And a look at the most recent cover shows me that they are dead on the money. I know when I send my emaciated 22-year-old fashion model wife to the artisanal bakery to pick up my favorite gluten-free acai berry scones, I want her looking correct.
That means the sleeves on her thick cableknit sweater better be hiked up just so. And she best not leave the house without her getting her hair did and putting on enough makeup so that the counterman can see those pouty bee-stung lips coming at him the moment she double parks her Range Rover out front. And gold? Please. You best believe my lady is not going to fetch my scones without her bling.
But, I’ve told her before, “Baby, don’t be playing with your hair when the man is taking them pictures. That ain’t real Austin.” I hope she doesn’t do that next month when they photograph her going to the Domain to pick up my custom made ostrich hide chaps.