I'm convinced the Frick reads this blog, that's all I'm gonna say

 

Headed out into the tundra
to go to the Frick Museum

As per my last post, it was cold AF in New York City. I decided this might be a rare occasion to break out my grandmother's "knee length" blond mink coat. *For anyone stymied right now, let it be known that while my grandmother had an aggressively large personality, she was really really short.

But yeah it's still a gorgeous coat that was made by my great grandfather for his daughter... my great grandfather being a furrier and all. My plan was to wear this coat so as not to freeze my ass off on the way up to the Frick, the perfect gilded age destination for a person in such a coat. So on brand. 

I get up there, I meet my friend Anna and together we go inside. And here's how I know the Frick reads this blog, specifically the earlier post here, where i rant specifically about four things at the newly remodeled Frick:

1) Somehow, you keep winding up in the Frick lobby and then you have to dig out your tickets again to show the guard to get back into the museum part of the building. Like 3-5 times a visit suddenly you find yourself out in the lobby again. 

2) There's no coffee cart, and then there's this huge empty space where there used to be a coffee cart, but now stands barren while we all die of thirst. Why is there no coffee cart in that spot?

3) There's no signs on anything, and no one tells you you cannot take a photo until you find out the hard way when you get scolded by a guard for taking a photo.

4) There's a line to get into the extremely small gift shop.

Well lookie here... when Anna and I exited the lobby thru the doorway where the guard scans your ticket, they now give you a ticket bracelet! So convenient, when you wind up like a magic trick back in the lobby every twenty minutes you can just show 'em your wrist!

A fancy "ticket bracelet" - functional and
also has a gilded age vibe.
Well played, Frick!

Also, further evidence the Frick has carefully considered my advice: THEY PUT THE COFFEE CART BACK. I know. I am a woman of influence and power. 

(It will destroy my narrative to address #3 and #4, so I will fully disregard. I'm sure they're working on it.) 

So anyway, I swan past the guard feeling extremely pleased with myself for having enhanced the Frick visitor experience considerably with my well considered suggestions AND in a vintage blond mink coat to celebrate my triumph.... Immediately I started to cackle. It blew the whole vibe, trust me. 

Because every third person in that place had the exact same idea. It was like a fashion show for all grandmas' vintage fur coats. One woman marched right up to me and we had a whole conversation about our coats. This happened maybe five times. Anna just rolled her eyes. She had on some kind of newfangled performance fabric and could not participate. 

After one woman walked away I told Anna that her coat was coney. Floor length sure but yeah. Coney. I don't even remember getting taken aside as a kid and getting taught to not only identify, but also roll my eyes when it's just simply not the right kind of fur. But indeed, my grandma was a furrier's kid who married another furrier's kid, so I guess it's not maybe all that surprising. It's just a funny feeling when your genes are screaming with opinions.