Bag Lady No More!

When I was a youngster, my mother tells me my fears were not that of an average child's: not spiders, or dragons or monsters in the closet, no. My Mom says I was afraid of becoming a Bag Lady when I grew up. She said when we'd pass buskers or beggers, I would tug at her skirt like CarolAnne from Poltergeist must've at JoBeth Williams, screaming at her own mother from the other side of hell. The reason I was shaking in my Princess Leia loafers was because deep down? I knew I had potential to BE THAT. Not a standard Street Person, per se, but a very fashionable homeless lady, maybe a Day Player from Dynasty, a visiting actress staying on your couch or over at the Motel 6. I knew in my little tiny subconscious that I would grow up to be a woman addicted to change and someone who ended up moving 40 times in her adult life. Carting around my leopard print coats, my Fluvog kitten heels and my trunks of costume jewelry, I became the very thing the skittered me as a youngen. So, now, as I write this to you I am calling Amistad on those troubidorian days, my wanderlust years, and settling down. I found a gorgeous apartment, nestled right in the cool area of town equipped with all the vintage fineries AND a modern kitchen. It's a Future Dinner Party Dream. Someone call Vince Vaughn and get him to do the pelvic thrusts on a diner table and say, "Baby's all grown'd up!!!" Baby's all growned up, indeed.