Sylvia Plath and fingerbowls

From The Bell Jar:

"Mrs. Guinea answered my letter and invited me to lunch at her home. That was where I saw my first fingerbowl.

The water had a few cherry blossoms floating in it, and I thought it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate every bit of it, including the crisp little blossoms.  Mrs. Guinea never said anything, and it was only much later, when I told a debutante I knew at college about the dinner, that I learned what I had done."

I wonder how many "fingerbowls" I've encountered in life that I unknowlingly sipped as soup. I'm starting to believe that life itself is my fingerbowl. I've come to think that I am mistakingly viewing life to be something that it is not. I'm treating it as if it has a different purpose other than to be lived. Though the group "Disney Gave Me False Expecations About Hair" is a quirky Facebook fabrication, it holds more truth than a fortune cookie. Disney also gave me false expectations about men and the future and life in general.

What a rude awakening on account of the Magic Kingdom...

The Puglisi-Wilde Wedding Extravaganza!

Tonight I shall be trekking to Long Island to act as bridesmaid #2 in my cousin's wedding. Perhaps they'll permit me to indulge in a nice, cold Mike's Hard Pomegranate Lemonade (or five) before the ceremony, so that I can better stomach standing in front of family and friends whilst looking like a stuffed-sausage statue in a dress that I will surely be using to line the inside of my trash can by week's end. Of course consuming even just 1/8th of a cup of anything (water and liquid laxatives included) will probably prevent me from being able to pull the light-blue casing past my ankle, thus it'd appear to be in my better interest to forgo the Mike's. Alas, losing my mind is of greater consequence than gaining weight in such desperate times, thus desperate measures are called for.

Though I desperately want to refrain from resembling a tube of meat fit to be hanged in a butcher's shop, I imagine this sight will be dwarfed once I begin to saunter down the aisle arm-in-arm with a guy that can only be likened to Ronald McDonald minus the striped knee-highs. This groomsman is easily 7 feet tall with a lush, curly afro, a chalk-white complexion, and a very unsettling grin that gives even the creepiest of pedophiles a run for his money. Why my cousin decided to pair him up with a 5'3, athletically-built, dark, Italian girl with long, pin-straight locks and a lip ring, is surely beyond me.

Nevertheless, there will be much rejoicing in the aftermath of this Barnum and Bailey spectacle as I plan to trade my high heels in for a pair of flip-flops, and do the Cha-Cha Slide with my date till the cows come home... or at least till I accidentally rip my dress in two and have to be escorted back to the hotel room in little more than a scanty suit of Spanx Shapewear. The Italian sausage will surely be out of the frying pan and into the fire, then...