A Distaster Interrupted... Then Resumed

Last weekend we played the recurring role of weekend douchebags out at Montauk, this time celebrating our fourteenth wedding anniversary, eating at The Crow's Nest having improbably secured a babysitter for the night.  Over a glass of white wine, or bubbly or whiskey or gin ( I don't remember which) Wifey points out, far in the corner there, the fashion-bloggy power couple The Satorialist and Garance Doré, mentioning, in a sort of self-depricating, offhand and halfway serious sort of way, that perhaps she ought to saunter over there and tell them how much she likes their bloggies.  I, of course, was having nothing to do with that, instead offering her the opportunity to wait near the restroom just in case Mlle. Doré or M. Sartorial might need to take a leak.  That way she could shimmy up, bump, cough and ahem her way into a far more natural conversational techniquing, noting with a sort of blase wave of the hand and sip of the ginger beer that it would leave me, her husband of newly fourteen years, waiting alone at the table for possibly some time.  Needless to say, she had to think about it.  Perhaps she ventured a plausibility spectrum in her mind a wee too long for the comfort of my confidence, but in the end she decided to stick around, graciously putting up with my undoubtedly droll color commentary about the even douchebaggier weekenders who had just been seated behind us.  This morning, out of deference to that momentous triumph of propriety and patience (both on her part) I decided I needed to see what was happening at the Sartorialist, a blog I haven't looked at since the last time one of my off-color and needlessly snide comments was moderated out.  To my pleasant surprise, among all the vomitously twee and fashionable, I found a handful of gemmy vintage photographs people have submitted by way of familial style icons.  The above are just a few.