The Breakfast Table

Intimate Briefings and Pink Toenail Polish

Dear David,

This is my very favorite story about “best” lists. My husband, David, has been listening to me rhapsodize about movies since we were in high school. He read my post this morning, and when he got to my description of the original Parent Trap as not just a key movie experience, but a key life experience, his response was, “I wasn’t aware that you made a distinction between the two.”

About ten years ago, he sat me down, took my hands in his, and looked me in the eye. “Honey, I’ve heard you describe at least 200 movies over the years as being in your top ten. Now, I understand how important it is and how much you love them, but I really think that for my own sanity I need you to make a definitive list of your top ten … with no more than 20 movies in it.” So, I have the greatest of all luxuries, a top ten list with 20 movies on it. I even have revolving slots for whichever Disney animated movie, Marx Brothers movie, or MGM musical I’m feeling especially fond of at the moment. And I have a top ten people list with my husband in all ten places.

I guess lists are, in the words of my beloved Mrs. Miniver (the book character, not the movie character), “indefensible but irresistible.” And I enjoy reading other people’s lists, just because they reveal more about the source than they do about the subject. But I don’t expect transcendent wisdom from any of them.

David, I feel that we’ve known each other long enough that I can confess something to you without being put on your list of the ten worst traitors right above Benedict Arnold. I have actually given money to two Republican candidates over the years. One was my former boss, who was running against Oliver North in the Virginia Senate primary. I quite like my former boss and would do anything to keep Oliver North out of the Senate. (Great bumper sticker out here in those days: “Don’t let the North take Virginia again!”) The other was my current partner, who took a leave of absence in 1996 to run for the Senate in his home state of Maine. I think he is wonderful, and I would do anything to support him. I only tell you this because I suspect it is this record of generosity, rather than respect for my delightful personality or thoughtful analysis of the issues, that has led to my receiving an ersatz engraved invitation today to become one of only 18 Virginians in the “prestigious Republican Senatorial Inner Circle.” For only $1000, I can become a member of a group that “has had a dynamic and lasting influence on American politics.” If I join, I can go to a two-day event in October for “intimate issue briefings with some of the most powerful men and women in the world,” and have an “unprecedented opportunity to meet, discuss issues and dine with top party leaders.” There’s even a GOP sports all-star reception where I can mingle with Republican jocks. And if I pay in full immediately, I get invited to two more events! Access for cash, imagine! In Washington! As tempting as it is to go as an undercover Democrat, just to stand up and say something like, “I think you should stop hounding the President unless you are all willing to hold yourselves to the same standard,” I plan to decline.

Speaking of undercover operations, I love the scenes in Armisted Maupin’s Significant Others when outsiders infiltrate both the Bohemian Grove and the women-only music festival nearby. I was reminded of them by a jewel of a “Talk of the Town” piece in the New Yorker. A luxury bus filled with beauty editors from five women’s magazines attended the Lilith Fair as the guest of one of its sponsors (and their advertisers), Biore facial-pore cleansing strips. Apparently, the editors were a bit taken aback by the attire of the other attendees. Think fashion editor Kay Thompson looking at bookish Audrey Hebpurn in the beginning of Funny Face. “‘It’s the Indigo Girls factor,’ one editor commented as she exited the bus fanning a sheer eggplant-colored Prada blouse, which she wore over a spaghetti-strap camisole.” I particularly enjoyed the description of the “pale-pink-polished toes tapp(ing) rhythmically as jumbo cups of beer replaced designer water and French-manicured fingers dipped nachos into vats of viscous melted cheese.”

I’d be glad to go screen H20 for you, bringing my equivalent of a French manicure to your equivalent of nachos and beer. The problem is that it wouldn’t do much good since I’d have to close my eyes through the whole thing. But I can’t wait to see what you think of Parent Trap. And I’m looking forward to your review of Snake Eyes.

As they used to say about Talullah Bankhead, a day away from Monica is like a month in the country. But tomorrow, I’ll be back on the hard news beat, I promise.