(Above, a bag I bought Mabinty from her fave Dior Collection before Dior became scary for people.)
As you all know, I was basically raised by a ferociously bitchy Jamaican woman named Mabinty Jones. She’s my mom. I mean, not actually. Like I’ve never been in or out of her vagina, but I buy her Mother’s Days presents on Mother’s Day, so she’s my mom. When I’m depressed or abusing my prescriptions or shopping too much or shopping too little, she’s the reminder in my life to get my shit together and, most importantly, stay grounded. She’s the Gianni to my Linda, the Michael Jackson to my Macaulay, the Courtney Love to my Frances Bean. Her brand of tough love has made me the Babe I am today and without her, I would be nowhere or dead. Well that’s not entirely true. But, let’s just say that without Mabinty I would have turned out way more like Kim Kardashian and way less like Babe Walker and that wouldn’t have been chic for anyone involved.
Ok, ok, ok, the point of all this is: Today is Mabinty’s Birthday. I’m not going to tell you old she is because she’d literally pull my tits out through my throat. Thank the heavens above and the spirits below that Mabinty is still with my family, watching over our home and making sure that no one, including me, is stealing her Pure THC Syrup.
In honor of my Mabs, here’s her fave singer who I grew up impersonating on a stage in the backyard of our Santa Barbara house, Phyllis Dillon. I love Phyllis, I love Mabs, and I love me.