How Has It Come To Pass That I Am Not Living In Garnet Hill?
I came home from work last night and found my old friend, the Garnet Hill catalogue, waiting for me on the hallway steps. How has it come to pass that I am not living in that utopia?
That should be me searching out the "so many ways to celebrate spring"...reveling in "the versatility of cashmere", certainly "replenishing my wardrobe" and "refreshing my home."
These lovely, lovely people have no access to radios or televisions and have never heard of an economy--cratering or otherwise. I belong with my people. They are my tribe.
Don't be a silly ass like my husband and talk to me of marketing. I know these folks exist. Right there, on page 7., one of my could-be-best-friends is standing on the doorframe of her convertible with her big old crazy floppy hat and a fully, scrumptiously packed picnic basket in the back seat. She's waiting for me to arrive with the brown bag full of refreshing bottles of clear mountain spring water before we drive off to adventures unknown.
They show pictures of their golden haired children
and vacation photos from "Forget-me-not,Tidy-tips, and Goldenbush." You can't make that stuff up.
I think I must have a lie-down and try to wrap my brain around all of this.
Something, very obviously, has gone awry. I miss my homies.