Full English in bed this morning after a long, long sleep. Was the exotic tango and dark stroll among the Willow Manor trees a dream? Wadsworth has a buffet set up downstairs with lots of yummy breakfast stuff. I asked him to make the coffee espresso strength, and have plenty of "hair of the dog" available.
Thank you for making the Sixth Annual Willow Manor Ball so much fun! Everyone turned out in their most sublime, with bells on, and dancing feet. There were ample woolly socks for all, since the evening turned quite chilly. After I finish this coffee, I'll tiptoe downstairs to survey the damage; see who's sleeping where.
Some may think the Willow Manor Ball is just a lot of silly nonsense. I happen to believe the fine line between fantasy and reality is the space where artists live. We should not apologize for this virtual world, but celebrate it, embrace its creativity. Thank you for dancing that beautiful dance on the border between fantasy and reality with me, dear friends. It was grand.
The winners of the door prizes are:
Dinosaur Hand and Rene
(please give me your email addresses for your gift certificates to Amazon.com)
Join the heralding of autumn, as well as the celebration of my birthday! Willow Manor is at her most intriguing, laden with soft candlelight, dark corners, just a touch of cobwebs, and a few dead moths. The carpets have been rolled back in the front hall, and the hardwood floors polished to tango perfection. Even the manor ghosts are at their haunting best. Welcome, and enjoy. Remember, anything is possible in cyberspace.
Please check into the comment section of this post, let us know of your arrival, and who might be accompanying you. If you would like us to visit your blog, to admire your stunning attire, and fawn over your remarkable date, sign the Mr. Linky widget provided at the end of this post.
Everyone who leaves a comment today will be eligible for one of two door prizes. If you leave a comment, you are here!
My co-host for the evening, Ronaldo Antonio Dent (R.A.D.) Stainforth, yes the very same masterful reader of my poetry, has already arrived looking dapper, with a Jag-full of beautiful women, a case of Johnnie Walker under his arm, and his pet badger, Seamus, looking moody on a leash.
I was most pleased to see his Withnailesque Jaguar Mark 2, with a brand new paint job (Stainforth blue), parked on the lawn. It was quite amusing to see the women emerge, all wearing blue! They are obviously keen on impressing him, by wearing his favorite color, but none too happy about having to share the limelight. Ronaldo mentioned something about Tracey Emin's rack. Does that mean she's going to be hanging some artwork? I'm not sure.
As I welcomed him with our customary squeeze, I noticed a cheeky pink bra tucked in his breast pocket.
Speaking of all things pink, I am celebrating my new-found appreciation for pink with this exquisite vintage pale blush-pink Dior gown from 1953. In simple classic-pink style, I have no accessories; just the gown, nothing on top, or underneath, but a fresh aubergine pedi. It's a gorgeous warm October night, perfect for shoe-free dancing. I never like to be taller than my dancing partners, and besides, twirling is best, skin to floor.
By the way, Mr. Stainforth was the first to sign my dance card. He tangos expertly, having learned from his Argentinian mother. I'm looking forward to that close embrace, the drag, the hips ... not sure if I can look shyly over my shoulder, when he looks into my eyes with those blue volts. I hope he doesn't flip me upside down. It might startle the guests.
Listen to Miloš Karadaglić make his guitar sing. This is hot hot hot. Okay, I'm ready to tango 'til I drop...
Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. ― Robert Frost
The main refreshment this evening is Guinness; an outrageous vat was flown in late last night from our sister city, Dublin. If you see me watching the bubbles drag up and down my glass, please take me for another whirl around the dance floor, to clear my head. Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.
Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers are playing some mellow, way cool music in the main hall.
My dear friend, the handsome, dignified, charming, and a little bit sinister, Vincent Price, has just arrived with his pet raven on his shoulder. Campy? Never. Pausing in the entryway, he said, to my sheer delight, "I hear the sound of rat claws within the stone wall." I nearly swooned. He says Willow Manor reminds him of the House of Usher. I was counting on a spin around the dance floor with the sexy Mr. Price, but he seems more fascinated with this skeleton, than with me. It looks familiar. Maybe it's Bette Davis?
The wonderful English folk musician, Eliza Carthy is here! Someone said they saw her climbing out of the trunk of Stainforth's Jag. I thought she looked a bit disheveled, when I greeted her at the door. After all, it is a long trip from the U.K. to the Midwest, especially in the trunk. She brought her fiddle! Yea, verily yea! So, I'm appropriately requesting "Willow Tree" ...
