Bergdorf’s Art House
Today my mother and I spent the afternoon davening at her spiritual home, Bergdorf Goodman. She let me know that she is still planning to abstain from reading the book and had this to say:
How about we try and make the next book semi-normal? Enough with these people with hangups. Enough with the face tattoos already.
I responded using the words artist and self-expression, two locutions I never use self-referentially unless I’m getting a lecture about my junkie fetish in the Roger Vivier section of the shoe salon.
I have the perfect photo of my mother taken during a similar pilgrimage this summer. It was raining and we didn’t have an umbrella, so she’s standing in front of the Big B with a plastic bag over her head.
While I’m dying to post the photo here, I just can’t sell her out like that. She’s mad cool in her Brunello Cucinelli separates and D’Agostino hat, just trying to understand her daughter. And I’m not that kind of artist yo.
This picture made me laugh so hard I cried…*quintissential*
After my mom read my book, she said something to the effect of, “You know, John Grisham’s books are sad too, but at least people want to read them…and he’s rich!”
post-menopausal main line moms are the hottest!