I was still in the throes of post-partum elation when my fashion designer husband and I got into White Cloud, my beloved 1957 Chevy, to attend a Beverly Hills “celebrity wedding,” the son of one of his clients. I had watched the dress take shape. As a divorcée it was important for her to make an impression.
It was my first outing since giving birth. I dressed carefully, elegant black slacks and white blouse, taking note and appreciating the fact that I was drenched in Yves St. Laurent Opium and not breast milk. We removed the ubiquitous car seat from the front passenger side. I wiped off the seat and got in, feeling very important. From our home, east on the 101, south on the 405, then Sunset Boulevard to Beverly Glen.
The white stucco All Saints Episcopal Church could have been on a movie set.
I waited for my husband to walk around White Cloud to open my car door. That was always important to him. I uncurled myself and stepped out, feeling very important. But as I started to walk around the corner to the church entrance, he called, in his elegant Spanish accent,“Wait, my dear. You have Cheerios in your butt.”
Sure enough, crumbs from our six-month-old’s snacking were encrusted on my slacks’ backside. We had a good laugh. I entered the church, not feeling very important.
Wish I had the car!
