Dress: I have a real weakness for souvenirs. Whether we’re talking tiny ships in bottles or decorative tea towels or homemade totems to spirits/religious icons/folkloric figures that may or may not actually be evil but are definitely adorable in that same way that all medieval depictions of hell mostly look like tiny flames and giant muppets and wild things, I’m an easy target. Is that a tiny plastic flamingo glued to a coaster with an upside down conch shell and a cocktail umbrella-sized palm tree? And it’s only $12? Sold.
I blame The Trawler. Or if we really want to go full origin story, I blame The Gay Dolphin, which is a real place and no, they have not changed the name yet and if there is any good left in the universe, they never. Nana used to take me to the Gay Dolphin after I rode the carousel at the Pavilion when I was a wee thing, a few years before we upgraded our beach vacations to Greater Charleston. I would be allowed to select from a dizzying array of shells, beaded lanyard things, sharks teeth, nautical-themed cocktail accessories, and pirate doodads. The world was truly my oyster if by oyster you mean an oyster shell glued to a some blue astroturf with a tiny plastic mermaid draped over it like a siren. Only 8.99.
Many other members of my family liked to pretend that they were too good for Gay Dolphin level kitsch, preferring the Pawleys Island Hammock Shop or the Charleston Market or whatever flavor of Coastal Chic is on trend this season at the Ye Olde Aromatic Wicker Pottery Cocktail Napkin Mart invariably located in whatever well-landscaped shopping village that also features a store that sells only gauzy tunics and bedazzled Rattan Handbags with matching espadrilles. To be clear, that stuff is and was also kitsch, but because it’s more slightly more expensive and pastel, it can addle the mind of a certain variety of southern lady, who may not even eat shellfish but will 100% come back from Kiawah with some flavor of crab-appliqued table linens (with pineapple-handled claw crackers). And that’s the mic level. The high level looks like the beachy, preppy designer brands that encourage otherwise humorless middle-aged WASPS to spend hundreds of dollars on shift dresses made that look like they were stitched together by Julie Andrews out of some flavor of psychedelic pillowshams.
My appetite for souvenirs always threatens to turn me into a hoarder. It’s not that I even travel that much in the grand scheme of things, but I’m the kind of person that can convince myself I need this knick knack to commemorate a trip to my doctor’s office in Durham.
I have to establish limits. With that in mind, I’ve tried to steer myself into the slightly more expensive to discourage the stuff. Like, if I can resist the urge to buy six voodoo dolls, a plastic hand, four “real vampire teeth,” a holy relic, a pirate map, and 8 tiny folk art block paintings that might be Christmas ornaments, I could spend the equivalent on, say, a pair of earrings that I love, or a cardigan with crowns on it. Enter the resort boutique, often located next to the cocktail napkin shop in the afore-mentioned shopping village, which is almost always out of my price range, but sometimes has a sale rack where the things that don’t look like they were designed for either ski lodge Gwyneth Paltrow or the Von Trapp children on a Bachelorette Weekend in Miami end up because no one wants to wear them to a beach wedding.
This black dress, for example. Lovely. Comfortable. Timeless. Pockets-having. It is a go-to, appropriate for almost any occasion and almost too functional for the kind of place that might stock a feather tipped pool caftan or the kind of girl that traditionally goes in for that kind of thing. I bought it instead of a several tiny bottles of mustard, a cow -bedecked tea towel and a number of metallic frogs. I consider this a win.
Jacket: I’ve covered this before, so I won’t bug you with the details again (Rodolfo, you are welcome to lounge on my sofa any time). I will add that one of the reasons I bought the jacket was to brighten up an all-black outfit. Because I can’t really do all black outfits. Not because I don’t love them (I was neven a true Goth, but I have written poetry about the Cure and have seen Nick Cave live, at least thrice). Not because I am ignorant of its sophisticated, big city, arty, fashionista allure. I accept that it is flattering and that it does not show stains when you spill coffee or salsa all over yourself, which I do exactly every other time I try to drink coffee or eat salsa. But while other people look like aging rock stars or fashion editors or Audrey Hepburn, all black on me tends to convey, “Are these canapés gluten-free?” Given the choice between seeing me as “glamorous fashionista” or “cater waiter,” it’s always going to be the latter. And while I have some experience carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres for 10$ plus tip jar, it would be nice if people wouldn’t interrupt me in the middle of a conversation and ask if I could actually do my job and find them a clean wine glass. It’s not that I’m offended. The catering staff is usually more interesting than the people at the party, and I do like being helpful. But it can be a teense awkward if the person berating me for my trying to serve brie to a guest that is lactose intolerant is technically the person who doesn’t realize she invited me to the party as a guest.
Anyway. Pop of color. Floral velvet jacket. Whatever. I kinda miss the Lesbian Johnny Cash days if I’m honest.
The Outfit: You might be able to tell by the lanyard that I spent the last couple of days at a tourism conference, in a college town in the flat green expanse of Eastern North Carolina that is not quite waterfront yet, but might be in a a couple of decades depending on how this global warming thing pans out.
We stayed at a nice Hilton with a surprisingly lovely (if often loud) lobby bar, where I ran into a bunch of people I have literally known since I was a child. I am the third generation in my family to work in the advertising business, or, as a tipsy veteran journalist recently said to me “the least interesting spin on the world’s oldest profession.” Grandfather. Father. Mother. Me. This is the kind of lineage that might have you believe I was studying Leo Burnett in grade school, but I assure you that I never had any intention of ending up a copywriter or a creative director. I don’t think my father or grandfather did either. Like me they were also young once and also intended to be novelists or journalists or weirdo poet artists or whatever. Which was also what I imagined I would be doing. And yet here we are
For the record, I like my job. I love my coworkers. I love a bunch of my clients, too, many of whom, because they are in tourism and education and the arts, are connected to (if not the same) clients my dad worked with. It’s weird being very much a grown-up at a conference several hundred miles from your hometown and running into more than one person you maybe knew when you were ten years old. They’re still cracking jokes about your dad’s golf game, but to you now and not to him. They maybe remember that time you sold them girl scout cookies. They may ask if you ever decided to do anything with that poem you wrote when you were twelve.
I mention this because the familiarity of the people added a particularly hallucinatory air to the moment, at 8:30 on a Monday morning, in a convention center ballroom, over breakfast, when the conference organizer announced that Petey Pablo (yes, that Petey Pablo) would be kicking off the mornings presentation with a performance of some of his most beloved hits. And while a percentage of the attendees fell squarely into I Have Been Very, Very Drunk During Or Just After A North Carolina College Sports Event From 2002-Present millennial pocket, the vast majority struggled to understand why that young man was shouting at them to take their shirts off and helicopter them over their heads.
Sometimes life hands you a supporting role in a real life “Parks & Rec” episode, and there’s nothing you can do but ride it out.
Should you ever find yourself in Greenville, NC, let me recommend Ford & Shep, a delicious, convivial restaurant tucked away in a cluster of buildings around the end of Pitt Street. There are also plenty of pirate souvenirs available nearby (Go Pirates!). I did not buy the Blackbeard tote bag or a tiny ship in a bottle. This is real personal growth for me, guys.
Dress: Spanx, Dovecote Style, 2024
Jacket: Vikolina, Jao Social Club, 2024
Earrings: Minx, 2022
Tights: Sheertex
Shoes: Dr Marten’s, 2022
Tiny Commotions 
