Today is my debut in the New York Times.
Never mind that it’s a little blurb in a column called Metropolitan Diary and is one of those “Was I really that dumb?” moments that I’ve rarely mentioned for oh so obvious reasons. It wasn’t so much that I was embarrassed by it (although my children are no doubt feeling otherwise) but just that I didn’t think it was much of a story. It was a long time ago and I’ve never regretted not getting the job. (Pardon the double negative. If I were a NY magazine editor now, I’d probably use better grammar.)
Dearly Beloved said it well this morning: “Today the entire world is reading about how you can’t hold your liquor.”
I didn’t even include how I wanted to taste the real New York City before I left, so while my kind escort was hailing a cab for me, I bought a hot dog from a sidewalk vendor, thus flying home with a two martinis, three olives, and a hot dog with sauerkraut under my belt. Just barely; it was pretty iffy for awhile.
For some time I have been reading that column and I have noticed that the Diary entries are usually funny stories people tell about someone else rather than on themselves. That may be the editor’s choice or perhaps New Yorkers consider themselves too sophisticated for such nonsense. Regardless, southerners have no such qualms. As Julia Sugarbaker said, we parade our crazy relatives. I might add,. . . even when they’re us.
Dearly Beloved loves to tell me, “You can take the girl out of Eastern Carolina, but you can’t take Eastern Carolina out of the girl.”
He isn’t reminding me of that this morning and not because he’s being sensitive. By pure coincidence, the whole world will get to read his blurb in the same NYT column on January 19. It’s a self-deprecating story about an incident that happened after he left North Carolina as a young man and went to work in New York City. In NC, everything closes when it snows, so he assumed. . . .
Let me be the first to say it:
You can take the boy out of Piedmont Carolina, but. . . .