Chef Dominic Franks, and crew, have gone to great lengths to tantalize our palates. He chose a Medieval theme, with lots of delicious traditional Celtic food. Nigella can't seem to stay away from the kitchen; she's wearing my ruffled apron, and swapping TV cook show gossip with Vincent. I'm sampling the amazing spiced venison with wild mushroom and truffle sauce, followed by all kinds of decadent pink sweets. Remember, my friends, there is no such thing as calories in cyberspace...
Art Pepper ... the other Art ... is playing outside on the patio, for those who might need a little fresh air, a smoke (Ronaldo and Vincent are out there), or just want to enjoy this gorgeous moonlit evening by the Scioto. I asked him to play Autumn Leaves, in celebration of my favorite season. He said he wasn't sure if he knew it, so I handed him the sheet music, I happened to have tucked in the manor piano bench. I think he can manage.
While we're talking cigarettes, Seamus was seen ...not Stainforth's badger ... Seamus Heaney was seen outside, calmly having a smoke, in a tree. I do wish he would climb down, and dance with me. I'll say I want to talk poetry, but really I just want to hear him recite a few lines of Oracle ... in my ear. Maybe he'll tell me what it's like on the other side. I'm sure he's already met the assorted Willow Manor ghosts.
Meanwhile, Stone Roses is warming up with This Is The One. Is that Ronaldo dancing Eighties-style like a crazed weasel? Or did Wadsworth forget to spray for wasps? It may be the Johnnie Walker. R.A.D. really gets into anything from that decade. Ask him something, anything, about the 1980s. He knows. He cares. He was there.
Things have settled down a bit; there's a poker game going on in the smoke-filled library. Seamus ... not the poet, the badger ... quite in his element, is winning, as well as drinking everyone under the table. It must be his poker-face. He doesn't say much, just hisses now and then. All the neighborhood cats are lined up at the window watching. He has a way with the felines.
Thank you all so very much for making the Willow Manor Ball so much fun. Make sure to pop in Monday around noon-ish EST for some brunch, and a rehash of all the fun ball scuttlebutt. The winners of the door prizes will also be announced. Now, if you'll please excuse me, the moon is out, and a blue Jag is waiting.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon.
― Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat
Please enter your name and URL in the Linky below, if you would like us to visit your blog, to see what you're wearing to the ball,
Everything's set for the 6th Annual Willow Manor Ball, this Sunday, October 20th! Come one, come all!
The latest scuttlebutt is that the handsome, dignified, charming, and a little bit sinister, Vincent Price will be among our guests. If he says, "I hear the sound of rat claws within the stone wall", I might swoon. I instructed Wadsworth to make sure Willow Manor is strung with ample cobwebs, so Mr. Price will feel right at home.
I also hear that the quirky, fabulous Tracey Emin, will be here, as well. R.A.D. Stainforth mentioned something about her rack. Does that mean she will be hanging some artwork? I'm not exactly sure.
Preparations are well under way for the cyber event of the year, The 6th Annual Willow Manor Ball, this Sunday, October 20th. Lots of hustle and bustle going on at WM this week; the rolling back of carpets, the polishing of floors, and silver. My staff assures me that everything is on schedule for a sparkling evening, which miraculously lasts all day.
A linky widget will be posted, here at Willow Manor, this Sunday, for you to share your blog URL. We want to see your fabulous attire, and outrageous dates! Be sure to wear your dancing shoes. R.A.D. Stainforth, my co-host, tells me there will be lots of brilliant music, including two legendary Arts ... Art Pepper, and Art Blakey. Guinness will be the main refreshment of the evening, including a full bar managed by my trusty staff. My good friend, chef Dominic Franks, tells me the food will be like nothing you've ever tasted on this planet.
Be ready to party like crazed weasels. Remember, anything is possible in cyberspace.
It's time to announce the big cyber event of the year! Peeps from all over the world have been flocking to Willow Manor, in ball gowns and tails, for an evening of fun and frivolity, every October for the last four years. Plans are under way as we speak, for the gala evening, which, mysteriously enough, lasts a whole 24 hours. So, dear friends, mark your calendars, do some outlandish cyber shopping, and grab a date for The 5th Annual Willow Manor Ball. As always, there will be a Mr. Linky widget provided for you to sign in, if you would like to share what you're wearing, or who your date might be, for the big event.
