slammed into my infamous neighbor – the Latin lover from across the hall.
Rumi had nick named him the Mob Man, and tried to convince me he was the head of a drug cartel. Today, he was wearing a violet pin stripe shirt over dark grey pants – mob chic. He had an intense look about him, part concentration and part annoyance and it was unclear whether he would help me, or shoot me.
“Excuse me,” he said picking-up my packages and as he bent over I noticed he was wearing a holster. I had never known anyone that carried a piece.
“You OK,’ he said. The smell of his cologne was making me dizzy. I took the remaining packages from his hands and noticed his biceps were rock hard. Is it possible to be scared and turned on at the same time…?
Unable to speak I gave him a thumbs up and sucked in my gut. I really need to join a gym.
Next Post: Dec. 30