If only my mother had named me Sloane, or Candace, or Tai, or Adrienne, or some other name glamorous enough to permit me entry into the world of grown up coffee tables and Vanity Fair bylines.
I don't think it was too much to ask.
Some people dream of their names lit up in lights or laminated on baseball cards. In comparison, all I wanted was was a half inch of space on the editorial masthead--my name squeezed in demurely between Winter Cavendish and Fiona Leopold. Granted, I did score that internship at the art magazine despite my name, but that was only because there was a 99.9% chance that no one there actually knew my name (the .1% I'm leaving to chance is due to the harsh reality that no one actually spoke to me the entire year I was there--save the saffron velvet and lightbulb command, which was more like barking than speaking--so I cannot prove beyond a doubt whether anyone knew my name or not).
But alas, my mother (bless her sweet Irish soul!)named me Molly and I was, without any input whatsoever, forever relegated to the world of livestock and golden retrievers. I was, without any say whatsover, destined to be associated with best case scenario: large, handsome women who are not sinkable or that Molly Bloom character created by that author who is too confusing for anyone to even want to read or worst case scenario: an Irish band interested in some sort of sadomasochistic flogging. Or a bucket.
Yes, I was sentenced to an old-fashioned moniker that lacks the pedigree or classicalness of say, Ann, or the Biblical cred of say, Mary. And it certainly isn't an old name that is coming into vogue again like, oh I don't know, Esther. Sure, my name does connote a certain patriotic resourcefulness, but in an Encyclopedia Brown's kid sister sort of way rather than in, say, a Bond Girl kind of way. I mean, I highly doubt that 007 has ever taken a Molly to his chateau in the Swiss Alps to seduce her right prior to her being revealed as a double agent.
Yes, mom, I know, I know: Molly is a perfect name for three year olds with blonde pigtails. But then, of course, as the course tends to go, all the little Mollys grow up and want to write something with a little more heft than their own name for a publication that is a little more respected than Sister Leona's chalkboard.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Yes, No. 4 Refers to Me, and No, Mom, I Don't Have a Coffee Table or Child Yet (or The Appellation Trail Part 2)
Out West (compound prop.noun) is not just a longitudinal direction. It's an attitudinal* direction. So, when I packed up and headed west three years ago despite my mother's plea that I needed to stay put for like two seconds**, I wasn't worried. I mean, COME ON, I pointed out to her, I was in good company: Christopher Columbus, the pilgrims, the gold rushers, the Mafia and other visionaries, retired Hollywood cowboys, stoned journalists and most recently crime scene investigators.
And, truth be told: the fact that I felt the need to head out west was all her fault anyways.
Back East I had had a dream of living in one of those TriBeCa lofts where the elevator door would glide open and directly deliver into my living room something other than the fourth! Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale catalog this month (I'm no math professor, neither is Bar, Allesandra nor Leilani--I understand this--but how is this even possible?). Namely, the door would open and out would come glamorous friends, witty editors, morose (but brilliant) photographers, and brilliant (albeit morose) art directors armed with complex Cabernets from the Loire Valley and little boxes of nuanced truffles from SoHo's Vosges promptly at 7:30 every Thursday evening.
In this dream of mine, we would gather around my very grown up coffee table and complain about the incompetence of the interns*** at the magazine (I SAID A VENTI TRIPLE HALF CAF HALF DECAF MOCHA GREEN TEA LATTE WITH SUGAR FREE CINNEMON DULCE SYRUP EXTRA WHIP EXTRA DOUBLE HOT NO ROOM BECAUSE IT'S THURSDAY, DILL WEED) where we all worked together and then would move on to a more civilized discussion about the merits of the mock turtleneck versus a real turtleneck, Woody Allen, and then perhaps Rick Moody and post-modernism.
I also imagined small, but stylish photos of me on the contributor page of other equally relevant magazines. I must have fashioned these portraits in my mind a thousand times. They were to be expertly composed, but never obvious or strained. They were to allude ever so subtly to the very real and envy-inducing possibility that well, yes, I do just happen to be standing against this sun-splashed wall wearing a custom-fitted Brooks Brother white shirt with a cashmere sweater playfully wrapped around my shoulders at the US Open and well, yes, that does just happen to be Tom Ford, JD Salinger, and Princess Diana behind me playing croquet on this lovely little piece of violet-strewn heaven that, well, yes, is the front lawn of my house in the Hamptons. I admit I sometimes didn't pay much attention to the logistics of the dreams--the point was supposed to be yes, people, the world has just opened up to me and my pen.
