You ever find yourself imagining a scenario, forecasting a reaction to something and then having reality introduce an entirely different scene? I won’t say that this happens to me a lot, but boy when it happens it sure seems to be intense. A while back I made a triumphant order on Bluefly, parlaying an old purchase that I sent back into a new order that cost nothing, ok it did cost something, but that money had already been spent so it felt free-
This is a shameless 80’s reference, but that last line drove me to it, can you guess the movie?:

Brenda: Uh, those are hot dogs, right?
Hot Dog Vendor: Yeah, want one?
Brenda: Mmm, yeah I’d love one.
Hot Dog Vendor: That’ll be two bucks.
Hot Dog Vendor: [Brenda hands him a check, he stares incredulously] A check?
Brenda: Yeah, but it’s a good check. See, Chris’ mom wrote it to Chris ’cause Chris bought her something, I can’t remember what. Then I bought Chris some press-on nails, I gave Chris the difference, and she wrote the check over to me. So I’ll write the check over to you, you keep the difference, and I’ll take the hot dog. So, you got a pen?
Hot Dog Vendor: Get outta here!
Brenda: Wait! I’m starving, you’d rather throw it away than give it to me?
Hot Dog Vendor: I work on a cash-only basis.
Brenda: But it’s a perfectly good check!
Hot Dog Vendor: No! I’ll make it very clear. you slip me the cash, and I’ll slip you the wiener.
Brenda: But I don’t have any cash!
Hot Dog Vendor: Then I don’t have a wiener!

Back to my free order. A pair of spectacular jeans and an Alici and Olivia pink cashmere rosette sweater. The sweater looked like it would do all the wonderful things you want a sweater to do: accent the waist, complement the bust line and make your arms look lithe. I had high hopes for the color and the way it would look with the jeans. The Saturday the box arrived I squealed and tore open the packaging. The jeans were perfect, and the sweater looked like it would live up to my fantasies.

For the record, as I type I seem to be morphing into a virtual version of Alicia Silverstone’s character in Clueless. I am going to hang on to the hope that because I don’t know that name, I am not as shallow as the reread of this entry makes me feel.
Sean looked on happily as I unfolded the jeans and held them up to gauge the length. He looked appreciatively at the sweater.

“Wanna see it on?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes because I was pretty sure his eyes were going to pop out of his head.

“Sure,” he said from a prone position on the couch.

I shimmied out of my pants and pulled on the jeans. Fabulous. I shucked my plain, long sleeved shirt from Target and slipped on the sweater. The cashmere felt soft and decadent against my skin. Looking down the sweater looked incredible against the dark wash of the jeans. All curves were being hugged and everything looked about 190% better than it had in the baggy jeans and Target tshrt.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked with bright eyes and a huge I look hot grin.

He sat up, looked me up and down and smiled as his eyes stopped on the sweater.

Perfect, I thought. He’s going to tell me not to wear it out, I look like a MILF.

“It looks like a danish.”

“It what?”

He gestured to the rosette on the front of the sweater.

I looked down at my chest. The accent, which online and in my mind, had looked like the embellishment that would elevate my entire outfit from simple to sublime, was being compared to baked goods. This was so not what I intended.

Was he right? I hoped not and laughed it off. I waited patiently for Friday to come when I could wear jeans to work. My co-workers raved about the sweater.

“Great color.”

“Super fit.”

“Where’d you get it?”

That afternoon I was strutting around the house having totally forgotten the danish comment. I was in the kitchen outting together a snack when Briar came in. She climbed up on a chair and began playing with the rosette.

“That’s pretty, huh Briar? Mommy has a flower on her sweater.”

She looked at me. I waited for her to tell me I was pretty or call me “mommy Princess.” She was uncharacteristically silent. And then, “Mommy scoot? Scoots Briar, Mommy? Please.”

I pulled her chair over to me. She reached for the flower.

“Ok, honey, just be gentle.” I said as I noticed it was a bit loose.

“Mommy off. Mommy off flower.”

“No, no, be gentle. Do you want Mommy to get you a flower?”

“No, Mommy. No want it. No flower. Off.”

“Oh, you don’t want one? You want Mommy’s flower?”

“No. Mommy. Off!” And she pulled at the flower.

I looked down as it hung limply from my chest. Wilted.

I walked to the counter and snipped the threads holiding it on.I held it out to Briar.

“Would you like Mommy’s flower?”

“No. Thank you, Mommy.” Then she looked at me, ran her hand along the empty space on the sweater and smiled. She looked up at me with her icy blue eyes.

“S’ok Mommy. It’s all better now. Mommy’s pretty.” And she hopped off her chair and left the room.

I was stunned. I looked down at my unadorned chest. She was right, it was better.

Damn thing really did look like a danish.