Usually we lead into a photo with some kind of coy commentary — or a warning — but boring behind-the-scenes issues with our content-management system mean that I couldn’t give this that kind of drum-roll. You just tumbled right into the deep end. Fortunately, it’s a very warm and accommodating lily pond we chucked you into; Emma’s pattern is loud and lively and as welcome as my breakfast this morning. Which was an English muffin, by the way. Just so you know that I’m comparing it to a DELIGHTFUL breakfast and not cold mush. I even can look past the unimaginative Nudist-style shoe, because the color ties in so nicely, and a dress that busy probably demands relatively spare footwear. It all works.
I am going to give Gucci a small demerit for the too-realistic spiders — or beetles, or whatever; I decline to look closely — that are crawling along the hem. I understand insects are a part of the life cycle of any garden, but I prefer my clothes to be debugged and my fantasy flowers to be free of the threat of a carnivorous eight-legged monster aching to snack on my flesh. Don’t you doubt it: Spiders have intentions. I once had a spider for a nemesis. We danced around each other for three days, ducking in and out of each other’s range of motion and glaring at each other for minutes on end, until I finally trapped it and got it out of my apartment (I grudgingly respected its wily survival skills). And I’m sure I’ve told you this, but if not, whoo boy: Kevin and I went to a really nice resort in Cabo for our first wedding anniversary, and on the last night, we had a spider in our room SO ENORMOUS that when Kevin took its picture IT HAD RED-EYE. I am not exaggerating. It may have been the size of my hand. That part I can’t say for sure, because I was blitzed on swim-up bar Happy Hour margaritas. But let me tell you, I have never been so glad to be terribly blitzed on swim-up bar Happy Hour margaritas. Because while I can’t drink tequila anymore, it was worth it to laugh at my would-be assassin and then fall into a plate of French fries rather than being unable to sleep for fear it had siblings. (It did.) (Kevin didn’t tell me until after we checked out the next morning.)(He was right to do so.)
Where were we? Oh, yes: Emma Stone. She looks great, and is a much, much better thing to contemplate than my Death Arachnid.
And a happy morning to you all.