Last night was my “coiffure night.” I wanted my hair to look good for Game 6 of the NBA semi-finals. The best part about having my hair done, though, is spending time with my friend and stylist, Tracey. She’s wise beyond her years, smart as a whip, and highly skilled with the tools of beautification. I only wish I could spend more time with her because she’s terrific.
We were getting caught up on every little thing in our lives and I casually asked her if she was reading my blog.
She was silent for minute and then turned on the blow dryer. When she turned it off, I said
“It’s ok if you’re not reading it; I know you’re busy.”
“I’m reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey,’” she said sheepishly.
I’m not reading the “Grey” book. I’m not in the book burning business; people are free to read what they like. I usually read books by authors who have been dead for at least 100 years or are randomly unknown.
I have a library card at the University of New Hampshire library in case I want to read arcane biographies or agricultural collections. I don’t have a Tee Vee, I swim against the inside tide, and I don’t plan to go to Disney World any time soon. I don’t have Crocs, either. My mother used to say “if everyone jumps off the bridge, are you going to jump off too?”
I guess not.
A few years ago, I created a rating system for the books I had read. One of the categories was “SMW” which stood for “Slit My Wrists.” My definition was:
The book, while potentially well-written and commercially successful, was dark and depressing and made me want to slit my wrists.
When the “Grey” book came out, I thought it was either a SMW book or it might be about interior decorating because 50 shades of grey would be a dynamite foundation for a well-designed room. There was a room in the 2004 Junior League of Boston’s Decorator Show House which utilized at least 10 shades of grey, white, and a few pops of lavender; it was “The Bride’s Room” by Fernanda Bourlot and it was my favorite room in the house.
While it has been my custom to write about dreams on Friday, I’m all dreamed out right now. I do have at least 50 stories to tell about decorator show houses though, and until I’m ready to talk about my dream for locally grown, organic, grass-fed sweet dream pillows, Fridays are going to be called “Talk of the Toile.”
I hope you won’t want to slit your wrists.