Fabulous

I like to bandy about with the word ‘fabulous’ a lot. This chicken is fabulous, those shoes are fabulous, fabulous knee socks, whatever. But the truth is, I have only really known 2 women who embody all that is strange and good and original. And well - just fabulous. One of them was my grandmother.
She thrived on mispronunciation. She was taciturn and stubborn. She called ‘Highland’ dancing ‘Hee-land’ and, when she sensed someone found this offensive, she said it as often as possible. With a stubborn little pout to her lips. ‘Nana’, as everyone called her, was the last of the Grand Dames. She wore Chanel No. 5, huge sunglasses and long ropey pearls almost every day. Her fur coats were worn into the ground all the way into late April. But she had the fashion sense and the attitude to pull it off. Although that’s not necessarily to say she didn’t try to tiptoe into the twentieth century. Once, when I was about 20 years old, she called me early in the morning in a feverish dither.
“Jennifer, you must come over quickly. I bought some new denim trousers yesterday and you have to come and see them.”
Denim trousers meant jeans, by the way. They had an elastic waistband and were at least 50% polyester, but she displayed them like the Shroud of Turan. Naturally she wore her denim trousers with a crisp blouse, long mink coat and pearls. How else? Her hair was dyed fire-engine red since before I was born, the colour I believe to this day having seeped into her brain and therefore giving her that passionate personality. She WAS every room she was in, larger-than-life and voraciously hungry for happiness.
I was the heir to the throne of Grand Dameness. I remember when she would introduce me to her friends, purse dangling from her upturned wrist and sunglasses on her head, it was with an air of expectation. Isn’t she gorgeous?, she would tell them. She’s just like her Nana, you wait and see. And then the friends would cast a questioning glance at my running shoes and old jeans. Doubtful. She unfortunately took her mighty throne to the grave - although I do remain a fan of the big sunglasses.
And then there‘s my Mom - who I think could also be considered my husband in some cultures. She’s a wonderful husband, too. She never forgets my birthday, always notices when I’ve had a haircut (then again, she’d be crazy not to, it only happens once every quarter). She likes to give me cards with money in them so I can ‘treat myself’. My mom is often not the star of her own movie, more of a supporting cast. Now, she would definitely get the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. She’s as fiery and stubborn as my Nana was. And they each have that same sense of self that draws followers like moths to a flame. I think my mother wanted me to be the heir to something as well, although I doubt very much that she’s even sure what that is. It’s not what I am, necessarily. But she tries not to let me know. For instance, when I fail to change the light bulbs in my bathroom (in my defence, they are very, very high) she tries to bathe in the dark. Or she very discreetly sneaks my bedside lamp in to light her way. Now my Mother lives in a magnificently clean, new home. She vacuums neat little lines on her carpet, scrubs the floorboards and windows and corners. Sometimes she tries to commiserate with me, saying things like;
“Don’t you hate it when you’ve just washed all the walls and you find a fingerprint?” I probably would hate that - better to just leave all the fingerprints where they are then.
She’s game, my mom. Her house may sparkle from basement to attic, but she tries not to expect that from me. We have had our years of dissention, of little wars over nothing and words left unuttered. But, when all is said and done, I think she gets me, or at least really wants to get me. She remains my greatest champion, even when I make mind-blowing colossal mistakes. And that’s just fabulous.