|She might just be keeping all her eggs in one basket.|
Vogue Nippon photographed by Nathaniel Goldberg
I grew up in Oklahoma on a red-dirt catfish farm. My daddy caught fresh fish from his ponds and brought them home to fry up in his cast-iron skillet, after filleting them on our kitchen table. I literally swam with the muskrats and snakes (but don't worry, my dog was protecting me!) The fact that I was usually wearing my favorite yellow flouncy birthday dress (with a hidden tinkerbell) in those muddy waters should explain a lot about how I got here to Speed Chic...
It certainly makes the case for my obsession with all things Downton Abbey--the starched servants, silk-mousseline gowns'n'gloves ensembles, snippy repartees and posh manners dripping with tradition are a far cry from pet 'possums and dirt roads. Not to mention the meals of clotted cream and caviar--no hush puppies and chicken fried steak in these joints, no sirreee (although something about that, with a little white gravy and mashed potatoes, is floating my boat right about now.)
So when my momma suggested I read Past Imperfect by the delightful Julien Fellowes, the screen writer for Downton Abbey, I quickly complied.
|You can get this, and his other novel Snobs (next on my reading list)|
Past Imperfect is a charming escape into the social and amorous trials and failures of the uppercrust and its wannabes in England. Grab it, and enjoy a spot of hot tea while Fellowes shares his witty, but human, inside track on debutante balls and schoolboy dreams.
As far as the cinema, I have been blessed with a babysitter most Sundays--where you'll find me parked in the sixth row center, enjoying a brief bit of solitude. Here is the rundown:
|"Fantine" is such a pretty name...|
|Note: The blood spatter also plays a major role in the film.|
|I can take it from here, dollface...|
So whether your window looks out over a big city skyline, a tumbleweed hillside or a little patch of suburban grassland, you can always change your point of view with a quick getaway and a stolen moment. Or two...