Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
I just recently enacted an afternoon tea-time ritual I look forward to daily. I make it special and include Jammie Dodgers, a mismatched saucer for my mug, and an excellent John Derian tray to steady it all en route from the kitchen to the computer.
I especially love the thought of hosting an elegantly informal tea party. This weather brings out the sweatpants in me, hence informal. Better make a list:
a new tea set like this one,
a menu inspired by this one,
and invitations by this woman.
Eloise would surely approve.
Eloise would surely approve.
Sara Gruen, author of one of my favorite books, wrote the following about Garth Steins' best-seller:
The Art of Racing in the Rain has everything: love, tragedy, redemption, danger, and best of all, the canine narrator Enzo. This old soul of a dog has much to teach to us about being human. I loved this book.One Thursday morning, my boyfriend B picked me up from the airport following an unpleasant evening's worth of travel. I was jet-lagged and grumpy. He took me home, put me to bed, and mandated the remainder of my day would be spent catching up on sleep, and only after, reading The Art of Racing in the Rain. He had placed the book on my pillow, along with a sweet card and a surprise subscription to one of my favorite magazines. He takes great care of me.
I read several chapters that day but turned through the bulk of it on a beach in the Dominican Republic. B warned I would cry. He was wrong though, I didn't just cry. I sobbed for the last fifty pages, my sunscreened face streaked with salted love for Enzo and for our own yellow lab, Myles.
Post-novel, I have grown increasingly aware of the ways B and I can show Mylie love even when we're not home. Id est, leaving her in the melodic care of George Winston and Frank Sinatra, or turning on the Racing Channel, Enzo-style.
Labels: Read Me
If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the twentieth century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back
as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the nineteenth century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.
There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.
[Billy Collins, Dancing Toward Bethlehem]
Thursday, January 27, 2011
This morning, I woke up feeling anxious - but in a positive way. Like how I imagine I would feel when teetering with intentional precariousness on the edges of Positive and Life-Changing. Whatever that means. The point is, it felt appropriate to slip on black Tango pants from TDAMA, turn up Frank Sinatra, and paint.
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has become the guiltiest of guilty pleasures. I rarely attach myself to TV shows and so I am not about to apologize, but I love how unbelievable they all are. And I love Kyle Richard's style, especially her emerald earrings and sequined mini.