My dad taught me to drive, and to do Sudoku puzzles, and how to shade the iris of an eye in a life drawing to make it look real. He taught me to pack a suitcase properly, and how to ski better, and when I was 13 or 14, he taught me how to play the guitar. The first thing he showed me was a series of three very easy chords; the kind of thing everyone learns to play in the beginning.
There are two famous people in Charleston today: Martha Stewart and Dick Cheney. One I'd like to poke repeatedly in the eye with a sharp stick, the other I'd like to ask about fashioning cute placemats from leftover grosgrain ribbon. I'll leave it up to you to decide which is which.
Last night I stayed up late, drinking red wine in Lovely Neighbor Stacy's kitchen with Lovely Neighbor Stacy and Thespian Libby, who is only five years younger than my mother, but can drink me under the table. This morning I came into work at 9:47am and didn't apologize to anyone. I just said "hangover," by way of explanation and then ate four pieces of bread in quick succession.
So although my sister is still dateless for The Most Important Social Event of the High School Season---although it's not until June, so maybe a handsome young transfer student will swoop in at the last minute, or wait, am I confusing her life with Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield's?---she has at least found a dress! Thank you all so much for your lovely links and suggestions, and thank you also for my credit card bill following that post because, what?
1) A while ago, I wrote this brief guide to Charleston for theCitizen, a cutting-edge youth culture travel site for which I fear I may not be hip enough, and which carries the following disclaimer: "If your idea of fun is eating a 12-course meal on a cruise ship, theCitizen is not for you. If you lost your wallet last summer in a complicated scam run by some junkie from Berlin, theCitizen might be for you.
I have paid an exorbitant amount of money to look like a little French boy. True, it's an improvement over the last haircut I got, which was sort of verging on Lesbian Cruise Ship Director, but still....I wish someone had told the stylist that Frere Jacques wasn't exactly the look I was going for.
Damn, you CANNOT find a strudel in this town. Trust me, I looked all day yesterday---in four different supermarkets, no less!---and I couldn't find a strudel anywhere. Then someone told me about a German bakery, but by then it was too late and I'd already bought half a dozen apple Danishes (Danishi? Dani?) and cut them into slices to make a faux strudel, which---with much aplomb---I christened Fudel. I may also have added an umlaut. Everything is better with an umlaut.
My boyfriend is either gay or a genius. Today he went out to Target OF HIS OWN ACCORD and bought a new vaccuum. It is a very stylish apple green vaccuum that could accurately be described as the poor man's Dyson. His genius lies in the fact that when he turned it on and started hoovering a corner to see how well it worked, I immediately leapt up from the sofa, where I was reading a very important magazine, and followed him around, rubbing my hands together and pleading, "Ooh, ooh, let me have a go! Oh, go on, let me try it! Is it good?
Internet, this is an emergency. A fashion emergency, that is. My sister Susie, who lives in Singapore, is searching for a dress for her summer formal---she is 16, so this is the most important! thing! ever!---and I have volunteered to help her find one. (From 30,000 miles away, yes! Isn't that how you do your shopping?) The other day, though, she sent me an email with a few pictures of styles she thought might be cute, and I yelped. YELPED!