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Thursday, June 11, 2009


Preparations are nearly complete! Tomorrow, we will wing our way from Das Kapitol to Scotland. From our review of maps of Scotland, Jeff and I have come to the conclusion that Scotland is actually located in Middle Earth. Everything is Tor This or Crag That or is called Cerdhilissligheannncccchh. Likely the land is peopled by a sprightly race of ring-forging elves. Our Scottish Educational Film Series (consisting thus far of Braveheart and Trainspotting) takes the contrary position that it is peopled by a combination of bekilted medieval warriors and urban hopheads, but I'm really holding out hope for the elves.

One true fact that Jeff has discovered in the pursuit of decent berths for us as we travel about the land is that all Scots who run inns and/or car-ferry services are in a state of permanent wonder at the Internet (Or the Intehrneht, as they call it).

So now we are really just marking time prior to our departure. I spent some of that time yesterday in the doctor's office, waiting to have my benighted eye reviewed for any remaining swelling, redness, distortions, and/or hauntings by malingering poltergeists. While waiting, I had the chance to read a feature-length article on monogramming in one of those magazines aimed at rich southern ladies who can trace their ancestry to such eminent figures as the very first slaver in the Carolinas, and/or a gentleman farmer who personally snubbed Patrick Henry at a dinner party in 1762. Among other things, I learned that gracious persons are permitted to "go crazy" with white monograms stitched onto white bed linens, that simple script is most appropriate for monogrammed gingham picnic napkins (a fabulous piece of advice that incorporates both the assumptions that (a) you own gingham picnic napkins and that, (b) your possessiveness towards them is such that you are having them monogrammed), that a woman's monogram should always include the initial of her maiden name, and that "ivory hemstitched dinner napkins with a gold monogram are the little black dress of tabletop." Not "the tabletop." Just "tabletop" - a mysterious kingdom like Oz or Lilliput, wherein the men are wealthy, the ladies refined, and the children mere accessories for photographs of your recently relandscaped loggia, which features a variety of tearose named after your great-aunt, who made her debut at a cotillion organized by the Junior League of Charleston in 1892.

Is there a writer who has adequately recorded the mentality of super-rich Southerners? Faulkner and O'Connor I associate with more earthy, rural southerners. Where is the correspondent who looks into the furnished souls of Dallas Ladies, or FFVs? Alas, I know not, and the question will likely fade into irrelevance as I journey to a place where restaurants have names like "Shower of Herring," and cookies are quaintly known as "biscuits."

posted by Reen |link| 0 comments

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