Meet Margot. She's quirky and sexy but isn't doing it on purpose. She owns a boutique in Soho that sells vintage label clothing exclusively pre-owned by the wives, mistresses and groupies of rock bands touring from 1967-1982. She went to boarding school but she didn't tell you that. You just heard it. She was on the equestrian team but her parents sold her horse when she went off to Bryn Mawr. Wes Anderson is her Godfather, but don't make a big deal out of it. She always has the best clothes and is thin as a rail but she swears she hasn't done coke since college (don't ask about adderall). Margot knows all the right people, and tends to date musicians of course (dont make a big deal about it). She'll end up marrying a hot hedge fund manager who thinks her quirk is adorable but will then cheat on her with an intern. You think Margot is impossibly cool, and she thinks you're adorable for that. She's a Sagittarius.
As Courtney was handed the rule pamphlet, she swore she saw the Da Vinci code. Symbols swirled around, English words became foreign and strange. She somehow now knows how to set up a VCR after reading them, but still does not quite understand how to win atMahjong.
Last week she ordered each of them one of those gadgets that shatters your car window in case of a full water immersion. She also ordered a wind up radio. You know, in case the power grid goes down. She changed the air filters in the house last month, and commented that Olive Garden is a heck of a deal if you get a family sized pan with a five dollar take-home add-on. She’s been cracking open a Bud heavy after yoga class lately, and finally decided to try out a MyPillow.
But here she sits, six years after her appointment with WIDK reporting on milk prices, beauty pageants, the occasional car theft, Alderman election scandals, and downtown green space clean up efforts. This stupid little town doesn’t deserve her. She’s meant for greatness, and she despises their perky greetings on the streets....
