Wednesday, October 23, 2013

What I want to be when I grow up

When I grow up, I would like to be a geriatric scarlet. Iris Apfel will act as my godhead in this pursuit. I waffled briefly—one time I drifted off for a second, dreamt I was Helen Mirren and felt incredibly calm and collected. But as Iris Apfel says, "More is more, calm and collected is a bore." Actually she doesn't say that.

As a geriatric scarlet, I intend to pursue the following activities with great vigor:

1) When I arise in the morning, I will part heavy midnight blue velvet draperies. The tassels will be brocade. Obviously.

2) All meals will be eaten on china. I'd like to dine on a pattern featuring small fluffy foxes with keen eyes. Foxes are overlooked when it comes to decorative dishware. I saw a taxidermy raven encased in a thousand sparkling crystal marbles at the Met. There will be one of these about.

3) My friend Stuart told me the other day, "When you're retired, somehow you can spend the whole day going to the post office." Perhaps. But just in case, I will hold memberships to museums that offer free movies. Like MoMA. I will put on a seasonal hat and head out to watch foreign language films. If anywhere there is a WunderKammer on display, I will methodically handle every single curiosity.

4) I will find a manservant to bank a fire. There will be furs strewn about. Some of them will be real, because my great-grandfather was a furrier. Geriatric Scarlets notice the fingerprints of our ancestors. 

5) I will take high tea with some regularity. The parlors I will frequent shall be walkups with rickety stairs and leaded glass. I will enjoy petit fours and small chocolate truffles from Kees or Vosges. I will be fastidious about my truffles. It will be annoying. 

When the tea waitress comes by, I will politely remove my Klipsch sound isolating earbuds because I will be listening to "Circles Super Bon Bon" by Mike Doughty at top volume. Klipsch Earbuds are sonically superior.

Danger! A geriatric scarlet must vigilantly avoid falling into a Miss Havisham imbroglio. My cat, Alexander, has sadly succumbed. 

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