"You're family," he said, adjusting his sunglasses in the dark. "Family is the only club you can't buy your way into."
The "experience" turned out to be a VIP box at a polo match where the ticket price was listed as "Inquire Privately." We sat on a lawn that was trimmed with scissors, drank champagne that tasted like money, and watched people hit a ball with sticks while Sterling critiqued the players' posture. He knew everyone, yet he introduced me to no one. It was exclusive, it was terrifying, and honestly? It was kind of fun. my only bitchy cousin is a yankeetype guy the exclusive
(because apparently everything about him requires a capitalized headline) "You're family," he said, adjusting his sunglasses in
He grew up outside Boston, went to a boarding school with a Latin motto, and married a woman named Sloane who wears riding boots to breakfast. He’s bitchy in that particular way that sounds polite but leaves a paper cut: “Oh, you make your own pie crust? That’s… brave.” It was exclusive, it was terrifying, and honestly
At a family barbecue, my uncle (a wonderful man who thinks mayonnaise is spicy) brought out what he called “gourmet burgers.” Prescott examined one, rotated it slowly on his plate, and said: “This patty has the structural integrity of a wet ballot. I admire the commitment to disappointment.”