Words fail to capture how lovely last Sunday was. Every year the Jazz Age Lawn Party manages to exceed my terribly high expectations, despite months and months of anticipation. It is in part because of that dapper Michael Arenella that I've decided to get my act together and learn how to properly swing dance after years of talking about it. My great-grandmother, Chubs (truly anything but), jitterbugged and lindyhopped through the war and her first pregnancy. Great-gram also cartwheeled up to her ninetieth birthday, while Great-Grandad, the Colonel, ate a French dip au jus every day for decades with exact change. Anyhow, because of these fine folks, I'll be heading to Frim Fram Jam tomorrow night ready to burn a few holes in my dancin' shoes!
Yours truly, hamming it up.
I have, of course, saved the best for last. I want to be this lovely lady when I grow up. I've never met anyone quite so charming or beautiful in my life. After gushing about each others dresses and the flea markets we found them at, I swooned more than a little. Kindred spirits!
P.S. Here's possibly the only picture of me in my dress, taken by the inimitable Holly Van Voast.