Open Letter from a Lady Casanova

To all of those ladies out there with the silky hair, the pearl-white teeth, the voice of a seraphim, and the killer moves of Emma Peel, I say move along. For all others--the devilishly doltish, the confoundingly confused, and the hopelessly hapless--I'm your girl. Call me. Blue Boobs, I'm talking to you.

***

This ode to Blue Boobs dates back to an unseasonably warm October Friday evening. I had just been booted out of a bar by Bridezilla (no joke, a bride-to-be who was getting married at the bar ejected me for fear I might ruin her wedding photos), and not to be downhearted about the whole thing, I went in search of The Wax Lion and adventure. With my uncanny good luck, I found The Wax Lion at a nearby diner merrily downing a slice of cherry pie. The Wax Lion had had an adventure of her own that evening. Across the street she'd spied a playful art exhibition featuring a series of paintings that crossed those Japanese-style wave painting-thingamabobs with small surfing animals. As an added bonus, some lucky species of surfing animals featured nimbuses. What was there not to be intrigued about?! I asked that The Wax Lion escort me back to the show for my viewing pleasure.

Turns out that the art was very much worth the effort of diving across broken segments of sidewalk and dug-up drainage ditches that it took to get there. There, in the midst of Japanese solemnity, perched a great variety of animals hanging ten for all of their worth. (A few lions who had wiped out were also mightily amusing.) The Wax Lion declared that the she would make the surfing squirrel hers if only she could find one of the gallery workers. And that, my friends, is when the Lady Casanova sprang into action, for there's nothing I love more than scaring up some help. And what help was there to be scared! There she was--I knew her instantly by the lanyard that was ruining her ruinous outfit--the gallery worker of my dreams. Blue Boobs swayed purposelessly back and forth as I admired her from top to toe. Imagine dishwater blonde hair, marvelously curly and cut as if her hair dresser had no idea of God's ultimate plan for the universe. Imagine a blue dress, hugging every inch of her Sophia Loren-like curves and cut low to reveal a bust like creamy alfredo sauce. Imagine shapely legs encased by some kind of compression tights your grandmother wouldn't be caught dead in even if she were suffering from lower extremity swelling from Hell. Yeah, imagine that last part. I didn't understand it either. Seriously, the were flesh-toned tights that ran about half an inch thick. What the hell? But it was love anyway.

I strolled up to her undulating figure and demanded (kindly) to know her employment status, and she affirmed that she was a gallery employee by the name of -----, ah, but who cares about her real name? "Blue Boobs" suits her better. After introducing The Wax Lion, Blue Boobs proceeded to give us useless information such as commission rates and the gallery's mission statement. In the words of Jane Austen, I did not hear above one word in ten. With that speech over, Blue Boobs hastened away to collect The Wax Lion's payment information. I didn't see the evidence for myself, but to hear The Wax Lion describe it, you would have had a better chance of reading a prescription written by a doctor with cerebral palsy during an earthquake. Alas, my Blue Boobs was drunk and in no condition to be bothered with the digits of a credit card. But the deed done, The Wax Lion and I left the gallery and returned to our respective cars.

As I pointed my car toward home, my lust for Blue Boobs' alluring cleavage poorly met by her compression tights leaped within me like a forest fire on a dry August day. "I'll swing by and chat her up!" I decided, and as soon as I could find a better parking spot, I set out to find the lass once again. I didn't have far to seek, for not surprisingly Blue Boobs had gravitated toward the one solid, stationary object in the room that wasn't the floor--I found her hanging off of the DJ's turntable. Drunk as a skunk without a nimbus to its name, I decided that that was not my moment, but I vowed to seek Blue Boobs out again some day. After all, The Wax Lion had to come back for her painting eventually...

During the interim, as I pined away, Blue Boobs apparently continued to swirl uncontrollably. During the mad rush of orbit she realized that she hadn't written down the CVN number to The Wax Lion's credit card, nor had she collected any of The Wax Lion's contact info. WTF? Did no one ever think to ask this girl if she's ever had cash-handling experience? Who lets this girl work the till?! To Blue Boobs this must all have seemed to be a slight oversight, and at any rate it was small work for The Wax Lion. In no time CVN numbers were proffered (identities stolen or lost?), and dates were settled in order to collect the prized piece of art.

A date was set--like tonight! Mounting the steps to the gallery I could hardly control my beating heart. In what color would Blue Boobs be clad tonight? Would she still sport compression tights or go with some jauntier football-inspired compression shorts? What of the asymmetric hair? would nature still have its way with it?! I could only dream and hope...and ultimately be satisfied. There Blue Boobs stood, every inch the hot mess that I remembered.

"I'm here to pick up a piece of art I bought," The Wax Lion announced.
"Yes!" blue Boobs shouted from afar. "Only I'm so sorry, I forgot it at home! The good news is that I only live a couple minutes away."
"It's quite all right," I reassured her on my friend's behalf. "It adds value now that it's a stolen work of art." The joke fell flat. Maybe she didn't get it. Maybe it wasn't funny. Just maybe Blue Boobs and I are made for each other.

True to her word, Blue Boobs returned promptly with a UPS parcel.
"Come back again in December," she told us enchantingly.

We walked away bewildered.
"I know exactly what you're thinking," I reassured The Wax Lion.
"Will it be the right painting?" The Wax Lion mused. I guess I didn't know what she was thinking, for she was more charitable than I. I assumed we'd been handed an empty box. But lo, pulling apart the wads of newspaper revealed a surfing squirrel, complete with heavenly halo.

Come back in December indeed. You know I will, 'cause baby, we could accidentally burn down houses together.

And so dear reader, when you smell the smoke, you'll know there's fire.