Hi, Chat,
A friend gifted me a fancy designer bucket hat that she swore she didn’t want anymore. Then we had a misunderstanding, and she ghosted my birthday party. Then I blocked her. And put a potato in her tailpipe. And slept with her ex. Can our friendship be saved? If not, do I have to give back the hat?
Why are there suddenly so many different kinds of Oreos? What are Birthday Cake Flavor Creme Oreos really like? Occasionally sampling a blueberry in the produce section is one thing—and, before you say a word, have you seen the price of blueberries lately? If I’m plunking down eight dollars on a container of jumbo organic blueberries, I’m making sure they’re worth it. But I can’t have a full package of Birthday Cake Flavor Creme Oreos hanging around the house because the manager made me buy the whole bag again. So, are they like Golden Oreos? Because—pro tip for you, Chat—Golden Oreos are just O.K.
Why didn’t I go to Oberlin?
Should I paint the small bathroom Benjamin Moore’s Antique Pearl or Venetian Marble? The swatches have been taped up for months, but you know how color changes with the light—of course you do!—so it’s been hard to decide. One shade is a little cooler, one a little warmer. My family refuses to discuss it any further, and they’ve begun to (unfairly) characterize my gentle queries every time they come out of the small bathroom as “gotcha” questions. They’ve actually stopped using the small bathroom altogether, which is fine, because none of them remember to jiggle the handle just so (even though I posted a detailed schematic on the wall and have shown them how to do it numerous times). So the color choice is up to me, but I could use a second opinion. What do you think?
Once, when I was sixteen and was walking along a tree-lined street in the Village with my mom, we saw Matthew Broderick on the sidewalk, and she told me to go up to him and say hi, and I was mortified because . . . who does that? He probably would have been really nice about it. He wasn’t even with what’s-her-face yet. Why didn’t I just do it? Maybe I would have said something clever, and he would have laughed, and now I’d be living with him and our adorable children in our adorable brownstone on that adorable tree-lined street. Not that I care anymore, but my mom wants to know: Why didn’t I listen to her?
Why did I read both “A Gentleman in Moscow” and “The Lincoln Highway” when I didn’t really like “Rules of Civility”?
Why didn’t I get those expensive boots from that shop on Fifty-fifth Street all those years ago? I really wanted them, and I bet I’d still have them, and they’d be perfectly broken in by now and be the kind of boots that other women notice when I walk by. The kind of boots that make other women say, “Excuse me, do you mind if I ask where you got your boots?” Allowing me to casually reply, “I can’t remember,” even though I do so remember. And not just midtown women but SoHo women would ask me this. But, no, I bought a less expensive pair that I gave away, like, three pairs ago. Why do I cheap out when, really, I’m worth the extra bucks, especially if I prorate the cost over a lifetime of wear? I’m worth two dollars a day, aren’t I, ChatGPT? ♦
