In which I prepare for rainy days

My taste for pretty things has always outstripped my budget for those things. As a child, I read reference books on silver and china and crystal patterns, memorizing the names of the really fine ones, planning tables of Richard Ginori china and Baccarat goblets. I was especially judicious about the silver: it could not resemble something suitable for a castle. We are not royalty, and anyway, too much ornament is vulgar. And yes, I did judge my former mother-in-law quite harshly when she waxed lovingly on her favorite sterling pattern: Grande Baroque. The name says it all. It is the cheesy family sedan, in Champagne beige, with smoked glass and Landau roof. Everything extraneous, everything pointless showing off. I also judged her sister very harshly when, at dinner at my house, she picked up a salad fork in my chosen pattern of Gorham Fairfax — clean, elegant, classic, and hefting it in her fingers a few times, said that she thought it’d be heavier. Philistine.

Anyway, I have no occasion to shop these days. The last time I went to Macy’s was for their Presidents’ Day sale, where the captain led me, hobbling, from display bed to display bed so I wouldn’t keel over. Not exactly a leisurely outing, but it was nice to be out. At the mall, of all places. We ate lunch at the California Pizza Kitchen. I don’t remember what we had.

Left to my own devices, I inevitably wind up down some designer website rabbit hole, at the bottom of which is a flashing sign reading To the Trade Only. As I am not in The Trade, and not likely to be so anytime soon, nor will I hire a designer to access these things for me, I sometimes have to worm my way in.

The gloomy weather of late has gotten me thinking about umbrellas, as in, I need a decent one. Luckily, one of my favorite designers, Scalamandré, sells such an umbrella.

So, I ordered one. Maybe you have feelings about this. Maybe you think it’s ugly. It’s not, but some people are bound to react negatively to anything that didn’t originate at Pottery Barn. I cannot wait until my umbrella gets here. I can’t wait until it rains again. I’m in the mood to put on my Gucci loafers, no socks, rolled up jeans and a striped chemise, my mink coat and my new umbrella. That just may get me out of bed to walk to the coffee shop, where I plan to take extensive notes on all passers-by.

Once you understand why I need that umbrella, that specific umbrella; once you understand why it was such an insult when my mother-in-law’s sister derided the weight of my table silver, once you understand how much I rue the distance from Gump’s and its many options for hand-engraving, you will know me a little better. This is not just about materialism. It’s about quality and appreciation. And if you feel the need to tell me how hideous my zebra umbrella is, think twice. Because I don’t need friends who find it acceptable to make me feel bad, and because when it comes to the zebra umbrella, you’re just wrong.