flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
So my in-person and Facebook friends have heard about this already, and that is a shame for them, because MY RANT SHALL NOT BE STOPPED!
But first, a disclaimer. I love the Vermont Country Store catalog. It fills me with warm nostalgia for a WASP-y, flannel pajamaed life I never actually led. I want to buy their ribbon candy; I want to sleep in their comfy Lanz nightgowns. One of these days I will get myself a Tangee lipstick. Also, they’re amazing when you’re shopping a 1940s-1950s show.
But they have a wheelhouse, and that wheelhouse is horehound drops and vintge Christmas ornaments. Jewish pastry is just not their thing. Behold my evidence:
So anyway, I have both tweeted at them and Facebooked them, and nothing. I’m not mad about that part, though, because I figure no way do the elderly couple who clearly run Vermont country store know why the computer keeps beeping at them.
In my head their names are John and Martha, and they had a young intern who handled the social media, but he’s busy sleeping off an extra large dose of the horehound candy.
. . . Holy shit, I just checked and it’s actually run by Lyman Orton and his sons, Cabot, Gardner, and Eliot, and that is a level of New England-ness I can only dream of. Dammit, Orton family, leave the Judaica be so I can go back to loving you unreservedly.