After a rather sketchy dating history with the typical boorish young men, I’ve become infatuated with a young slam poet, who’s invited me to attend one of his performances. I’m wearing a vintage floral wrap dress, what do you suggest in the way of shoes?
Manolo says, ayyyy! To be young and in love with the modern slam poet! What could be more dreamily romantic than to be heels over the head for the man who shouts profane couplets into microphones?
And perhaps, after the suitable period of time, our young friend will even become his permanent muse!
“Honey bunch,” he asks one morning at the breakfast table, pencil in hand, “what rhymes with ‘Dick Cheney’s Gestapo boot’?”
“I’m not sure, Snuggums,” she answers from behind the Post, “what are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m just writing you a new love poem,” he says, helping himself to another rasher of bacon.
“Oooooh, you’re so darling,” she coos, folding the morning paper over, “how about, ‘Martha Stewart bosco fruit’?”
“Capital!” he answers, licking the end of the pencil and applying it to his Big Chief tablet.
“Yikes! Honey,” she says looking at the wall clock, “You better hurry, or you’ll be late for the office!”
“Oh, shoot,” he answers, standing up, putting on his coat and adjusting his tie, “I better take the minivan.”
And to think, this romantic scene began when she wore these beautiful sandals, the Flora from 7 for All Mankind to the poetry slam.