You live in New York, your neighbors stop by on the way to the club, dressed in evening clothes, and you have a shaker of martinis all ready to serve.
EVERYONE smokes like a chimney. Especially inside.
Did the former girlfriend of one of your neighbors turn up dead, and you all had to solve the murder? While trading bon mots and sipping the martinis?
You’re married.
Wait a minute. I acknowledge that you are the mistress of all things glittering and Algonquin-ey about American culture, Eve, but couldn’t you just as easily be in an episode of Hart to Hart with that?
Nobody swears, and music starts playing from somewhere very well-hidden while you sing and dance.
Oh, and if you and your spouse sleep in different beds, then you’re in a gold movie!
Everyone is wearing a hat.
You pick up the phone and say, “Operator, get me _____.” And the number you ask for is only four digits.
When you get a close look at your girlfriend, she seems slightly hazy, as if you were looking through a filter.
You have a conversation with another character that takes place entirely in one shot, instead of cutting back and forth to close-ups 400 times.
The colored folk are perfectly happy with their seperate and equal status.
I could conceivably, kaylasdad99, be in the middle of a Hart to Hart. But I would much more likely be in the middle of a Thin Man movie. It all depends on your screenwriters and costars . . . And, of course, your costumer! Adrian, please, not Grady Hunt.
The heroine declares something, and follow it up with “I tell you!”
As in,
“The police are chasing us, I tell you!”
Besides blacks, there are no other minorities around.
Not true Amp. My father is a big fan of the old Charlie Chan Mysteries.
You’re alone in the bedroom with a beautiful girl but she insists on keeping one foot on the floor.
Strangely enough, when you were kissing in the hall, she couldn’t keep both feet on the floor.
Nobody hurls or bleeds. Well, maye a DISCREET trickle of blood, but there’s no SPLASHING blood.
Everything is colorless.
All men (other than workmen) wear suits and white shirts.
The boy and the girl feel a song coming on (well, maybe that one’s coming back).
Teenagers never think about sex, and their idea of hot action is a malt at the drugstore soda counter and a goodnight kiss.
The drugstore soda counter, for that matter.
I look fabulous in a long gown made of beads and feathers. Everyone can dance (REALLY dance) and even I can dance marvelously backwards and in high heels.
And every so often, everyone stops and sings - and we all have perfect pitch and know all the words.