I’m leaving work early today to go to one of a long line of scholarship receptions for Dr. Boyfriend. Because even though the law firm where he’s a patent agent is paying for him to go to law school, he’s a genius and can’t avoid getting money thrown at him.
For some reason, I get all excited about these receptions. I just think it’s so neat that he works full-time and somehow still manages to be at the top of his class (mostly by staying home and reading cases when he should be taking his lady out dancing) that I feel sort of like a proud mother when the invitations come in the mail. I think about how the dean of the school will fawn over him, and how I’ll embarrass myself trying to make everyone laugh, and how we’ll fill up on cured meats and cookies.
But what I never remember is that by the end of them, this always happens:
It’s a funny thing, being an intensely poor lady who spends all of her time in her boyfriend’s richie-rich, circa-1920, hand-carved Italian stone apartment building with its own gym, laundry, and convenience store. Walking out of the lobby this morning, I followed through the revolving doors an older, classier woman with a Blanc de Chine shopping bag. And not, like, the paper bag they give you at DKNY or even the vinyl bag they give you at Scoop but a legitimate canvas bag that can be treasured and flaunted for years and years to come.
Now, that name wouldn’t have meant anything to me a few years ago, but you may remember back in 2007, when I hardcore coveted this Blanc de Chine cape that cost over $1600:
but instead bought this cape, which cost me $9:
I’m telling myself there’s no way that woman bought anything but a pair of cashmere socks, but I don’t think they hand out canvas bags for that.