The 5th Annual
Willow Manor Ball
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Stay tuned the next few weeks for juicy updates. My people have informed me that Marcello Mastroianni and Veronica Lake, among other notables, will be among our guests. Feel free to take the above poster, or the badge below, to pimp on Facebook, or your blog.
Come in and help yourself to some delicious brunch. There's plenty of my favorite press pot coffee, brewed extra strong, since most of us had a just a few too many Last Word cocktails last night, including Branwell Bronte, brother of the three famous Bronte sisters, who came along with Alan Burnett. The Bug, didn't imbibe, but was seen flashing around a large nickel-plated revolver. I'm not sure exactly why.
In addition to our fascinating list of guests there was quite a bit going on all evening, which miraculously lasted 24 hours, including fencing competitions, drag racing, men in kilts, and Tom, Half Moose's attempt to scuba dive in the Scioto River. Steve Martin once again roamed the grounds of the manor without his pants, or even the rest of his clothes, for that matter. Tom's tuxedo came loose and floated down the river, on its way to the mighty Mississippi. Steve was only too happy to loan him his white suit, replaced by a metallic silver thong.
Reya was stunning in her fur trimmed mini Twiggy dress. Dino Hand, looking just as stunning in his Michael Jackson glove, spent most of the evening hovering behind her. Lord Thomas of Wellington entertained us on the piano, and Dr. Linthead, dressed in handsome Civil War general's uniform, took over, not even realizing he could play. Brendan absolutely outdid himself by writing a glorious mythological poem in honor of the ball.
Junk Thief's film presentation of the Willow Manor Ball, included yours truly ice skating with the ever talented Archie Leach. The diligent practicing of my woolly socks triple axel truly paid off. My personal highlight of the evening, was watching the sunrise over the Scioto, while the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth read me a passage of Lord Byron's Don Juan. He can read poetry just as well as he can tango, by the way.
Some might think this was simply a lot of silly nonsense. But, I happen to believe the fine line between fantasy and reality is the space where artists live. We should never apologize for this virtual world, if not celebrate it, gorge in its creativity. This is exactly what we did. Thank you for dancing that powerful dance on the splendid border between fantasy and reality with me, dear friends. It was good.
Congratulations to Fireblossom and Rob Kistner,
winners of the door prize of an Ohio Starbucks mug.
I'm not the only one who puts on a few extra pounds in the winter. My handbag does, too. Several years ago, when the extra gigantic bags were in, the average woman's handbag weighed nearly a back-breaking 7 pounds, 11 ounces. Thank goodness, everything's a bit smaller now, including the electronics, but by the end of winter, mine's heavy.
This week was time for the annual spring purse purge. The contents is dumped out and weeded through, like a garden. All kinds of odd junk, quite forgotten at the bottom of the bag, is excavated, including chopsticks, fortune cookie fortunes, eight tubes of lipstick and my lucky Ohio buckeye.
The sorted stuff went into my new waterproof vinyl spring bag, a great find on the TJ Maxx clearance rack for $24.99. It has all kinds of nifty zipper compartments and even came with a matching umbrella, even though I'm not really an umbrella using kinda girl. It also has my main criteria; an over the shoulder strap, for hands free shopping.
I love my glow-in-the-dark plasticized beetle key chain. It makes finding keys at the bottom of a very large, dark bag a breeze. You can find them here.
I'm thinking balls are to men what purses are to women.
It's just a little bag, but we feel naked in public without it.
Isn't it amazing how a tune can evoke a specific event in time? Woody Allen includes the best music in his films. Last weekend, I watched Scoop, and a piece of movie music carried me straight back to my childhood. My uncles, actually more like brothers in age, and I used to sword fight to Aram Khachaturian'sSabre Dance. We would play the piece from an LP record on a turntable, volume cranked to the max.
When the music ended, we moved the needle back and played it over until we were completely clashed out. Don't worry, we didn't use actual swords. Curtain rods were the next best thing, thrilling crash of metal on metal, imaginary sparks flying, catching the room on fire. I miss my Joan of Arc days, swashbuckling with the best of them. I should take fencing lessons.
