vacation.

This week I will be visiting the fine island of Martha's Vineyard for to sort through my childhood. In preparation for the emotional drainage/because once I get there I don't have internet, I will not be posting this week. Please take some time to mull over my whopping 13 previous posts.

(image courtesy of kennedyartgalleries.com)

tardy visual friday.

This post is tardy because last night I had a party.


Now I want to sleep forever.
(dog courtesy of dog-birthday-parties.com, lady courtesy of bitsandpieces1.blogspot.com)

theater(re?).

This evening I sat through a reading of a play. While I enjoy most things that take place on a stage, and understand that there needs to be readings in order to help the playwright with his or her "process", some do not understand the fine art of initial edits. 2.25 hours of a possibly amnesiac sailor and his exploits in an unknown city. Wow.

The setting might have been Europe (discotheques were mentioned), and it seemed timeless until blogs were mentioned. Each actor reading had a few parts to play, though they all blended into one as the soft bearded man had a penchant for "voices" and the less soft bearded fellow favored ironic tones.

There were, I must admit, some good lines in the show, none of which are in my mind at this moment.

It was raining as I left the theater and I was dismayed to find out that the milkshake machine at McDonalds (my focus during the entire piece) was broken. Slightly damp, with a runner-up McFlurry in hand, I went home now fantasizing about tea and a bath.

I haven't indulged in either the beverage or act of warmth because I am still stuck on the one thing I learned: having one character absorbing another is an unoriginal thought (something unknown to me when I used it in my own work).

(image courtesy of wikimedia.org)

happy place.

Today I'm a grump and haven't the energy for a full post. Visual Friday comes early? Maybe.


I wish I could fall asleep at my desk.



And dream about a day here.

Close-up:So much frolicking.

(painting courtesy of philsmith.us, flowers courtesy of dailyyonder.com)

soggy.

Today I failed at dressing myself. This happens almost every time there is inclement weather... somehow I believe sneakers, jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt are appropriate for a rain storm (I mean, there's a hood, right?). Even when I take my first step outside and it becomes glaringly apparent I've made a mistake, I don't turn back. This morning I glanced at my leather purse on occasion and wondered how well it would shield the electronics inside and sloughed to the train.

It's cold for a summer day and I cannot help but be a little peeved that I have to spend my time at work, rather than in bed with a book and a movie and computer solitaire. My mind is wandering to the fires we had in our fireplaces when I was growing up (I use the plural not because I had several in one home, but because I lived in several houses). Fires are the best and, like hot baths, even acceptable to me in the summer when it's raining and (relatively) cold.

I don't put my wool sweaters away when warm weather comes because of days like today. If I were home, I would put one on (inevitably overheat, take it off, get cold, put it back on, etc) and make myself a cup of tea.

Instead, I'll keep opening, closing, and re-opening Facebook whilst trying not to think about my soggy toes. Oh, and do my job.

(image courtesy of pachd.com)

nighttime.

This weekend I was reminded of my favorite part of living in New York City: driving over the bridges at night. I love crossing the (Manhattan, Brooklyn, Williamsburg) Bridge, looking at the skyline lit up, and thinking: this is my city.

Usually I make the trip by myself from the back of a cab. The night is just starting and I have decided to afford myself the luxury of basking in anxious anticipation of what's to come. This past Saturday, I was crammed into the back of a friend's car and closed my eyes as the wind streaming through the window whipped my hair around.

Both scenarios are fantastic, and it seems as if I can only describe them in cliches.

Luckily, to offset the loveliness of the first ride is the inevitable second ride of the night. This one is taken to ensure I actually get home. I don't so much gaze at the scenery as glaze at it. By the time I reach my bed, I get to remind myself: "Whatever I did tonight is okay." Which is not so much part of my favorite bits of living in a city as it is a necessary one...

(image courtesy of visuallee.com)

visual friday.

It would be nice to live behind a turquoise door.


Here is the kitchen of such an abode.


The bedroom would look like this.


Welcome to the sunniest of backyards.



I have encountered each of these places in real life and it is nice to think about bringing them all together. Sometimes I think that is what true happiness is: taking your most pleasant moments from always and living in them all at the same time.

clothes.

I was going to write about the newest addition to my household today: Fluff, the cat. She's been in my family, bouncing from house to house, since I was twelve. Now I get the opportunity to have her around and begin the transition into crazy cat lady (which I've always not so secretly believed is my destiny). She's fat, she's cute---just not worthy of an entire entry...I suppose this means that my transformation to CCL is not complete.

