Don’t you *know* who she *is*?
While eating dinner at Cantina Mayahuel last Tuesday night, The Gaydi Project dropped mole on her long, white skirt. The sauce actually slid from her fork onto the table but since the table was made of swirling wrought iron, the mole ended up in her lap. She’d already had a couple of drinks but spills are commonplace for my mother with or without booze, so it wasn’t exactly surprising. Surprising would have been making it through that dinner with her clothing clean and not tucked into the unmentionables.
We scrambled to hand her extra napkins and she worked to wipe the mole off without rubbing it in, an impossible task that she seemed determined to prove possible. She muttered a few oh shits and I’m so embarrasseds before her friend Jon turned to me and said in his lazy southern drawl, “That Gaydi! Ah just love her…she’s so fun! When the boys and Ah go out with her, we lahk to tell people she’s a fay-muss, former Russian ballerina.”
Jon shook his head and waved his hands wide to convey the seriousness of this information. “She’s whirrld fay-muss!”
At this point, she choked on the margarita of which she’d just taken a sip and had to work very hard not to spit it out all over the porous table.
It’s nearly impossible not to forgive the foibles of a fay-muss Russian Ballerina.
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