And he had to drive with her all the way from Cicero to Manlius, waiting on pins and needles that at any second the topic would return, "Why the F@#$ would anyone buy me a F#$#ing orange sweatshirt?" This was the mantra for the evening, so readily repeated that Sean also began asking it of anyone who would listen.
Bailey's Cream. Southern Comfort. Ginger Ale. Cherry juice.
K dot C dot. And how dare a brother drive an orange sweatshirt from Connecticut all the way to CNY? Doesn't anyone pay attention to how she dresses? Her color patterns? Her style? Doesn't anyone think about what would look good on her?
We all learned one thing that night. Wrapping paper and GIFT BAGS did not look good on her either. As she tried to build her chest so she could pound on it yelling, "I am woman hear me roar," we all lost the purpose of the rant. We sat quiet hoping that she wouldn't direct her frustration on us next.
I mean the sweatshirt was her size. It looked warm. I was thinking about cold, Syracuse nights and the winters when Dave is plowing the streets. A fleece of sorts.
But it was orange. I should have known better. I can do better paying attention to details and thinking ahead to colors that might be better suited: grays, browns, blacks, etc. I mean orange.
This one goes down in the record books.