By the way, the Khachaturian is deliciously quirky music. I think I will have it played at my funeral.
our Ben-Hur production still, 1959
We were an incredibly theatrical household. The saber dances are tucked safely away in my mind's eye, but I wish I had a tangible photo. I do have a shot of one of our Ben-Hur-esque dramatic productions. This wasn't just for fun; we were dead serious players. Speaking of serious, I was rather a precocious child. Here I am below, busy with some very serious writing, maybe an epic screenplay or some poetry. Nothing has changed.
Naming nail polish would be a delightful occupation. I've never actually met anyone with a career in polish, but I can imagine them, deep in thought, scribbling notes on dinner napkins, much like a poet. Mine would be a bit on the odd side, like "Burnt Toast" or "Old Penny". I got a fun new nail color this week called "Gray by Gray". Now, if I was naming this color, it would be "Morris Minor Gray".
I can easily see myself buzzing around Central Ohio in a life-sized Morris Minor just like this one. It's so very English, so very quirky, so perfectly me. The Morris Minor was a British economy car that debuted at the Earls Court Motor Show, London, on 20 September 1948. Designed under the leadership of Alec Issigonis, more than 1.3 million were manufactured between 1948 and 1971.
Years ago, I had a 1967 red VW bug convertible. Gosh, I adored that car. It was partially converted to an automatic. The floor clutch was removed, but I still had to use the gear shift; the best of both driving worlds. I wish I still had it. They say the Morris Minor is the Volkswagen Beetle of Britain. Anybody have an old dusty one laying around in their garage they might want to give me?
The Whistling Boy, Frank Duveneck, 1872
Cincinnati Art Museum
Apparently, we have become too self-conscious to whistle in public. It used to be quite common to hear total strangers, out and about, happily whistling. I wish I could. If I pucker at just the right angle, I produce one note, a weak high D. That's it. I couldn't whistle an entire song, if my life depended on it.
WT, on the other hand, is a natural-born whistler. He can whistle anything, embellished with trills, even key changes. I don't know about you, but whistling triggers my serotonin levels, evoking a sense of the warm woollies. When I wake up to perky whistling, I know it's going to be a good day. Would I be stretching it to say my DNA is tingling? Maybe not. That deep DNA just might be doing its thing.
My uncles tell me a lady in our little rural Indiana church was known to whistle solo hymns for the congregation, complete with a lace hanky strategically clasped in her hands. My aunt loves to tell the story of how she won first place in a whistling competition in the 1950s. To this day, we tease her about opening up a prestigious School of Whistling, before it becomes a lost art.
Speaking of, what happened to all the great whistling in movie music? Has Hollywood become too sophisticated to whistle? You know, like the iconic A Fistful of Dollars theme, the "Colonel Bogey March" in The Bridge on the River Kwai or even the Andy Griffith Show theme?
There are a lot of interesting superstitions connected with whistling. In Russian and other Slavic cultures, whistling indoors is believed to bring poverty, "whistling money away", whereas whistling outdoors is considered normal. In Serbia, it is said whistling indoors will attract mice, while in Korea, Japan, parts of South East Asia, and South India, whistling at night is thought to bring snakes. In Scotland, some people say whistling makes Our Lady, Mary cry; this is told to small children to keep them quiet. On board a sailing ship, whistling is thought to encourage the wind strength to increase. Among, many theater superstitions, whistling on a stage is thought to bring bad luck or at least a bad performance.
I thought it might be fun to write a poem about whistling. When I finished the first draft, I realized this piece seems to portray more than one kind of bodily noise. I laughed so hard I could hardly breathe, much less whistle. I started revising the parts in question, but since they "permeate" the entire poem, I decided to leave it as is, in its first "draft", for your comedic pleasure. "Toot Dixie" might be a more appropriate title. It took me three reads to make it all the way through without laughing.
Whistle Dixie
Seems we have grown
too self-conscious
to pucker-up-and-blow,
in the street or at the grocery store.
No more Hoosier Sundays,
church lady trumpeting
the walls of Jericho, clutching
a badly bound hymn book,
out-tooting a tea kettle.
My natural-born whistler
throws caution to the wind
and whets his with abandon,
serenading my mornings,
like the scent of all the lilacs in Ohio.
I smile and come to breakfast
like a well-trained pet.
