How wonderful are Charleston garden parties? I mean true, honest-to-goodness, old fashioned, South of Broad Charleston garden parties. I went to one on Tradd Street. Dressed the part of course – sweet white lace sundress and pearls – and entered into a sea of bow ties, seersucker and more pearls. Mint juleps and champagne toasts. Chocolate covered grits (which were not tasty, but certainly inventive). Even the dogs were sophisticated – Cavalier King Charles. And of course it couldn’t be a true Charleston garden party without a sprinkling of a few people bathed in arrogance. When asked where he was from, a good-looking Southern man with flowy blond hair couldn’t answer “Virginia,” like a normal person, but had to give the pompous and seldom used answer, “The Commonwealth of Virginia.” As hard as it was to keep my eyes from rolling, I had to keep talking to him to study exactly how he said “South.” It was more like “Sauuuuth.” Beautiful really, almost rich South meets Britain. I’ve tried to slip it into my daily speak, but people just mainly look at me strangely. How did Madonna do it?
Charleston garden parties = 3 upscale, legs crossed at the ankles, pinky out, Lily Pulitzer panties (on a four panty scale).
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