Moving forward. I've known about a blog called The Sartorialist for a little while but have never taken the time to really check it out. This changed a few days ago when a friend sent me a link (in hopes that I'd expand my internet horizons). She knows how much I like pictures, so it seemed fitting, and it was. Since I started looking, I have gone back through all the archives, beginning in September 2005.

My friend's timing was quite fortuitous. With my new apartment comes a new, very large, closet and dresser. I can now actually see all the clothes and shoes I own. Looking at The Sartorialist's pictures from the streets of New York, Paris, Milan, etc., I have been inspired to use my wardrobe to its fullest potential. I don't think I'll be strolling the streets in the number to the right, but the movement in the picture is fantastic.

That's right, just look at how the garment moves.

(image courtesy of thesartorialist.blogspot.com)

good morning.

This morning I decided to take a car to work. It's payday, I was tired, whatever. Well, I had the great luck to be picked-up by a minivan. It soon became apparent that we would not be listening to the radio, but instead a speech of sorts. About the conspiracy behind Big Bankers and how they've brought about the deaths of two American Presidents.

Uh, what?

Apparently Abraham Lincoln burned alone in a barn---he had nothing but his own weapon and a dream. JFK's attempt to fix the economy brought his demise. Oh, and a pope was killed for crossing Big Bankers as well.

There was a super highway connecting Mexico, The United States, and Canada involved. The three countries were going to merge economies and produce currency called the Amero.

Apparently I truly live under a rock, because it turns out that the speech took place on March 8, 2009 (my driver had it on CD and liked to recite along with the speaker). Who was the speaker? Louis Farrakhan. Well, Louis...thank you for my history lesson of the day.

(Amero image courtesy of laterminalrosario.wordpress.com)

red red.

I once had a conversation with someone regarding what it takes to make you an adult. Since I'm mainly a 13/47 year-old girl (depending on the day...or hour) trapped in the body of a twenty-something, I do think about this often. When will the transition take place? At what moment does one stop being a big kid and start being an adult? Lately I've realized the process is probably a slow burn, though I can't help but think that I'll wake-up one day and think, "Oh my. It's happened."

In the aforementioned conversation, two things were mentioned that mark the change from boy to man. 1) The ability to swallow pills without water. This seems as if it might be reserved for swarthy older men and precocious teens. I'm able to do it, but I spend some concentrated time stirring up spittle before hand. I've also known a 70-year-old woman who had not graduated past children's chewable Tylenol. She was definitely an adult.

The second point is when one has a newspaper delivered to their home on a daily basis AND they sit down to read it, cover to cover. When I was younger, I imagined myself in a large men's button-up shirt and glasses, musing over the headlines with my morning cup of coffee. The day that this will happen is still easily decades away.

I am reminded most often that I am "not yet a woman" (thank you, Britney Spears) when I buy a bottle of wine. Near my office in DUMBO is a wine shop called Blanc et Rouge. French, non? Sometimes I stop there on my way home from work. Stepping inside a wine store makes me feel as if I am a toddler walking in my father's shoes. I stroll around, trying to look at ease, likely to accidentally bump into a towering glass display at any time.

It is at Blanc et Rouge where I found one of my favorite wines...I know enough about my personal taste to stay within the Pinots (Noir over Merlot, Grigio over Chardonnay). From there, price and label rule the choice. Fleur de California costs a bit more than my usual Trader Joe's, but the label is definitely worth it (vintagey looking flowers on a green glass bottle? come on).

Uh, it tastes good too.

Anyway, when I am sitting in my apartment after a day at the office, sipping Fleur's Pinot Noir, I think, "Oh my. Has it happened? Doubtful."

(picture courtesy of thekitchn.com)

brighton beach.

Having moved to New York from an island, I assumed going to the beach in the city would be a bit of a disappointment, if not a fairly unsanitary affair (could people even go in the water?). It turns out I was wrong.

My friend Eugenia took me to Brighton Beach on Sunday. It is not particularly picturesque, however the people watching was fantastic. In addition, I sat near a group of teenagers who reminded me why it's best to move forward in time and not backwards.

I got some sun, I walked into the water and ate some flavored ice. My new bathing suit and ridiculously large hat made me feel mildly fantastic. Better yet, smoking at a city beach doesn't feel like a violation of nature. Next time I'll bring my cigarette holder and really show the gentlemen with too much body hair and too little bathing suit what's what.

