The First Rule in Attracting a Decent Mate: Do not appear in settings where the wallpaper can overpower your mere existence. They have enough trouble finding you as it is.
Harriet, left: “You fool, you went two steps too far before pausing to be noticed by the crowd. You’re in an unacceptable review zone.”
Hildegarde, right: “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have shoved me out of the way like a wildebeest.”
Harriet: “I did no such thing. You stumbled over nothing like an amateur. I can’t help it if you went to the wrong finishing academy.”
Hildegarde: “But I went to the same school as you.”
Harriet: “Yes, but in the wrong year. That makes all the difference. You must always be in the right place at the right time. You were two debutante seasons too late.”
Hildegarde: “I must say that I find your tone to be less than pleasing.”
Harriet: “If memory serves, you were the one who requested my assistance so you could get back in the society pages. It’s been at least a month since you were mentioned, and it was only a brief bit about that charity event involving orphans or some such. No one does charity anymore, now that the conservatives are back in power.”
Hildegarde: “What on earth are you talking about? When did I supposedly turn to you for guidance? I’d rather fly coach than lower myself to that.
Harriet: “Earlier this summer, in St. Tropez. After we attended the wedding of… well, I don’t recall. Some very ugly people with a lot of money. It’s so ghastly that some commoners have unlimited resources these days.”
Hildegarde: “You mean when we were on the beach? Drinking bellinis?”
Harriet: “Precisely. You belched and then muttered something about missing the days when you and Muffy Beaudelaire were the toast of the town and you couldn’t even pee without somebody taking a photo. I agreed to help you get back to where you once belonged. I just didn’t realize you would be such a wretch about my gracious efforts.”
Hildegarde: “Oh, please. That wasn’t a serious conversation. It was inebriation. We took off our tops, for heaven’s sake, which I’m sure was quite unfortunate for the other beach-goers, considering we both have the topography of a wooden plank. I think you should let this go.”
Harriet: “I never let anything go. Just ask the money that used to belong to my ex-husbands. Surely there’s something I can do to rescue you from your unsavory social standing.”
Hildegarde: “Actually, there is one thing.”
Harriet: “I knew it. Pray tell.”
Hildegarde: “Could you let the writer of this piece know that the photo he is using is entirely too small and doesn’t adequately capture our true beauty?”
Writer: “Aw, hell. Well, I did try to find a bigger picture, but my internet connection sucks big time tonight and I can’t find squat.”
Harriet: “It appears that somebody didn’t go to a finishing academy. Have I mentioned commoners with money?”
Hildegarde: “Can’t you have someone on your staff do the work for you?”
Writer: “I don’t have a staff. I don’t even have money.”
Harriet: “Oh? Was I married to you at some point?”
Writer: “Maybe. After all, I do know the way to St. Tropez.”
Dionne Warwick, wandering into the scene, dragging a feather boa: “Is that my cue? Should I be onstage right now?”
Writer: “I’ve completely lost control of this one. Maybe I should just hit submit and hope for the best.”
Click.
Previously published, slight changes made. For the record, I do not own a feather boa. That story you may or may not have heard about that thing that may or may not have happened in New Orleans is NOT true. Well, mostly not. I will confirm that I am the one who suggested we stop by for a drink at Le Beau Serge. But after that? None of it is on me. Cheers.
Categories: Past Imperfect
Bonnywood Manor 
Cloche hats, diamond- girls best friend- wallpaper, tip of the cloches to Burt Bacharach, Warwick warbling, drunken tales of toplessness, the writer breaking the fourth wall. I have to step back and take stock. My finishing school didn’t prepare me for this decadence.
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Let’s be honest: Neither you nor I went to a finishing school, which is why we spend so much time creating our own little vignettes on our little blogs. But at least we’re happy, mostly, even if we are unfinished… 😉
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Well I think I can claim I went to a finishing School. Miss Minehan stood me in front of her desk and said ‘you’re finished.’ And so I was, sans dignity and leaving diploma.
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Wallpaper: Look, I am not responsible for the ramblings and hallucinations of coked out flappers. I am stuck here, the product of some designer’s idea of what edgy should like. But then again, I’m afraid that this is the what the inside of Doughboy Donnie’s brain looks like.
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Perfect analysis! Except for the part about Donnie’s brain. He doesn’t have one. That empty space was sublet a long time ago… 😉
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Yup. There’s no there there.
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Why don’t you own a feather boa? Everyone has to have one.
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Well, there was an incident, many moons ago, wherein I WAS responsible for what happened, and I vowed never to own one again… 😉
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I feel your pain. Well, I am going to hide mine, in solidarity. But my friends are encouraging me to get a feather headdress now, so it’s time to go shopping.
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That’s eye-smiting wallpaper. Wonder what colour it was?
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Methinks the colorized version would be even more frightening. I’m not sure I could survive the reveal….
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I’ve always wondered what they finish at finishing schools. And do the Finnish attend?
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Right? “Finishing” implies that something was started at some point, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what that might be. Then again, I wasn’t born into wealth, so I’ll just have to assume that I missed a memo or two.
P.S. Based on two seconds of research, it appears that Finnish DO attend the Finish. Something to do with tax evasion, not sure…
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Every human should own a feather boa. You just never know when it might come in handy.
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You’re right. I should probably embrace the flashy accessories. But I grew up in Oklahoma, and Flashy could get your ass kicked in a backwoods heartbeat. Some stains take a long time to wash out. (Oh, who am I kidding. I have always embraced the flashy. Maybe my boa-avoidance is based on the feathers getting in my mouth right as I was trying to announce my next show-tune at the Kit Kat Klub.)
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Hey. What’s wrong with that wallpaper? Is that Queen Elizabeth on the left? 🙂
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I thought the SAME thing. Is that Liz? Certainly looks like it. But based on my exhaustive two minutes of research on the Internet, I couldn’t find any confirmation…
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So I take it Ms. Dionne (channeling random voices from the ether), got lost on the way to San JOSE? I hear (will never find out now obviously. Another thing that damned virus is responsible for) San Tropez is lovely though. San Jose is a burnt out ghetto, as is most of California … no rain for the past thirty decades will do that to a location. The ‘leather’ look is only attractive on certain items (like suede boots and those butter soft purses we used to be able to buy when it wasn’t considered unseemly to have something made of leather…and I digress. As usual.); it’s not attractive on people nor landscaping. I think my comment got lost. Can it pair up with your post and we’ll find our way home via the yellow brick road?
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First, did Dionne ever really know where she was? I think not, especially when she stumbled her way into that psychic mess.
Second, I would LOVE to visit St. Tropez. I understand it’s no longer IN with the In Crowd, but the photos are still gorgeous.
Third, I’ve never been to San Jose. This might be where I went wrong with my life.
Fourth, of course we can pair up, and someday we will find that damn yellow brick road, Eltonetta…
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Good
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Thank you!
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nice
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Thanks!
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That wallpaper would fit right in with The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari!
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Oh, good catch. Of course, on the flip side, I probably belong in Caligari’s cabinet as well, but we don’t have time to fully discuss the whys and wherefores of such. Suffice it to say that I once awoke from a dream with the ability to speak German, and things got tawdry after that…
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You are wolcom
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I took German in high school—I can tell you all about Fritz and his five fresh fish😉
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And I took French, so I can fill you in on the intricacies of meeting “Guy” on the street and discussing whether we should go to the beach or to the house of his cousin’s friend. That dialogue will be with me forever…
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If Dionne Warwick shows up, you pretty well know you’ve lost all control. She doesn’t even know the way to San Jose.
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Poor Dionne. She still needs Google Maps, even with all those psychic friends…
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