Big and blonde. Lithe and fair. Dark and thinking.
We were a sight.
Three writers in the night, in the big, bad city, talking our way out of Thursday and into the next glass of wine.
Wade through the talk of approaching winter, misspent money, boyfriends and millionaires, Southern surrender and Northern sensibility and you have conversation about the important things. Smiles broaden and fingers dance in the air as one glass turns into two and then three. We’re animated and earnest, very serious about this writing thing... and each other.
Not like that, darling.
Like this: we rattle off random sentences and turns of phrase on the computer screen to make the waking hours more bearable. We wish each other the best of luck. When the writing thing happens to turn a dime or two we promise to sail off into the sunset.
Dreams. Yeah. But, "Mimi," "Opinionista" and I will make it one of these days.
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
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