After weeks of believing myself to be a hotel woman, I am now pretty certain that I live in Munson, home of Stacey Levine's Frances Johnson. There are lots of reasons why. Most importantly, though, is my recent deep attraction to margarine. I used to be a butter girl: all butter, all the time. I scoffed at Parkay-eaters (just like I used to scoff at Diet Coke drinkers, before I developed cravings for that, too.) But last week there was margarine in our frig, and I fell in love with it. Butter seems gross to me now. I will eat margarine on crackers forever. And olives on crackers, like Mal.
Also, I love Dr. Mark Carroll. He is hot. He might be Dr. Manhattan in disguise. In fact, I am certain that he is. I picture him being so attractive in a tan and plastic-y way. I will jump Dr. Mark Carroll if I run into him tonight at Mal's love shack or dressing chamber or whatever the hell it is.
Is there any way, by any stretch, that Frances Johnson will, by the end of the book, become a hotel woman, so that I can go back to being a hotel woman? Because I feel like she has it in her. And Mal can be a hotel woman, too, because anything with an olive on or in it is close to a martini, especially pimento loaf. I preferred being a hotel woman to being Frances Johnson, because Kathy, I am Frances Johnson, too.
When I typed in Munson to google images, the picture above is one thing that came up. The picture is correct: this is the kind of hotel woman that lives in Munson and goes to dances. Frances Johnson must get out.