I hate Women;
They get on my nerves.
There are the Domestic ones.
They are the worst.
Every moment is packed with Happiness.
They breathe deeply
And walk with large strides, eternally hurrying home
To see about dinner.
They are the kind
Who say, with a tender smile, “Money’s not everything.”
They are always confronting me with dresses,
Saying, “I made this myself.”
They read Woman’s pages and try out the recipes.
Oh, how I hate that kind of woman.
Crowninshield loved her. Her first article for Vanity Fair was in 1916, and it was entitled “Why I Haven’t Married” (she was 23 at the time – it was an era where you’d have to be good at everything so early). In it, she explained that it was mostly because men were idiots. She further claimed that she was looking for “an English tailored Greek God, just masterful enough to be entertaining, just wicked enough to be exciting, just clever enough to be a good audience.”
And then she met Edwin (Eddie) Parker II. He was a stockbroker, and a descendant of William Parker, who had settled in America in 1636. Though he came from a family of clergymen, Eddie was an atheist, and when Dorothy revealed that her family was Jewish he said that he “could not imagine why that concerned her.”
He was also an alcoholic, though at that time Dorothy never drank herself. She recalled in Big Blonde, one of her more autobiographical works (and one that ends with an attempted suicide) that “she liked him immediately… she was enormously impressed with his fast, slurred sentences.”
This doesn’t end well.
They married in a non-religious ceremony in 1917. Almost immediately after war broke out, and Eddie joined the corps. Dorothy continued writing for Vogue – she’d been promoted to a features writer! – but ran into trouble when she wrote a piece about interior decorators around town which she entitled “Interior Desecration.” Edna Chase, who had ot seen the piece before it was published was horrified, and said that “more than one decorator swallowed hard and counted to ten before expressing his feelings about it,” but she had a grudging respect for Dorothy saying that she was “a small, dark haired pixie, treacle sweet of tongue, but vinegar witted.”
Things were better at Vanity Fair, where Dorothy Parker had more freedom to write whatever she liked, in spite of Crowninshield’s constant reminder that “There’s an old lady sitting in Dubuque and she has to be able to understand everything we print.” Crowninshield soon hired Dorothy to replace P. G. Wodehouse as Vanity Fair’s drama critic, and, oh, her drama reviews. OH.