A few years ago, B and I were at a charity dinner and this was part of the silent auction. "Never mind the Christmas decorations, autographed books on Ottawa and fruit baskets, I want that sweat shirt," I told my husband. So we bid, from time to time rising from the table to be sure ours was the highest; if not he raised it. So I procured this beautiful garment.
"Oh, I want that!" said my stepson the minute he spied it. "You're not actually going to parade around town wearing it, are you?" You're bloody right I am. And I did. The reaction is unbelievable, but predictable. People stare at me, a middle-aged matron, wearing an "Ottawa Police" sweat shirt. And boy, do I get a lot more respect and deference. It's perfect because it's such an incongrous surprise to people. With me it's not all about hats and high heels. It's about the outfit.
"Don't get shot now," said B as I left this morning. It hadn't occurred to me that I might be a target! But I figured anyone at Home Depot was interested in improving his life and abode, not destroying it.
I lived.
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