Stuffed up and sluggish, I headed out on this apparently very sunny and pleasant afternoon to go and pick up the kiddies from school. Driving down the road, even I realized that I am not myself, as I am actually going under the speed limit. This will not do, and I drifted, sort of literally, over to the OOGCP to ingest a Grande Latte to help ameliorate some of the side effects of my cold, and late night out.

Ah ha!!! Who is sitting on a chair by the entrance to the coffee place? Our friend, Mr. Hollywood! I am glad to see him, and smile a tiny smile, and try somehow to up my observational abilities though my haze brain. He looks rather subdued today, in light gray pants and a plain white shirt. Again, his longish white hair is slicked back somewhat. He is talking to his Assumed Grandson, today’s barista. I place my order in my ripped-up voice, and stand over to the side to wait for my delicious, life-enhancing beverage to come up. But… wait…

HOLY SHIT! Out from the bathroom walks Mrs. Hollywood! Oh man oh man oh man oh man! She has outdone herself today. At first I thought I was hallucinating; there is a chance considering my altered condition that I did, but I really am sure I saw what I saw. At first I thought I was looking at someone naked with full-body tattoo work. Mrs. Hollywood today had selected for her sartorial offering to the world the tightest, sheerest, pseudo-Pucci-print jumpsuit ever made. This is a jarring thing to see on a 20-year-old model; Mrs. Hollywood is 70 if she is a day.

Well. Whoa. She stands there, talking something at Mr. Hollywood, and I cannot even hear what she is saying because I am so focused on taking in her garment. The print is in swirly muted colors of pink, purple, light blue, and white, the pattern vaguely mystic India-meets-finger paints. Although Mrs. Hollywood is in good shape for her age, we are seeing way way way way too much of her here. Her stomach pooches out like a 5 month pregnancy, I can see her underwear in detail and, most disturbingly, she has a giant camel toe thing going on in the crotch area. Oh, dear. She stands tall and proud on her high high purple patent strappy heels. I glance over at Grandson, who seems fine. He just must be used to this.

I am still staring at her, incognito with my own sunglasses on, when Mr. Hollywood rises, reaches for his cane, and shouts over to Grandson, “We’ll see you on Friday! Friday! OK!” My coffee comes up and I quickly put a black plastic lid over it, and head out the door a minute or so behind them.

Their maroon car with the TOYOTA OF HOLLYWOOD plate is close to mine. There are other stickers on the car window that also say something about Hollywood, but I can’t quite make out what they are. They must’ve really liked living there or something. Mrs. Hollywood slowly backs out of the parking space, and I see that their passenger side mirror dangles by the smallest of wires. Oh, man. I imagine Mrs. Hollywood driving around in that jumpsuit and running into all kinds of stuff, and never admitting that it was her fault. Maybe I will head over to the OOGCP on Friday. I totally don’t mean to stalk them, but damn. This is pretty good stuff.

I slug down half the coffee by the time I arrive at the school, and find my daughter covered in dark blue finger paint. Ha ha ha. I help her wash up while my son gets his backpack. On the ride back home, I am once again driving at my proper speed, 5-8 miles over the speed limit. “A Punk” by Vampire Weekend comes on the radio, and my daughter’s tiny voice pipes up.

“Oh! I remember this song! I like this!”

“Yes, I do too,” I agree. It is a short song, and the next one is by Beck, one I haven’t heard for a while and am glad to hear again.

“Mama? Can you find a song with a girl singing?”

“No, I like this one, I’m going to leave it on.”

“Dammit!” she says cheerily.