In which Tinsley defends the Old Dominion.
Honorable Mention: Dorinda
Remember, when you point the finger at someone, three fingers are pointing back. I guess in this case it’s me, Tinsley, and Ramona.
(??? Oh Doris.)
In response to your blog last week, Countess, please don’t try to imply that I’m the one who is pretentious or criticize the whole city of Richmond because I was a debutante. At least I don’t use embarrassing sobriquets to embellish myself. The only reason I mentioned being a debutante was because of Sonja’s accusation when speaking to Dorinda that I “didn’t have a pot to pxxx in.”
I thought my pink feathered top was #thebomb, but someone else thought it was a dud (#fashionfauxpas #braids). Why not?
Yet trust me—they all talk about their exes all the time. Except for Tom—no one now wants to talk about Tom. Poor Tom. It’s not all about Tom now. Good riddance.
And what’s all of this talk about trust funds and Mommy paying or Scott supporting me — whose business is this anyway? I assume the implication is that I don’t have the sense to take care of myself, so someone else has to do it. Funny how someone so impaired can still get herself into Lawrenceville and Columbia.
Here’s a story: A 30-year-old restaurant hostess marries a wealthy man 25 years her senior. They love each other. Deeply. They have a kid. They buy a home, they travel the world, and host parties on yachts. Six years go by, then eight, then 10. The older man’s stories start to dull. The young pretty wife gets restless. Their eyes, once gazed longingly at each other, start to wander. Their marriage is marked by infidelities on both sides until one files for divorce. It’s not so shocking, is it? This story is played out countless times a year across the country. To talk about a marriage over a decade later, as though you had no hand in its demise, is frustrating for those who’ve had to listen to the historical re-write.