and see what those wacky girls are up to this time.
There are no
words
, of course, but you can put together the story. It’s about a group of women, a Slumber Party Organization. I don’t know what their particular agenda is; I don’t know if it’s a political assembly or more a social, community-minded, grass-roots type of thing. But I
do
know they get together every couple of months to, apparently, slumber.
They meet at this great hunting lodge one of them owns, and though they’re obviously very close, there’s tremendous anxiety regarding their attire. They’re just not sure what to wear. And this is where the drama comes in. The conflict.
They each bring a couple of changes, and they try them on for each other, hoping to gain the approval of this very rigid group. They slip into something—“What doyou think? No? Okay, I’ll try on something else.” And then someone else takes the floor. Many of them are quite distraught and end up standing on the porch alone, so demanding are the slumbering wardrobe requirements.
One woman wearing a peach negligee comes in and leans on the piano.
“Better! That’s definitely a piano type of garment. Make sure there’s a baby grand around when you wear that, because it really accents the weave.”
Trying on, taking off. Trying on, taking off. On and off it goes. Until finally, content with their choices, they proceed to slumber.
A couple of pages of women sleeping, and then, toward the end of the book, you notice they’re modeling the heavier stuff: sweaters, coats, luggage, and gloves. That’s because they’re leaving.
It’s the end of the party, and they’re getting ready to go home. But though the chapter is ending, you
know
they’re coming back next month, because they never tell you which one is Victoria, and what’s the big secret.
T here are catalogues that my wife gets excited about that absolutely fly under my radar. I never even know about them till things show up in the mail.
“Where’d we get this?”
“I ordered it,” says the woman I love.
“What is it?”
“Tea cozy.”
“A what?”
“A
tea
cozy.”
I run those two words around in my head for a few seconds, thinking that will help me.
“Okay, I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a thing, you put it over a pot of tea, and it keeps it—”
“Cozy?”
“Exactly.”
“Good. Because that’s the one thing I felt our tea was lacking: that certain coziness.”
When a catalogue comes to our house, we’re both free to browse through it. But with other types of mail, territories need to be defined.
Whose mail is whose? If it’s addressed to both of you, who gets to open it first? If it’s addressed to
one
of you, but you know that it’s going to be for both of you anyway, are you allowed to read it without your spouse pursuing felony charges?
And what about letters that truly
are
personal? Friends that you knew before you were a couple and never bothered to talk about? Old lovers? The very delivery of one of these letters can drive a wedge right through your home.
“Who is that?”
“I told you about her.”
“Never.”
“No?”
“Trust me.”
“Well, probably because I haven’t spoken to her in fifteen years.”
“Why would she write to you now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know you’re married?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does she want?”
“I don’t know—
you
have the letter, you tell
me.”
“I
had
the letter—I threw it out.”
I think it’s amazing that any mail is ever delivered in this country.
Have you ever dropped a letter into one of those mailboxes on the side of the road, isolated, in the middle of nowhere? I always think, “They don’t know this mailbox is here. I might as well be throwing it in the garbage.” How do they remember where all the mailboxes are? Do they update the list? I don’t think they do.
But we have faith.
We trust that they will deliver our mail—anywhere we want. And for only 29
There are no
words
, of course, but you can put together the story. It’s about a group of women, a Slumber Party Organization. I don’t know what their particular agenda is; I don’t know if it’s a political assembly or more a social, community-minded, grass-roots type of thing. But I
do
know they get together every couple of months to, apparently, slumber.
They meet at this great hunting lodge one of them owns, and though they’re obviously very close, there’s tremendous anxiety regarding their attire. They’re just not sure what to wear. And this is where the drama comes in. The conflict.
They each bring a couple of changes, and they try them on for each other, hoping to gain the approval of this very rigid group. They slip into something—“What doyou think? No? Okay, I’ll try on something else.” And then someone else takes the floor. Many of them are quite distraught and end up standing on the porch alone, so demanding are the slumbering wardrobe requirements.
One woman wearing a peach negligee comes in and leans on the piano.
“Better! That’s definitely a piano type of garment. Make sure there’s a baby grand around when you wear that, because it really accents the weave.”
Trying on, taking off. Trying on, taking off. On and off it goes. Until finally, content with their choices, they proceed to slumber.
A couple of pages of women sleeping, and then, toward the end of the book, you notice they’re modeling the heavier stuff: sweaters, coats, luggage, and gloves. That’s because they’re leaving.
It’s the end of the party, and they’re getting ready to go home. But though the chapter is ending, you
know
they’re coming back next month, because they never tell you which one is Victoria, and what’s the big secret.
T here are catalogues that my wife gets excited about that absolutely fly under my radar. I never even know about them till things show up in the mail.
“Where’d we get this?”
“I ordered it,” says the woman I love.
“What is it?”
“Tea cozy.”
“A what?”
“A
tea
cozy.”
I run those two words around in my head for a few seconds, thinking that will help me.
“Okay, I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a thing, you put it over a pot of tea, and it keeps it—”
“Cozy?”
“Exactly.”
“Good. Because that’s the one thing I felt our tea was lacking: that certain coziness.”
When a catalogue comes to our house, we’re both free to browse through it. But with other types of mail, territories need to be defined.
Whose mail is whose? If it’s addressed to both of you, who gets to open it first? If it’s addressed to
one
of you, but you know that it’s going to be for both of you anyway, are you allowed to read it without your spouse pursuing felony charges?
And what about letters that truly
are
personal? Friends that you knew before you were a couple and never bothered to talk about? Old lovers? The very delivery of one of these letters can drive a wedge right through your home.
“Who is that?”
“I told you about her.”
“Never.”
“No?”
“Trust me.”
“Well, probably because I haven’t spoken to her in fifteen years.”
“Why would she write to you now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she know you’re married?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What does she want?”
“I don’t know—
you
have the letter, you tell
me.”
“I
had
the letter—I threw it out.”
I think it’s amazing that any mail is ever delivered in this country.
Have you ever dropped a letter into one of those mailboxes on the side of the road, isolated, in the middle of nowhere? I always think, “They don’t know this mailbox is here. I might as well be throwing it in the garbage.” How do they remember where all the mailboxes are? Do they update the list? I don’t think they do.
But we have faith.
We trust that they will deliver our mail—anywhere we want. And for only 29
Similar Books
