OK, so the September issue (despite it's ridonkulous ad to content ratio), was surprisingly low key and down to earth. There just wasn't the crazy pretention (it helped that there were no articles about plastic surgery, or diets, of course) that I, a pleeb, have become accustomed to within Vogue's hallowed pages.
But don't worry! For October it was back to form!! This little snippet is from "Family Fictions", Jeanne Darst's account of her childhood with her socialite mother and her penniless writer father.
"'I didn't sign up for this sweetheart,' [my mother]'d say to me as she warmed up for her evening weepathon. The first mother I saw like mine was Amanda Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie, going into reveries about her suitors. There was Rodney, the man my mother should have married; she could have had lunch every day at the St. Louis Country Club. He was presumably a bore and a penny-loafer guy. And was named Rodney. Or Chip Boulard, whose family owned the biggest lead company in the world. She could have had the fanciest pencils in all the world, I guess, which, when you're a crossword fanatic as she was, might be no small thing. I spoke French in preschool and now look at me, she seemed to say on a nightly basis."
pg. 180
I have a few things to say about this piece: 1. THESE PEOPLE CAN'T POSSIBLY BE REAL!! 2. There are socialites in St. Louis!? and 3. If I'm being honest, I secretly wish this was my family. But seriously, I can't believe any of these people ever existed.
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