In these photos, I wouldn't be smiling, but my expression would belie a secret life beneath the serious demeanor--a secret life of said coffee table conversations and morning jaunts for Dean and DeLuca coffee and crepes. Over time, I conjured up more sophisticated snapshots--there were hammocks and a frothy ocean behind me, a YSL tuxedo jacket and my boyfriend's jeans. Often, a small purebred dog or two would be involved. And always always always the caption beneath the photo would read: She lives and writes in New York City.
Tomorrow: Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3
*I am aware of the fact that attitudinal is not a real word. But if my students can make up words, so can I.
**or two months...
***OK. OK. Admittedly in reality I was usually the intern--though I had the special pleasure of fetching things like saffron-colored velvet fabric that was "neither too yellow nor too not yellow" and "the craziest, most unique, UNROUND lightbulbs you can find. In bulk!" Um, yeah. Mr. Sam Bennet, oh I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Publisher and Editor in Chief, if you are reading this, I want you to know that attempting and actually finding these things for you in Chinatown in less than two hours is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and yet it is wholly unlistable on my resume, jerk.
And, truth be told: the fact that I felt the need to head out west was all her fault anyways.
Back East I had had a dream of living in one of those TriBeCa lofts where the elevator door would glide open and directly deliver into my living room something other than the fourth! Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale catalog this month (I'm no math professor, neither is Bar, Allesandra nor Leilani--I understand this--but how is this even possible?). Namely, the door would open and out would come glamorous friends, witty editors, morose (but brilliant) photographers, and brilliant (albeit morose) art directors armed with complex Cabernets from the Loire Valley and little boxes of nuanced truffles from SoHo's Vosges promptly at 7:30 every Thursday evening.
In this dream of mine, we would gather around my very grown up coffee table and complain about the incompetence of the interns*** at the magazine (I SAID A VENTI TRIPLE HALF CAF HALF DECAF MOCHA GREEN TEA LATTE WITH SUGAR FREE CINNEMON DULCE SYRUP EXTRA WHIP EXTRA DOUBLE HOT NO ROOM BECAUSE IT'S THURSDAY, DILL WEED) where we all worked together and then would move on to a more civilized discussion about the merits of the mock turtleneck versus a real turtleneck, Woody Allen, and then perhaps Rick Moody and post-modernism.
I also imagined small, but stylish photos of me on the contributor page of other equally relevant magazines. I must have fashioned these portraits in my mind a thousand times. They were to be expertly composed, but never obvious or strained. They were to allude ever so subtly to the very real and envy-inducing possibility that well, yes, I do just happen to be standing against this sun-splashed wall wearing a custom-fitted Brooks Brother white shirt with a cashmere sweater playfully wrapped around my shoulders at the US Open and well, yes, that does just happen to be Tom Ford, JD Salinger, and Princess Diana behind me playing croquet on this lovely little piece of violet-strewn heaven that, well, yes, is the front lawn of my house in the Hamptons. I admit I sometimes didn't pay much attention to the logistics of the dreams--the point was supposed to be yes, people, the world has just opened up to me and my pen.
In these photos, I wouldn't be smiling, but my expression would belie a secret life beneath the serious demeanor--a secret life of said coffee table conversations and morning jaunts for Dean and DeLuca coffee and crepes. Over time, I conjured up more sophisticated snapshots--there were hammocks and a frothy ocean behind me, a YSL tuxedo jacket and my boyfriend's jeans. Often, a small purebred dog or two would be involved. And always always always the caption beneath the photo would read: She lives and writes in New York City.
Tomorrow: Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3
*I am aware of the fact that attitudinal is not a real word. But if my students can make up words, so can I.
**or two months...
***OK. OK. Admittedly in reality I was usually the intern--though I had the special pleasure of fetching things like saffron-colored velvet fabric that was "neither too yellow nor too not yellow" and "the craziest, most unique, UNROUND lightbulbs you can find. In bulk!" Um, yeah. Mr. Sam Bennet, oh I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Publisher and Editor in Chief, if you are reading this, I want you to know that attempting and actually finding these things for you in Chinatown in less than two hours is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and yet it is wholly unlistable on my resume, jerk.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
And God said...Walk. Away. From. The. Thin. Mints.
