Why do I even bother to come back from the dead when the moment I return to life I face mortification at every turn? Sigh.
So here’s the deal, I spend Thursday evenings in the bar of Austin’s grandest hotel drinking Hendrick’s martinis, being sociable and casually hoping to meet the first of what I hope will be a veritable slew of wealthy foreign husbands with chiseled jaws and Norman castles who don’t understand big complicated phrases like “entrapment” and “community property laws.”
One might think that the bar of the poshest hotel in town would be excellent people watching, in fact *I* thought the poshest hotel in town would be excellent people watching but sadly, no. It has done nothing but reinforce the idea that money cannot buy taste and that there is no such thing as a formal flip flop.
I don’t think I realized quite how much I hated flip flops until I saw pair after pair of bejeweled, bedazzled, bewildering flip flops slapslapslapping their way through the ankle-deep carpet. Frankly, if you are not at a beach, in a communal shower or getting your toes did, there is no reason to wear flip flops outside the house. None? NONE.
Let me ask you flip flop wearers something…other than comfort, which I’ll take your word for, what’s the allure? They’re not attractive. The cheap ones are cheap and the expensive ones just LOOK cheap and there is not an outfit that cannot be wrecked by the judicious (or injudicious) application of those slippy slappy monsters.
Oh and please don’t get me started with BRIDAL flip flops. I’m feeling faint. Quick, someone better refill my Hendrick’s.*
*Hendrick’s is the Unofficial Gin of Manolo for The Big Girl. Not only is it the finest gin I’ve ever consumed –which is fair praise indeed considering that I’m Church of England and thus haven’t been sober since first communion– but their annual Olympiad judges competitors on “style, wit, intellect and cut of trouser” and that’s the sort of sport I can get behind.