Can You Tie 'em in a Knot, Can You Tie 'em in a Bow

I hyperventilated through my last week at work.

Wrapped up a few projects. Put a few on ice. Assigned a few people to babysit others. Marvelled once again at all manner of human nature on parade through my working life.

In every job I've ever held, there has been at least one person that I've worked with - okay, not exactly worked with. (Worked around? Cooperated with? Tolerated?) who, every time I see her, is so distracting with her personal qualities that I completely lose focus and want to Google Clinton and Stacy for an intervention. Invariably the woman can neither control her rantings nor dress herself. The little thought bubble above my head constantly flashes "She will make a great crazy old lady some day." I envision green patent leather slip-ons, red lipstick smeared all around her mouth and a bra on the outside of the blouse. Marlboros and highly opinionated public rantings.

And thoughts of her lead quite naturally to my own mother. Still a fashion standout, but becoming one that stands out for the peculiarity of the whole package.

Open-toed sandals in the dead of winter.

Penelope Pitstop Pink metallic toe nail polish. Always.

Hair whipped and teased and backcombed into a meringue and sprayed deftly into place with a giant, environmentally unfriendly can of Aqua Net. (Which she calls "Ack-wa Net." Sends my sister sailing over the edge every time.)

And the piece de resistance.

No bra. Or as an alternative, a bra that appears to have been purchased at the Dollar Store, so that it gives the cumulative effect of not wearing a bra.

On her last invasion, ummmm, visit, my sister took her shopping. It may have been for birthday gifts or some such thing she needed specific direction to accomplish - but they were fortifying the economy together for a few hours one day last year.

And after watching the "girls" compete for space and evidently, attention, for an hour, and after numerous unsuccessful attempts at stearing her toward the bra and panty department where one might find a dazzling yet supportive item that would appeal to my mother's fashion sensibilities, my sister took control of the situation and drove directly to Bra-lelujah.

There they were met by a seasoned salesperson-slash-fitter who unwittingly lured my mother into a fitting room where she tried on a variety of high-end garments. Mom was impressed with the fit and the support for sure. Not so fond of the "outrageous" prices.

Mom, some bras actually work for a living. We will happily compensate them to do so. And besides, you are not being asked to pay for this so-called luxury. It is a gift. Please accept the gifts of lift and separation with grace and humility.

My sister and the salesperson negotiated as though a hostage's life hung in the balance.

But in the end Mom not-so-flatly refused, and marched out the door to blacken eyes and stop traffic for another day.