“You’re hedgin’ on the vulgar up there,” Mamma told me some time ago. I can’t pinpoint how many months or years ago she said this because, as Didion might reflect, much feels to be the same in New York after you can name the bridges, tunnels and rivers. Yes, things are better when you’re just a touch ignorant…
My big city life was negotiating good and bad taste, or so I’ll claim for Mamma’s sake. My precarious employment and dating situation had her worried that my magnolia had not only lost its bloom, but that its petals were browning, decomposing under the Yankee sun.
What’s a newly minted New Yorker to do? Date American Royalty, of course.
Land of the free, home of the brave—there is no aristocracy, you say. Oh, really? Tell that to the maitre d’, the bouncer, the seasoned bartender at “Bemelman’s.” A new world lays itself at your feet when you date a Groton and Princeton grad that just happens to be directly related to the ex Commander-in-Chief...
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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