About D'arcy

D'arcy grew up on an estate in upstate New York, surrounded by staff, with mostly absentee parents. Left to her own devices, she shunned school, read voraciously, and collected animals, first-edition volumes of her favorite books, and occasionally men. D'arcy recently moved out of her apartment on the UES of NYC with her cavachon pup, Aramis, and is currently living at her late parents estate while deciding on where to put down roots. The best way to get on her good side is to have a sense of humor, not take yourself too seriously, and be kind in general. Irritate her, and you'll be greeted with a laser look and a tongue lashing for the ages, and not the good kind.

Trouble With Gaspard

After talking to Lu the other day, I thought she had calmed down, recognizing she was now with a man who appreciated her, and she could finally relax and enjoy the finer things in life. Lucia had grown up suspicious. If you were nice to her, she thought there was an ulterior motive – why are you being nice, what do you want from me, what do you want me to do for you, so on and so on. (When we first met, she was stand offish, until she realized there wasn’t a damn thing I wanted from her. Hoo boy, was that a process!)
Anyway, around 4:30 this morning my phone rang. I was in a deep sleep and answered the phone in a barely coherent voice. It was Lu, sobbing. Lu never sobs; she barely eeks out a tear at sad movies (Old Yeller made her cry. That’s about it)
“What’s wrong, are you okay, what do you need?” the words came tumbling out of my mouth, as I was now wide awake and slightly alarmed.
“No, I’m not all right. He lied!” she sobbed.
“What did he lie about, Lu?”
“D’arcy, I feel like such a fool!”
“Lu, tell me. Do I need to get on a plane and come there? I don’t even know exactly where you are, but I’ll meet you, if you want.”
“You’re going to think I’m stupid for running off with him. He’s a liar!”
She’s wailing now.
“Lu – tell me what the problem is.”
(Deep breath) “He’s not French!”
“What do you mean he’s not French? I’ve spoken to him in French.”
“No, he’s not. I saw his passport!”
I waited.
“He’s BELGIAN!!”
I dropped the phone.

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Phone Call from Lucia

 

Lucia finally called me at a decent time, so we could have more than a 3-minute conversation, as I’m not too talkative at 3 am when she usually calls. She sounded wonderful; very happy, and dare I say, like she’s in love. Good for her, as the last guy she was involved with was a bit of a nimrod.
She spoke glowingly of Gaspard taking her shopping, so she’d have appropriate clothes and accessories to go to the casinos in Monaco and the Riviera. “I don’t have to look at price tags, D’arcy…never. No more Payless or DSW shoes, no more Marshall’s for clothes and purses…I’m still not used to it. He’s so good to me, really.”
I told her how happy I was for her, and that she was sorely missed at Blanche’s.
“Everyone asks about you, Lu…Dusty was waxing poetic how it was like a real-life Cinderella story, or as she put it, Pretty Woman without the whole hooker thing.”
Lu laughed…then told me how she was learning to gamble, and not at the nickel slots. “I’m learning to play Baccarat…can you believe it? Every time I hear them saying banquo, banquo, I have to fight the urge to yell “YAHZEE!”
Lu…you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you’ll never take Jersey entirely out of the girl. Maybe that’s what Gaspard finds charming?

#Lucia 

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A word about children

 

I love children. I don’t want any, but I love those little pint-sized rapscallions. The energy, the enthusiasm, the boundless imagination…the stickiness, the spills, the whining. I am an honorary “aunt” to two adorable girls who are polar opposites of each other: Peyton, who’s a tomboy, and Poppy, a true princess.

I never worry about Peyton; she’s smart, sassy, and would kick someone in the nuts if they pissed her off enough. Poppy is a little lady with manners that would make the Queen proud. She loves shopping, makeup, dressing up and going to tea. She terrifies me at times.

Which leads me to the conclusion that, if I should ever procreate, I want a boy. Boys are easier than girls. They don’t care about getting dirty; they don’t get their periods and all that comes along with that; they are less likely to tell you they hate you, and they offer you the chance to raise them into fine young manly men with good manners who can still kick someone’s ass.

Girls. I was one, so enough said.

 

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