Some days, a person just doesn't want to write. Some days, a person wants to sit around and read her Lilly Pulitzer catalogue and sneer at blog-writing. [It's been humid. Humidity makes me sneer]. And some days a person reads a catalogue and thinks: "Say! I could read the catalogue and write about it at the same time! And then I could convince my readers we all needed matching Tailgate Totes!”
But cooler heads prevailed. I decided to stick with reading and commenting.
Behold the neo-traditional American family: attractive child, attractive dog, attractive mother,
attractive manny. Notice how our young manny is dressed from top to toe in Lilly; something tells me these clothes were originally purchased for Daddy, a Bronx-bred investment banker who swore to his wife he'd never wear "That f**king preppy sh*t". Something tells me the manny does a lot of things Daddy doesn't do. You doubt me? Look at Mummy's expression and tell me she's attending Bible Study on those weekends Daddy doesn't make it out to the Hamptons. Eventually, the manny runs away to Los Angeles, a place with a deep appreciation of a wavy-haired manny. Within weeks, he becomes the live-in lover of a much-older female producer who arranges for him to star in a hit sci-fi series about a misunderstood stranger from out of town who can bend time with his abdominal muscles. Meanwhile, the dog is so preppy that his very leash is a Lilly Pulitzer tie. Anything else gives him a neck rash.
I’m not a misogynist. I don’t believe all the women in Lillyland are devious adulterers. Some women in the Lilly Pulitzer catalogue are thoughtful. This woman, for example, is thinking. She's thinking "Does our very death render our lives meaningless?" She's also thinking "Sure, my family owns most of Palm Beach, but shouldn't I do something more with the advantages given to me? Is it enough to be blonde, lovely and nauseatingly rich?" This anomie can be easily alleviated. Darling, the gin-and-tonic is by your right thigh.
This picture was taken during what's known in the entertainment industry as "The Magic Hour", or the last half-hour before dusk (The other half of the Magic Hour is right after dawn, in case you are curious). The light of that time of day gives everyone a golden, beatific glow. Oddly enough, so does good gin and a sizable trust fund. Focus on their golden youth, and try not to notice the puzzling effect of Wellingtons being worn with a minidress, on a sunny day. This is also a side-effect of good gin and a sizable trust fund.
The outfit is deeply preppy. The jewelry, however, is not. The outfit says "I summer on our family island in Maine". The bracelets, ring and belt say "My father runs a waste-disposal company in New Jersey." I attribute this to Lilly Pulitzer being based in Palm Beach, a region known for its crow-like fetish for shiny objects.
LOBSTERS!...PAISLEY PANTS!...Black person.
I sense the sheer surreal unattractiveness of this picture isn't a coincidence. I suspect the logic of this shoot was "Those who want to see diversity in our catalogue will see him, and those who don't can fixate on why he's flaunting piping-hot dead sea-insects". On an unrelated note: if the blonde model -- a tall slender young woman -- looks short and shapeless in those pants, none of the rest of us have a hope in hell. Just saying.
Hmm, this is odd. Let me attempt to interpret this picture. The girl in navy, who is overdressed to be lolling in the dunes, is waiting for the manny. Her torrid summer affair with him will eventually be found out by Mummy, who will turn for comfort to the arms of her Pilates instructor, a kindly German girl named Gisela. The I-banker won’t know; the Golden retriever will suspect. The other girl is engaged to an ER doctor who is below her station but gets her Ketamine and Dilaudid whenever she wants (See: eyes).
Sandals, turtlenecks and wraps? I've worn outfits like this. It means I've gone to the beach in June in a tank-top, having willfully forgotten that the beach in June in California is cold and overcast. After an hour, I finally give in to Consort's entreaties to put something else on, but I have nothing in the car besides more tank-tops, so I go to the nearest tourist trap and buy a long-sleeved shirt which says something like "EVERYTHING grows bigger in California"; there are arrows involved. Later, as it gets colder, I grab the blanket from the back of Consort's car, which smells of wet dog and spare tire. Apropos of that, you just know the dog-model in the picture only sheds in private, into a bag.
Black person... PATTERNED PANTS! (...I'm sensing a trend.)
If this page were scratch-and-sniff, it would smell like Chanel No. 5, expensive leather and inherited wealth. Oh yes, and gin. What you wouldn’t smell is food; WASPS don’t eat. The WASP digestive tract receives nutrients by drinking their gin-and-tonics near food. They glean their calories from the food particulates in the air. That tray of grapes, cheese and crackers in the right-hand side of the picture will feed an extended WASP family for the entire summer.
Once again, rain-boots, mini-skirt, sunny day. Even if I grant them that it can rain and be warm in Florida, if it’s rainy enough to need the boots, doesn’t she need a hat? Does the family driver just chase after her with a coordinated umbrella? Was he told in advance that this was part of his job description? Do the first families of Palm Beach get a different kind of rain which only leaves puddles perfectly suited for well-bred splashing without ever actually coming out of the sky?
To misquote F. Scott Fitzgerald: the rich are different than you and me. They have better weather.
I'd like to mock her, but I covet her hair so badly I can no longer type. You can participate in the fantasy of catalogues until you come up against something which is nothing more than having good genes and a genius hair-stylist less than fifteen inches away at all times.
All the Lilly clothing, gin and Magic-Hour lighting in the world won’t give me that.