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Super Secret Agent Spy

I am a writer. And a doodler. And an eater of Twizzlers. And the mother of MuShu, the wonder puppy. I love long walks on the beach, fast cars, fine din. . .whoops. Wrong website. . ....

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Green Eyed Monster: On the Loose Again!

Jealous Amy

Sometimes, I think I must be the most wicked girl on earth. For instance, this morning, I was sitting in a hospital room at Hollings Cancer Center where (for hopefully the last time for a while, at least) they were preparing to jab me with needles in order to biopsy some tissue.

And there it was. . .in all of it’s perfect glory: an old issue of “Charleston Magazine.”

Despite my best efforts, despite knowing exactly. . .what. . .was. . .going . . .to . . . happen – I picked it up anyway.

I hate that magazine. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

I hate it in all of it’s Martha-Stewarty perfection. I hate the way it makes me feel. . .as if I am visiting some foreign land where everyone has perfect orthodontia and beautiful little noses. . .were the bride wears Monique Luhillier and the groom . . .he wears whatever the bride tells him to. . .where blood runs blue or it doesn’t run at all.

I want to be objective. I long to be able to turn it’s sleek pages garnering appreciation for things that I do not have. I want to be able to read it and say “That was such a lovely story! I had no idea that little Trendi Calhoun-Montgomery-Beauregard-Hasell started her bakery – “Petit Four Your Thoughts” – on seed money she earned by appealing to her grandmother’s sense of southern baking heritage. How resourceful of her!”

BUT I CAN’T!!! I CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN’T!!!!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Is envy really this powerful? Can it so easily turn my soft brown eyes into squinched up, glowering, glittering emerald laser beams of jealousy? Do I have such a deep reservoir of anger at being a “have less”. . .not quite a “have not” . . .more like a “having just enough”. . .that I just want to rip out the pages of botoxed, Zoomed!, pilates bodied housewives and run screaming down the street “IT’S NOT REAL! IT’S NOT REAL! NO ONE HAS A LIFE THIS AWESOME! NO ONE HAS A KITCHEN THIS CLEAN! NO ONE HAS CHILDREN THIS CHERUBIC!” They must be robots. They must. Please, God, tell me they are robots created in a lab underneath the Episcopalian church sent to make the rest of us feel so insufficient that we go running to the chapels for redemption. PLEASE. Something. Anything other than. . .(gulp) that they are. . .genuine.

O.K. So. . .obviously, my issue isn’t with the magazine, the writers or even the fortunate people featured in it. My issue is with ME and how I can allow a silly rag to make me feel so inadequate. What is *wrong* with me? Why can’t I just be happy for people who live in beautiful, tastefully decorated mansions? Why can’t I be glad that they aren’t stuck in a three bedroom-brick ranch decorated in “Early Marital Compromise?” I mean, is it fair that Bitsy was given two. . .not one, but TWO original Betty Anglin Smith’s in honor of her betrothal and that I, to this day, am still scrimping and washing pennies I find in the street just to get ONE.

Ack! I know. . .materialism at it’s worst. But I am a hoarder of beautiful things that have no use.

Not a lunch hour goes by that I don’t press my face to the glass of Killian Smith Gallery, coveting one of those magenta marsh-scapes. They appeal to me, not because of the name or it’s $10,000 price tag. They appeal to me because that’s how I see the world – and I want to take captive the vision of someone else who sees things my way. It makes me feel “not alone.”

Why do I want to hire Tara Guerard and Soiree to throw my little sister’s 16th birthday? Because everything she does is so stunning, so beautiful. . .other than sex, it’s the closest physical manifestation of the beauty of love that I have ever seen.

Why do I want to throw myself off a bridge when I see the opulence, the crisp beauty of a well appointed condo on the Charleston Peninsula?

Am I that shallow?
Am I that much of a materialist?

Am I so hateful to think that if I can’t have these things, no one else should?

Am I so ungrateful for what I have that it, too, should be taken away from me so I can see what it’s like to *really* want?

Should I get booted from the Skirt blogosphere for asking so many questions?

See, I read Vogue, W, Town & Country, Bazar almost daily. I didn’t feel so bad when I read that Lauren Davis wore about ten different dresses during her wedding (in Cartagena, no less) to Andres Santo Domingo. I didn’t feel like a dirty little piece of nothing when I read that Camilla Al Fayed has a closet full of Louboutin’s that would make you puke up six different colors of lunch. I don’t cry when I read about yet another fabulous dress has been cranked out by Douglas Hannant for some stuffy Park Avenue socialite.

So why is it that I can’t read about Charleston’s more fortunate folks without wanting to run through the streets pulling my hair out and shrieking?

I think it’s because it’s all just too close to home. I LIVE here. Charleston isn’t some magical, far away land of glittering lights and trendy hang outs. It’s a place where college kids vomit on the sidewalk less than 100 yards away from a plate glass window that protects the most fabulous shoe collection in Charleston. It’s a place where, when the wind blows just right, you can smell someone smoking dope out on Folly Beach. It’s a town where horse poop steams in piles in the street and stinks up three blocks until someone comes by to hose it down. And I’m supposed to believe that while all of this is going on, there are these *perfect people* gadding about town, lifting arms in toasts, raising cash for the cause dujour. . .or would it be cause lenoir? Doesn’t matter.

Sigh.

I guess I’m just bitter. And have one raging case of PMS. The beautiful town that I see depicted in that magazine is not the same town I see when I walk down Broad Street every day. It just isn’t. And maybe it’s just frustrating to know that all this FUN is being had. . .behind my back.

Oh. . .I know. I’m being ugly. I can’t help it. “Mah bewb” hurts, I can still smell the betadine (iodine?) they smeared all over me, I’m tired and damnit, I’m jealous. I suppose the only way to get rid of this ugliness is to let it flow through me. . .purge it out into the ether of the internet.

Bitterly yours,

xoxox