I couldn't resist this great vintage pair of maracas on my weekly gander through Gee-Dub, my local Goodwill store. They were $2.99 each, and of course I had to get both. It would be like buying a salt shaker without the pepper. Mellow, with a lovely patina, they're made from gourds filled with seeds and in true maraca form, one of the shakers is pitched high, the other low. I remember seeing some just like these in my childhood, back in the Carmen Miranda/Ricky Ricardo days, when they were oh-so-popular. I think the reason for my attraction, is the fact that in grade school rhythm band, the colt-legged little me was always stuck with either the dull wood blocks or the dumb wood sticks. I longed for the coveted, exotic maraca. Or maybe it's my Native American DNA speaking? Yes, I think it must be.
Stag at Sharkey's, 1909, George Bellows
Cleveland Museum of Art
diving pig
stag at sharkey's
ernst haeckel
idylls of spring
idylle printaniere
dance the virginia reel
dead bird crashes window
a beard without a mustache
old jewish headstone
film très bizarre
cracker jack prizes
tombstone with pigeons
making love midday in a manor
david welch pez ray gun
hitler with no mustache
hoosier cabinet etched glass
chewy cough drops in a white box
andersonville prison camp
full-blooded caramel shopping
raw goat head frozen
zappa's mustache
half man half fat cat
eat with hands
eat with your dirty hands
a thin french mustache
john paul jones' corpse
don't take any wooden nickles
seinfeld susan dies of licking
corset tight lace breath
goya's candle hat
rojan erotica
fowl with pearls
acanthus leaf tattoo
Last week, R.A.D. Stainforth posted his sitemeter search words for the week. I happened to think they were incredibly poetic, not to mention fascinating, especially when you think behind each particular phrase, someone was specifically sleuthing. Was their curiosity satisfied? The above list is comprised of the random subjects the public came to Willow Manor in search of, in one twenty four hour period of time. Crazy, huh?
Please come in and help yourself to some delicious brunch. I need some extra strong java this morning, since I had far too many Last Word cyber cocktails last night. Maybe a bit of champagne would help, a bit of "hair of the dog", if you will.
Thank you all for making yesterday's Willow Manor Ball a smashing success. In addition to a fascinating list of attendees, there was quite a bit going on throughout the evening, including duels, tangos and kilt wearing competitions. Tom's pesky Dino Hand was getting a little too handy, if you know what I mean. Poor Tom ended up wearing a slab of raw steak on his face most of the evening, Phantom of the Opera style. Glenn, ever the showman, entertained us with a constant intelligent dialogue on everything from Hollywood to Hemmingway. I do believe he will be nominated for a Pulitzer for his incredible description of the evening's events. And did you happen to see Yoli's fabulous antler headdress? FireLight certainly was the show-stopper in her striking Madame X gown. Annie Leibovitz got some amazing shots, which I'm sure will make the cover of the December issue of Vanity Fair. By the way, did Steve Martin get his pants back? Rumor had it Mr. Ed ate them. I thought only goats ate stuff like that.
So, was all this deliciously silly hoopla pure nonsense? No, my friends, I beg to differ. Jo shared with us a quote from Agnes de Mille,
To dance is to be out of yourself.
Larger, more beautiful, more powerful.
This is power, it is glory on earth
and it is yours for the taking.
As Alan so aptly put it, the line between fantasy and reality is where artists live. We should never apologize (Julia Child would love this) for our virtual world, but celebrate it, gorge on its creativity. This is exactly what we did. Thank you for dancing that powerful dance on the splendid border between fantasy and reality with me, my friends. It was good. ~xx
Oh, and by the way, the winners of the door prizes are.....drum roll.... Robin of The Violet Hour
Earlier this week, Alan, mentioned that posting a blog about blogging is a form of omphaloskepsis (how's that for a word?) or navel-gazing, and potentially a boring read. Blogging in itself is a tad on the egocentric side, is it not? I happen to enjoy reading posts about blogging, since it's one of my major interests. Does that mean I enjoy navel-gazing? Of course I do. I knew you would, too.
You've probably noticed I've given in, and joined the majority of bloggers who have switched on their word verifications. I did it last week, since I was on the road, and couldn't screen out the Viagra spam everyfiveminutes several times a day. I'll have to admit, it is nice. I think I'll leave it on for a while.
While being a tad inconvenient, it certainly is entertaining. Blogger is evolving into an intelligent life form. I am amazed at how many times the word verification includes my real name, preceded by "uni" or "un" or followed by an occasional "ly".
