Frankly, darlings, we're a little disappointed it's taken so long.
For months now, we've been flouncing about, throwing shade and ten-dollar words like a Tennessee Williams virgin with the vapors and a too-tight corset underneath her chiffon gown. And yet that tin roof remained as cold as ice. No one, but no one, had seen fit to destroy our illusions in a tight white t-shirt and a nasal accent, or get them colored lights going, or hire Montgomery Clift to give us a lobotomy. The comments, when they came, were uniformly lovely and appreciative. Every day, when we returned from the salon, we sighed and asked, Isn't anybody gonna muss our hair?
And then today it happened. And just like a real first time, we never even knew it was happening. By the time we caught on, it was all over.
A reader who strongly disagreed with our opinions of Padma Lakshmi's outfits sent us a little billet-doux questioning our looks, our eyesight, our wardrobe and our charity. We were, and are, thrilled, tickled pink, and pleased as punch. At last, at long last. We are real bloggers at last.
Before this, we agreed with Melina Mercouri in singing, "You can dis me on a Wednesday, a Thursday, a Friday and Saturday is best. But never, never on a Sunday, a Sunday, a Sunday, cause that's my day of rest."
However, our whole outlook has changed. We now sing, "Oh, you can dis me on cool day, a hot day, a wet day, whichever one you choose/ Or try to dis me on a gray day, a May day, a pay day, and see if I refuse."
Thank you, Anon47. We will never, ever forget our first time.