(Esther Williams comes compliments of fashionrat.com)

badass.

It's Friday! I could potentially take this time to vent about all the exes, from serious to mild, who have been coming out of the woodwork lately. Seriously, it's as if I am living in an extended episode of "This Is Your Life!" Instead, I think I'll take some time to discuss my pet turtle. His name is Stuart.

I recently moved from Williamsburg to Prospect Heights and in addition to having double the space for significantly less money, my roommates and I inherited a turtle. Apparently Stuart came from Chinatown. He is small and chipper and lives on top of our refrigerator. We should probably clean his aquarium soon. Sometimes in the morning I feed him and make myself a cup of coffee. It is particularly enjoyable at these times to imagine Stu greeting me in a smoking jacket, complete with a bubble pipe. Pretty stellar picture being conjured in your mind right now, eh?

It turns out Stuart is pretty much a badass. He's illegal. Turtles are illegal to have as pets in New York due to the fact that they could possibly carry a pesky thing often referred to as "Ecoli". So it looks like I won't be licking Stu any time soon...and I'll probably wash my hands before I make a sandwich. Needless to say, it's likely Stubaby trades his bubble pipe for a switch blade once the sun goes down.

(image courtesy of kittyscorner.com)

EDIT: apparently turtles carry salmonella, not ecoli...in the future I'll probably do some research before a post...

guilty pleasure.

Sometimes I feel bad about smoking; sometimes I feel bad about drinking. However, I would not consider these to be guilty pleasures...vices, if anything. Because I am young, I don't think I ought to feel guilty about most of the things I do (that doesn't mean that I don't...it just means that I know I shouldn't). From what I can tell, I have a good thirty years before ice cream would even qualify as a guilty pleasure (thank you, commercials targeted at middle aged women).

Something I do spend some time thinking about is how I navigate the internet. I'm not someone who is terribly interested in picking up a newspaper, therefore you can guess that the hard-hitting, information saturated sites aren't at the top of my visiting list. I am not proud to admit that most of my news comes from jezebel.com or perezhilton.com, but you know what? They have their moments. Plus, Jezebel's "The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly" gives me a daily gallery of eye catching togs. These sites are tabloid magazines updated by the moment. Awesome.

Now comes the admission of my guilty pleasure: my third favorite blog. It isn't updated as often as the others, and maybe (considering my affinity for Martha Stewart Living) you won't be too surprised. I love designmom.com. The "Design Mom" is a woman named Gabrielle Blair and, according to her, she is: "a designer/art director and mother of five. [She posts] on where design and motherhood intersect." It's true. Her posts are either about her children, decorating a family home, or parents' date nights. I love it.

There is little-to-no reason for me to read what the Design Mom has to say, but somehow she fascinates me. I know way too much about her life: from the details of her recent move to Colorado to what her siblings like to post about on their blogs. She may or may not be a mormon, but she's certainly pretty cool in a mildly out of touch way. My appreciation might, in part, stem from the fact that I've tried more than once to have her post about the website I work for (definitely in her league of postable items) and she's never responded.

Congratulations, Gabrielle Blair. You are an enigma to me.

P.S. She's in Chicago right now.

(image of Chicago courtesy of designmom.com)

an introduction.

I love flowers; I am drawn to them. Of course, when they smell delicious it's an added bonus and their petals feel great between my fingers or grazing my upper lip. But I find them more visually appealing than anything. I allow my grandmother to get me a subscription to Martha Stewart Living every year simply so I can see a dozen different flowers of the same shade pinned to a cork board.

(image courtesy of marthastewartweddings.com)

There is one flower in particular that fascinates me, however, because of how common it is: the carnation. It doesn't make sense. The main purpose of this flower is to be sold at supermarkets and bodegas where "fresh" isn't a word used too often. They are an impulse buy, a way to say sorry when you're not really that sorry, the peanut in a can of mixed nuts.

What I find most interesting about this flower, however, is my inability to imagine it in the wild. Seriously, have you ever stumbled on a field of fully grown carnations? Can you imagine if a gust of wind blew through them? Oh, the awkward flailing that would ensue. None of their bulbous joints bending freely with what nature has wrought. I do an impression of how I think it must look when a carnation blows in the wind. If you're reading this, you've probably been lucky enough to see it.

In summary: I like flowers. I think about them a bunch.