Brunch and a Show

That slow, long meditative Nantasket walk yesterday? Sure, it was close to 50º BUT the wind was totes calling Dorothy Gale’s name. That and, silly me, I didn’t check the tide table before we left. The ocean was so far out it was sending Wish You Were Here postcards from Portugal. Waves. I wanted to lamp some big, sweet, restorative winter waves but they were too busy sunning themselves and sipping a little Aguardente on the Algarve. Hmmph!

With the agitata gusts threatening to blow us to Kansas (or, at least, Worcester) Jen and I called it quits. A brief ramble but beautiful.

We then tried to grab brunchie at Starzzz. I was even willing to wait the 15 minutes for a table. Yeah, me wait? Practically UNheard of but I had my tiny, cold heart set on their breakfast burrito, fabola sweet potato home fries and a mimosa. That 15 minute wait passed us clean by though. We were now crammed into their tiny waiting area with a thousand+ other people (OK, I exaggerate a little. SO?!). On top of that, half the crowd was ahead of us in the blasted queue. Getting seated, let alone having a burrito in hand, looked hours, possibly days, away.

Nae good, nae good. At this point I just wanted the damn breakfast cocktail so we split and headed for Froggies.

Something I always forget about weekends at the Frog – baby and wedding showers. They do big biz in these. The joint’s big enough so getting a table, (within the same decade too!), is never an issue. Plus, the happy shindigs make for interesting people watching. Apparently, it’s de rigueur to dress way the fuck up.

Party goers at Froggy’s seem much the same though. First, these groups are always women only, white, white, WHITE and every last one was wears spike heels and I’m-ready-for-my-closeup makeup.

Yesterday’s group ‘o’ “blondes” looked like belong to the very same club – Republican Wives of America. Maybe they do.

I’m guessing they got their hair dye and clothing tips from watching the sartorially insipid, drivelling Fox “news” imbeciles. Not a one had so much as a wave, let alone curl or kink to her bleached tresses. That and the under 40 group all had long hair – mid-back length on every one. Post 40? They sported bobs or shoulder length at longest.

Entertaining as it was to imagine the lives led by these Stepford babes, it was also chilling. I felt as though Jen and I had time travelled back to the ‘50s – a very uptight, controlling, grossly authoritarian ‘50s at that (hey, just like the real decade!). I’d have been stunned if any of these women had been to the Women’s March, a protest or, for that matter, were even aware of the Republican Party's vile shenanigans.

I could be WAY motherfucking off-base here. Still, a group so lockstep conservative, so uniform in their appearance, their sartorial expression seem to be waving a mondo I-always-vote-for-the-flagitiously-stupid-candidate flag.

But, ya know, I could be wrong. By the by, I did get my mimosa and it was lovely.