gypse faire tents

I would set one of these up for absolutely no reason at all. And then I would lay under it, probably with a couple of pillows, and read.

p.s. B, you always know what I love to love.

mark rothko

Mark Rothko cookies, courtesy of the creative genius Mimi O Chun. And because Rothko once said this, he would surely support the devouring of all cookies in an interactive-exhibit sort of style. No objection here, although they are so pretty to look at. 

[via design crush]

holly golightly

Dear B,

I'd ask Santa, but Christmas is over.

All my love,
G

alice walker

Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.

[image via here]

j.k. rowling

'Fat' is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her.

I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I’m not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain.

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn’t seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!’

‘Well,’ I said, slightly nonplussed, ‘the last time you saw me I’d just had a baby.’

What I felt like saying was, ‘I’ve produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren’t either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?’ But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

I’d rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before ‘thin’. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.

[image via here]

the honey trees

A lover of all things Breakfast at Tiffany's (the movie and the book, but especially the book), this cover of 'Moon River' performed by The Honey Trees - a duo band from San Luis Obispo, CA - is very sweet. Becky Filip sings with perfect dreamy wistfulness. Also, fall in love with their cover of 'Edelweiss'.

six-word memoirs

Blog here. Book for purchase (used for $.28) here. So many favorites, but the title of the compilation may take the cake.

meghan whitmarsh

I miss school supplies. But these, created by the talented Meghan Whitmarsh, would do well to erase the longing.

manta

I feel the need to share my good fortune - Manta Savignon Blanc: my beautiful Chilean obsession that costs, on average, a whopping seis dólares. Good luck introducing an alternative that tastes better than this one, never mind the attractive price point. Salud.

albertus swanepoel

The collaboration of Target and New York milliner Albertus Swanepoel will mean an affordable, fashionable collection of hats come October 30th. I am anxiously awaiting that day when one or five of these beauties will make their way from my head, into the cart.

in the make

In The Make is a fascinating blog that showcases artists and designers in their studios. The blog explores creative environments and reveals how space can influence art. 

shaun ferguson

See No, Speak No acrylic on board by Shaun Ferguson; additional works here. I would be content with having zero furniture and a wall patterned with art that pokes/prods/stirs up the norm.

paul newman & joanne woodward

Sexiness wears thin after a while and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who makes you laugh every day, ah, now that’s a real treat.

Joanne Woodward on her husband, Paul Newman

[these images and more via snippet & ink]

william henry channing

B and I love this quote, and so a few weekends ago, we typed it up and framed it. It has become our symphony.

pistol annies

So good. August 23rd can't come soon enough!

dwight schrute

What is my perfect crime? I break into Tiffany’s at midnight. Do I go for the vault? No. I go for the chandelier; it’s priceless. As I’m taking it down, a woman catches me. She tells me to stop. It’s her father’s business. She’s Tiffany. I say no. We make love all night. In the morning the cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell her to meet me in Mexico but I go to Canada. I don’t trust her. Besides, I love the cold. Thirty years later I get a postcard. I have a son. And he’s the Chief of Police. This is where the story gets interesting: I tell Tiffany to meet me in Paris by the Trocadero. She’s been waiting for me all these years. She’s never taken another lover. I don’t care. I don’t show up. I go to Berlin. That’s where I stashed the chandelier.

gertrude stein, 1973

Miss Stein's letterhead. The ring of text at the very top reads 'Rose is a rose is a rose' from her poem Sacred Emily.

battle-picking

B is golfing, and I am home alone reading this and cracking up.

a scrub

Nichole is very generous with her functional, creative beauty product knowledge. 

[image via little brown pen]

popsicles

Especially when they are of the watermelon mojito variety.