Four-Hundred and Sixty

My twenty-three year old daughter, as you may know, lives with me. We are the best of friends, mostly and the arrangement is agreeable, mostly.

Being here together and being women we tend to share some things. My socks, my sweats, my cash, come immediately to mind. We don’t, however, share shoes because her feet are bigger and she wouldn’t want my shoes because she hates my shoes, mostly.

Which leads me to the point, which is, what we don’t share generally, is taste in clothing or rather, style. Granted, our age difference is 25 years and we probably shouldn’t be interested in the same style of clothing, and believe me, we’re not, but what I’m talking about goes beyond that.

And while she prefers mall shopping, I’m a catalog (electronic mostly), mail order kind of gal.

Still, periodically clothing catalogs arrive addressed to her. Most are addressed to me and some are simply addressed to our shared first initial and our shared last name. Usually, it is crystal clear as to which {D} would be more interested in the contents of a particular clothing catalog. The division between what (and from whom) we buy is pretty definitive.

Sometimes, however you can’t tell by the cover.

Last week’s mail yielded a few catalogs. All but one addressed specifically and directly to one or the other of us. THE one, company unknown, product line borderline, was claimed by the younger D with her saying, “there’s cute girl-y stuff in there, this isn’t for you, you don’t do cute.”

Huff. (sorta)

She continued, “well, you don’t! You got that butch thing goin’ on. Hey, that works for you.”

I countered with, “butch can be cute.” And she said, “yeah, but not girl-y cute.”

She’s a cutie, that daughter of mine.