"Granted, Agnes' mother's more 'Courtney Love' than 'June Cleaver,' but she's a committed parent, and she's gone through similar phases with Agnes. She promises to call every day, so Jenny's safe." Rufus! You are either THIRTY or you are a HUNDRED. PICK ONE. This timeline is fucking up my brain: "Granted, she's a little more 'Maddox Jolie' than 'Clara Bow,' but she can watusi like a Pussycat Doll." Dan's like, "Don't forget that I don't care about you or anything that happens to you here in this kitchen that you never ever leave, but I have to go whore myself out to the leprechaun from the Paris Review," and Rufus gets limply offended by the idea that Dan writes fiction that is neither fiction nor writing, in the truest sense, and gives him such a look! It's that "How dare you cannibalize the least interesting part of the life of the most interesting person you know! It's sick and wrong... But I'm 'really' 'proud' of you. And your 'sister.' Please bring me a pigeon so I can send messages to people from this kitchen" kind of look we've all gotten from our housebound relatives whenever we do those things.
The only thing larger than Blair's excitement about her upcoming Sweet (Enjoyable? Engaging? Endearing? ...Intense?) Eighteenth birthday party is the bouquet of one million white roses on the dining room table dwarfing all the best young ladies of Constance Billard. Maybe that's where Creepy Little Elise went: into the roses. "Though it seems like just yesterday Serena and I were eight and playing dress-up in my mother's vintage Manolos, my eighteenth birthday has finally arrived. The party needs to be perfect, so: blood orange Martinis or Beluga and Belvedere?" Penelope gets all stupid immediately, wanting to do like America's Alcoholic Test Kitchen and come up with the perfect recipe, like, these girls drink all the time, they haven't nailed it yet? I'll tell you my secret to the perfect party, it takes five (literally 5) seconds and ten bucks, some challah and Stilton, and ya done, dude: We call them Persephones because we roll all extreme like that. Check it: Two bottles of cheap blush champagne and 750 ml of Whole Foods Pomegranate Soda (or Pom-Blueberry if you're feeling insane), jack some berries up in there, some ice in fun shapes, and that bitch will get people crunk before you even get the rosemary-strewn goat cheese in sizzling lemon-infused olive oil up outta that microwave. Boom. You are welcome.