Oh, HE did.
I'm a Christian, and a sliver of what being a Christian is is tithing to the church to which I belong. Full disclosure here: I have found it easier to believe that Christ did in fact walk on water than to believe that a sliver of what being a Christian is is in fact tithing to the church to which I belong. I mean, does God really really need my Louboutin money? We are not even 100% sure if the man has feet. I've gone round and round with this requirement and still carry a fairly impressive--if unpublished--dissertation in my head regarding the finer points of giving or not giving money on Sunday mornings. Last week I came to the conclusion that despite my hesitation, I was going to start handing over the cash.
Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
For those of you who have been reading for the last couple of weeks, you are well aware of my current situation regarding the utter lack of Girl Scout cookies in my life. I, apparently, have been systematically ignored by all 400 troops in the northeastern corridor of Ohio. I know just know that my ex is presently harboring Samoas in his cupboard, but obviously these are going to go the way of my toothbrush and my favorite pair of fluffy white socks as casualties of war.
Anyway, after leaving church last Sunday I went to Wal Mart for well, um, a toothbrush and LO AND BEHOLD there in the parking lot in all of its green glory was Girl Scout Troop #359! Alleluliah! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Thin Mints would be mine, afterall. Praise Jesus! Heeheeheehee. They can't ignore me, I thought, if I walk right up to their table as a paying customer. And this, of course, would have been true
IF
I
HAD
ANY
CASH
LEFT
AFTER
TITHING.
Curses! The sweet little ladies at church were at that very moment counting my dollars and there I was in the parking lot. Of Wal Mart. In Ohio. In March. Single. Penniless. Toothbrushless and in the cruelest of all cruel twists--Thinmintless.
My only solace is that I have faith that I will be duly rewarded for my small sacrifice. So Dear God, if you are listening, in addition to that little date with James Bond scenario I was confiding in you about, I fully expect Girl Scout cookies to be plentiful in heaven. I also fully expect for them to be delivered on time and, of course, to be non-caloric.
m.
I'm a Christian, and a sliver of what being a Christian is is tithing to the church to which I belong. Full disclosure here: I have found it easier to believe that Christ did in fact walk on water than to believe that a sliver of what being a Christian is is in fact tithing to the church to which I belong. I mean, does God really really need my Louboutin money? We are not even 100% sure if the man has feet. I've gone round and round with this requirement and still carry a fairly impressive--if unpublished--dissertation in my head regarding the finer points of giving or not giving money on Sunday mornings. Last week I came to the conclusion that despite my hesitation, I was going to start handing over the cash.
Well, as they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
For those of you who have been reading for the last couple of weeks, you are well aware of my current situation regarding the utter lack of Girl Scout cookies in my life. I, apparently, have been systematically ignored by all 400 troops in the northeastern corridor of Ohio. I know just know that my ex is presently harboring Samoas in his cupboard, but obviously these are going to go the way of my toothbrush and my favorite pair of fluffy white socks as casualties of war.
Anyway, after leaving church last Sunday I went to Wal Mart for well, um, a toothbrush and LO AND BEHOLD there in the parking lot in all of its green glory was Girl Scout Troop #359! Alleluliah! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Thin Mints would be mine, afterall. Praise Jesus! Heeheeheehee. They can't ignore me, I thought, if I walk right up to their table as a paying customer. And this, of course, would have been true
IF
I
HAD
ANY
CASH
LEFT
AFTER
TITHING.
Curses! The sweet little ladies at church were at that very moment counting my dollars and there I was in the parking lot. Of Wal Mart. In Ohio. In March. Single. Penniless. Toothbrushless and in the cruelest of all cruel twists--Thinmintless.
My only solace is that I have faith that I will be duly rewarded for my small sacrifice. So Dear God, if you are listening, in addition to that little date with James Bond scenario I was confiding in you about, I fully expect Girl Scout cookies to be plentiful in heaven. I also fully expect for them to be delivered on time and, of course, to be non-caloric.
m.
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