See this kid?
Looks like a nice kid. Could be your neighbor’s kid, the one who looks a bit like Dakota Fanning if you squint and forget the time she played that lesbian, Dakota I mean, I mean Dakota’s not a lesbian as far as I know but you KNOW what I mean, and is in her first year of college and living on-campus with a roommate from the Midwest in a dorm that has ivy on one side and hardly any graffiti and didn’t read Julie and Julia but saw the movie twice and is, like, SO INSPIRED and is trying to cultivate a taste for something more sophisticated than pizza and beer and her helicopter parents are always hovering over at your house now, day after day, pouring out their little empty-nester hearts about how their baby is all grown up now over far too many cups of extra-strong chamomile tea with a splash of soy milk, low fat. That kid.
Amanda Seyfried IS that kid.
How do I know? Well, it’s like this. Tuesday I was in my favorite bar to visit my favorite bartender (I’m not supposed to be drinking because I am on a diet and as we know, dietitians hate things that bring us joy, but what the heck, a friend was buying and it’d be rude to refuse, right?) and as I walk in, some kid passes me to go up to the bar to get a drink.
Now, this is unusual. This is unusual because this bar is a moderately fancy joint that has, instead of neon Bud Light signs, chalkboards indicating whiskey tasting flights, and if you have a couple of those you WILL be flying but the landing will be tragic.
So. So you don’t have to go up to the bar to get your own drinks; they staff will happily bring them over to the table. But it was a busy night and the staff was doing their best to keep up, and this kid decided she’d just go stand quietly at the corner of the bar and when the bartender had a second, she’d ask for some more whiskey. Irish Whiskey, and according to Jay Jones she knows her stuff. None of this Bacardi and Diet Coke/FrootLoopTini nonsense.
I couldn’t tell you why, but I’d always had the sort of feeling she was one of those underfed, overwrought pocket divas like Mila Kunis, but nooooooooooooooo. In reality she’s pocket-sized all right, and about 50% of her physical volume and mass is hair; seriously, it goes on forever, is appallingly gorgeous, and looks to my jaded eye like real blonde with moderate technological invention in the form of some extra buttery highlights. And she is patient and polite and absolutely ravishing without a stitch of makeup on. If she’d been wearing so much as mascara I’d be very surprised, and she looked exactly like…Amanda Seyfried, the movie star, only smaller.
And, I regret to inform you, she didn’t get drunk, didn’t get carried out by her body guard, didn’t lock herself in a bathroom stall for an hour to emerge with a nosebleed, and as far as I could tell, was not wearing coke pants. She ordered two drinks while we were there, the bartender whispered to us she was a total sweetie (Canadians do not make personal remarks, even complimentary ones, out loud) and was just exactly as cheerful and sweet as That Kid, that kid who’d never become a movie star.
Only she did.
.
