Today is a beautiful Sunday morning, so our topic is miracles. I have two to disclose.
The first is that Leonard Pennario got the flowers I sent him. Remember my big battle with Teleflora? When in the middle of a mild workday I turned into a warrior out of Wagner's "The Ring of the Nibelungs" -- horned helmet, long braids, spear -- and told these Telefloroids that they'd better get these flowers to the person I sent them to, or else? I could not believe I had that in me. But apparently Teleflora believed it, because when I talked to Leonard a few days ago he said he did get the flowers, and that they were on the dresser by his bed, and they looked great. Victory! Miracle! I have been meaning to write about that.
The second miracle happened Wednesday, the day I went with lounge sensation Guy Boleri to the Anchor Bar.
I mentioned yesterday that when I go to San Diego I am looking forward to a stop at Ross, the store where I bought my favorite skirt. This was the skirt I was wearing when I dined with Guy. Nothing but the best, when I go out with lounge sensation Guy Boleri. Well, this basket of Italian bread arrived at the table. And Guy, being Sicilian and genetically wired to be unable to resist this bread, asked me to open one of those butter packets -- you know, those fussy little plastic tubs that have a tiny tab you have to pull. No one can open these things.
But because I have braces now and can no longer bite my nails, I was able to pull the tiny tab. What I hadn't realized, though, was that the butter had melted. For some reason that only makes sense in Anchor Bar Land, they had tucked the packets between the slices of warm bread. So when I opened it, the butter packet spurted all over my favorite skirt!
I immediately gave up. Even a little spot of grease can ruin something completely, and now here was my poor skirt, drenched in what amounted to an oil slick. I stuck a napkin in a glass of water and scrubbed at it for a few seconds, but then I shrugged and decided what the heck, when I go back to San Diego maybe I can buy the skirt again. No point in crying and fussing.
Well, guess what? Half an hour later, the skirt was fine! You could not tell anything had ever happened to it!
I am speechless in the face of this miracle.
Incredibly, there was a similar miracle in my life before this one. That was when I was in a Chippewa Street bar with my sister Katie, the left-winger. We had big Wagnerian goblets of red wine and she managed to spill hers all over my favorite coat, this beautiful long green wool coat. There was a gigantic crimson splash down the front of it. It looked as if I had been shot. I didn't know what to do so I just figured, I am not going to worry about this, and we went on with our evening.
Which I don't remember much of, though it must have a been a riot if my sister, who is not normally a party animal, was taking glasses of red wine and throwing them. That is a miracle in itself.
What I do remember is that my coat ended up mysteriously fine. It dried with no sign of a stain. None. I still wear it.
Isn't that amazing? I should call the Vatican. Maybe Father Baker was involved.
Maybe he could be the patron saint of hopelessly stained clothing.