Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
I was looking at my posts this evening and I asked myself, “Will I ever grow up?” I’m not a young girl, I’m a mature woman. I should be elegant, classy, say witty but urbane things. Exude sophistication.
Ha!
I love to fly kites! I love looney tunes and laughing out loud at movies and old black and white sci-fi movies and speed boats and going to Disneyland. Yes, you read that correctly, Disneyland.
When I travel I don’t go shopping or to gallery openings, or out to expensive dinners at night. I spend my time walking the streets of the cities I visit, smelling the smells, and watching the people and listening to the voices around me. I eat from street vendors or little cafes with outdoor seating.
In my apartment, I have an simple, elegant black couch with the back covered by a beautiful silk scarf hand embroidered with orange and rose carp that I bought at a Chinatown street fair. Now, that’s class. What do I do? I hang Marvin the Martian pictures above it. And there’s a big Marvin the Martian pillow right next to the carp.
In my kitchen I have The Lady of Shalot by Waterhouse on the wall — right next to my refrigerator covered in magnets. Really tacky magnets.
Did I mention my lava light collection and neon Marvin next to my glass scuptures and crystal clock?
I should be dressing in Armani suits by day, and in slinky black dresses at night, with tasteful diamond drops in my ear. I should go to elegant parties and engage in witty repartee. Embed quotes about great literature into my writings.
Instead, I’m dressed by LL Bean. Complete the picture. (Though I do love Armani, just can’t afford it. Wouldn’t mind a slinky black dress come to think of it.)
Well, if I can’t have elegant or sophisticated, I guess I’ll just have to settle for fun.
