I'm in grey and rainy Philadelphia for work. It feels much like Seattle with all the rain. Except for the humidity, gritty, industrial landscape, and lack of coffeehouses. But there are some great restaurants here. And at the end of my 6-mile run tomorrow, I'm going to run up the steps of the Philly Art Museum and throw up my arms, Rocky-like, singing, "Gonna fly now ....."
I was eating tamales and sipping a margarita over happy hour with a friend, L., the other night when I noticed a few raucous "old little girls" to our right.
You know the type. They could be 23. They could be 35. Or any age in-between. Grown women who dress as if they're 13-year-old Lolitas waiting for their Humbert Humbert.
Mutton Dressed as Lamb: Short, flimsy skirts and cheap tank tops. Prematurely-aged skin from too much sun, dirty martinis and tobocco smoke that no amount of Kiehl's skincare products, microdermabrasion or $150 glycolic facials will erase.
Overprocessed hair that falls in their faces as they hunch over to light a cigarette, looking 20 years older as they suck in tobacco smoke, the outlines of their skulls visible, just for a moment, beneath the skin.
But all that could have been forgiven but for their attitude. That was the worst. No, it is not charmingly insouciant to talk about the differences between American and British usage of the word "c**nt" in a loud, braying voices. Or about how you flirt with the married men in the office to see how far they'll take the teasing.