Depending on Blogger's mood, it has been known to compliment my best comments with pressive, coolest, or crici. On the other hand, it tosses me just as many insults, like citicow, lowdfool,squat, or rejejune. Betsy happened to leave a comment on yesterday's "blogger house" post about her blogger weight gain, and the verification was taters. What kind of synchronicity is that? After reading a soup recipe post, I was requested to type flycowder. I kid you not.
Last week, when I felt uneasy about what sort of comment to leave, on a particularly touchy subject, the verification was awkworo. So, does this all-knowing Blogger also have the ability to look deep into my sowel (that's word verification for soul, by the way) and know how I feel, as I leave comments? . The most intriguing of all, have been joyodep and sewoollie. How can it possibly know the Deppster and I are doppelgangers, and that I am nutty about my woolly socks? I'll leave you now, to contemplate.
Dee-dum-dee-dum-dee-dee-dum-tee-dum. (That's the Hitchcock theme in case you didn't recognize it.)
As we loaded up our trusty old Land Rover last week, preparing for our trek across the Midwest toward Kansas, I forgot one crucial item. The snore machine. It's the little white noise machine I can't live (or sleep) without.
I've always maintained that WT could have easily been the next Pavarotti. He has a beautiful, booming tenor voice, which he fortunately passed down to our opera singing daughter. This talent is also displayed nightly, in his great ability to snore. I'm not talking any old mundane snores, like I am known to do, from time to time. No, no. He treats me to private sessions of the world's most brilliant snore performances.
The most impressive, and hardest of all to sleep through, would have to be the big, broad sweeping Old Man River snores. Forget William Warfield. WT can snore circles around him. As we crossed the Mississippi last week, I could see him down there, snoring away on an old riverboat.
Then there's the charming, fast-clip Gilbert and Sullivan style snores. These are known to make me climb the walls after 15 minutes, and sometimes, but hardly ever, make this girl use a big, big D.
A particularly alarming snore, is one that sounds amazingly like a car back firing. I fondly refer to this one as the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang snore. The mornings following this one, I'm ready to take him over to Midas for a new muffler.
Last, and my least favorite, is the creepy Hitchcockesque snore. This one sounds like the doorbell at the manor, when the button sticks. It's a choking sound that makes me feel like I'm being slowly strangled with a 1950s nylon stocking. I instinctively feel for my sewing scissors in the dark.
Needless to say, after a week of encore performances, I'm happy to be back home, safe and soundless with my handy dandy little snore machine. I slept 12 straight snoreless hours last night. And don't worry, my friends, I don't keep my sewing box anywhere near the bed.
My favorite J. Peterman travel case, just like the one Kay Francis
carried in One Way Passage, 1932. So romantic.
I was a huge fan of the J. Peterman Company way before he was parodied on Seinfeld as Jacopo Peterman by John O'Hurley, who played Elaine Benes' boss. Even though Seinfeld brought the company moderate success, it filed for bankruptcy in 1999. Certainly not because of me, one of their bestest customers. Funny thing, John O'Hurley, became a major investor and helped resurrect the J. Peterman Company in 2001. Is this a case of life imitating art, or what?
The real J. Peterman is a retail and catalog entrepreneur from Lexington, Kentucky. (Not New York, like Seinfeld lead you to believe.) He has written a book about his company's trials, the influence of Seinfeld, and more called Peterman Rides Again.
So, all this to say, I am happy to again find the delightful catalog in the manor mailbox. The products are accompanied by entertaining, exotic descriptions, as well as artwork, for each item with quirky names, like the "Victor Lazlo Shirt" or "Flowers for Mrs. Oglethorpe". I'm sure Mr. Peterman won't mind if I share with you a little excerpt from his latest catalog.
1947. Paris had a new president. Optimism was in the air. So was spring. And there were never enough polka dots to go around. Since you may have just commandeered the entire city supply. Not just little dots. Big ones. Paris was still in its coming out party mode. And you were there, on the grandest boulevard in the world, to make sure the party continued. Look, isn't that Le Fouguet's? Wonder if they still serve those great champagne cocktails? Found the original at a vintage boutique in the Right Bank. It looked lived in. And enjoyed. Champs-Elysees Dress (No. 2663) When the world still needed a hug. And so did you. . . How's that for a description of a polka dot dress? . If I happened to be writing for the company, my dream job, by the way, (do you hear that, Mr. Peterman?) I would have to call this little polka dot number the "Demendante Dress".
