Tuesday, March 30, 2010
These are two of the dresses she bought-I don't have pictures because I am RETARDED.
When I met Erykah Badu two years ago she was six months pregnant. After she played on the big stage at the Austin City Limits music festival she made the rounds through the Art Market where I was selling dresses.She floated regally into my booth followed by a bunch of hip, gangster looking guys, a giant and her publicist-a large woman wearing a really cool African dress.
I didn't know who she was but I knew that she was famous. You can just tell, you can feel it emanating from them, some higher vibration of fabulous that normal people don't have. I thought maybe she was a visiting African queen, royalty. If you ever get to see one up close you will know-famous people really are better than the rest of us. Or at least I felt like she was. I stood there in awe, just staring at her.
Jeff jumped in with his quick talking sales skills, telling her that I made everything by hand, it's all vintage, all of that. I loved him for doing that, because all I could was gape and stare.
She made a joke about the heat and I laughed-inappropriately long and hard, a little snot coming out of my nose and landing on her shoulder. Her eyes flicked quickly to the spot but she ignored it and just smiled graciously at me.
She was wearing pink eyeliner-which I immediately went to sephora and bought the next day. It didn't suit me but I wore it anyway, I had the biggest crush on this woman for the longest time.
With her monster-big bodyguard standing behind her, she began to grab dresses and pile them on a table, one after the other.
"Do you want to try those on?" I managed to spit out.
"No" she shook her huge puffball of hair" I'm just going to trust my body."
I looked at her body, six months pregnant, the definition of glowing. Perfect. When I was pregnant I couldn't get up off the couch and hobble on swollen feet to the kitchen for more Kettle chips, moaning and whining until Jeff would come in the room and get my snack for me. Here she was, finished performing for thousands of people, fresh and comfortable and quite possibly the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. She smelled like cookies, something sweet.
After pulling dozens of little girl's dress I had off the rack and placing it in her pile, she spied a squirrel skirt my friend Chia had made, which lay in a bucket on the ground.
So she sat down and began digging through the skirt bucket.
"Do you want me to do that?" I asked. This regal creature shouldn't be sitting on the ground! She's pregnant!
"Nah, that's okay!" she smiled." Girl, I love me some squirrels. Sometimes when I'm singing at home I'll replace the word "Girl" with "Squirrel"
"Thats so awesome," I whispered. I love you, I thought. I want to BE you. Act cool, Sunny. But it was impossible.
Then she began to sing-"SQUIRREL! BABY BABY SQUIIIIIRRRR_ELLL! I NEED YOUR LOVE< SQUIERRELL!" grabbed her squirrel skirt and another armload of dresses for the pile.
She gestured to the Giant, who walked over to our checkout desk holding a fat wad of hundred dollar bills. He stood silently(the whole time he never said a word, never smiled, just kept rolling his gaze over the whole scene constantly-I guess checking the place for assassins or crazy fans)
We wrote out the receipt and told him the total-which was an astronomical amount-my shit is not cheap-and he flipped off the appropriate amount of money from his wad. Then we bagged it up and they got ready to go.
Her stylist asked for my email so i could design more stuff for her in the future. Jeff made me take a picture with her. I cannot post that picture-because I am oily, dirty from the festival, snorting with glee and the angle makes me look like I have a double chin. It is literally the WORST picture I have ever taken, especially hideous because I am standing next to the most beautiful creature on earth.
So-Here is what I have learned about when famous people buy your shit-
Take more than one photo, idiot.
Think, dumbass! Don't just give them your info-Get their stylists email if you ever want pictures of them in your stuff-they may never contact you(they never did)
Don't stand so close to the famous person that you snort your snot on them. Not very classy.
Now she's running around naked in Dallas and all I can think is-you have clothes-I saw you buy them.
Where is your squierrel skirt, girl?
I can't post the photos of what came next, the police might consider that to be "evidence", but I will say this-if your arms are weak from too much time spent holding up your crackpipe and your legs are shaky from a recent gangbang don't wear three inch heels to catfight with me. She went down like tranquilized wildebeast in an age-innapropriate outfit. The jacket is mine once again.