In Which the Author Does Not Quote Kanye

As I went to write this blog entry about the week of April 16th, I struggled to find an appropriate metaphor. Some people might wax poetic about silver linings and the good to be found in evil, blah blah blah.  The first thing I thought of was a Kanye quote* but that was a little weird. So I contemplated "crap sundae with the best possible cherry" or "shit storm with a fantastic calm". The point is, a lot of bad things happened that were eclipsed by something so awesome that, despite everything, I'll look back fondly on that week for the rest of my life.

Obviously, there was the bombing at the Boston Marathon. This was unacfuckingceptable. Frightening, terrible and unacceptable. Marathon Monday is for two things: running like a crazy person** and celebrating those crazy bastards with day drinking.  I think Colbert said it best:

Then there was my birthday. This was actually not a huge deal. There was the typical angst I've experienced every year on my birthday since I was 7 (I was a real hoot and a half as a kid), one glass of wine (I'm on a damn diet) and some lovely music and friends. There was also lots of looking at pictures of Helen Mirren to reassure myself about the onslaught of aging.

Then came the vomiting. Yup. The vomiting. Two and a half days of it. This was unacceptable.

Finally, I felt ready for solid food. So I ate an apple.

Then came the swelling of the face. Yup. Swollen face. Apparently, I am allergic to apples. As I stared into the mirror, watching my face contort with a morbid fascination, I may have said, "but it wath thuppothed to be my birthhhday!" (my tongue swelled up too).

But here's the thing: it wasn't really supposed to be my birthday. Not this year. There was a much more important birthday being had. That of my perfect, beautiful niece. Meet Calliope:

It's amazing what a birth can do. I mean, how crazy is it that this squishy ball of baby is going to learn and experience everything it is to be a human? Seeing her, I care a lot less about getting older and dying. I mean, I may be gone, but how great is it that she'll still be there to remember me? Babies really do bring all the hope and joy and crap that Louis Armstrong likes to sing about.

And yes, I've already ordered baby's first turban. And no, I'm not kidding. I'm Auntie Mame, bitch.




*Specifically this one: "this week's been a bad massage, I need a happy ending." Ok, so technically I quoted Kanye there, but I think you'll agree I'm still showing real restraint and growth. 
**Did you know that many marathon runners cross the finish line with bloody nipples? BLOODY NIPPLES. 

At Last

Was very saddened to hear of the passing of Etta James, one of music's most iconic bad girls.

The eyeliner, the hair, the drugs, the recovery and the melancholy sexuality- I see her influence everywhere today.

I saw her at the New Orleans Jazz Festival a few years ago, and apparently her troubles had already begun by then, but you'd never know it. She was vibrant and lovely as ever.

James at the 2010 New Orleans Jazz Festival

She seemed at home onstage, as though from there she could show us her entire world.

Rest in peace, Etta, at last.

I'm Back...

I'm back! For a week, and then it's off to Nuremburg for a quick catalog shoot. I'm like...a jetsetter or something.

In the meantime, I have loads to catch up on and take care of. I should have gotten a head start this weekend but instead I played in the dirt. I find hours of gardening is a great cure for jetlag. At the end of the day I just fell into bed I was so exhausted. We also had an old friend of The Boy's over, and we had wine and risotto with asparagus and Swiss cheese (not Swiss cheese, rather cheese from Switzerland) and all in all it was an amazing weekend. 

The only dark spot is this: my beloved scooter has been fucking stolen. Who steals a scooter?! So, if anyone sees a red Fiddler LX50, tackle the driver, smack them over the head and drive it to me. If you have a spare moment, that is.

So, while the police look for it (I assume it will be their utmost priority, right? Murders and drug deals can wait. THIS IS A SCOOTER FOR GOD'S SAKE) I will be catching up on emails, drinking lots of coffee and rage cleaning the house.

Not sure yet how to organize my thoughts/pictures/etc. from the trip. We crammed so much into those 6 days that I'm a bit overwhelmed by all the information. If anyone has any input on what you'd like to see, let me know!

Happy Friday!

It's the weekend! And since it's starting off as a snowy one, I thought I'd leave you with some summery images and a fresh, summery cocktail because I'm 10,000,000% over the idea of snow.

Image Courtesy of Chic Muse

Image Courtesy of Stardust & Sequins

 The Salty Dog

4 oz. freshly squeezed grapefruit juice
2 oz. Hendrick’s gin
1/4 teaspoon salt mixed with 1/8 tsp sugar, for rimming

Pour all ingredients over ice cubes in a highball glass rimmed with salt/sugar mixture. Stir well & serve. Serves 1.

Hendrick's is my favorite thing, and grapefuit juice is The Boy's favorite thing, so if you'll excuse me I'm going to partake...

P.S. This is awesome, and also adorable. Crocheted Food. I can't.  

Weekend Recap. Sort of.

Ah, internet. How I missed you. I spent the weekend in the far reaches of MA, where internet is hard to come by. Hence the lack of posts.


So, I don't actually feel like recapping my weekend, because, in the immortal words of Dooce*, it sucked and then I cried**.

But I will say this: my grandmother died. Again, it sucked and then I cried. And I thought I wanted to talk about it but I don't. So, instead, here are some pretty pictures that make me happy.

Elie Saab's latest collection, courtesy of Style.com

Ramon Novarro & Norma Shearer, couresy of Old Hollywood

 

Edita Vilkeviciute by Sølve Sundsbø for Vogue China Collections S/S 2011, courtesy of 7 Deadly Sins

Grace Kelly, courtesy of This is Glamorous

Me, in the Colleen Quen runway show

Hope your weekend was better than mine. Hope we all have spectacular weeks. Hope I don't get buried alive under the mountain of emails, texts, whatevers that built up while I was gone.

P.S. Ugh, Japan. What can I say? Click here for a good article on how to help, and here for an organization that I like.

*Buy her book if you are smart. You can do so here.
** Full disclosure: some of the crying was from laughing so hard. I was with my mother and we deal with grief by laughing at innapropriate moments. Like when we come across a gas medication called Titravan. "Farting? Get some tit...tit...tit.. titleban? Titramac? Tit-something!"

RIP Jane Russell

Was very saddened to hear of the passing of Jane Russell, one of Hollywood's original and best bombshells. She was from an era where people didn't go to the movies to see reality played back at them, but rather otherwordly fantasies. And she was out of this world: her measurements put most buxom babes to shame. She starred in classic after classic, including a film that premiered underwater, with a scuba gear-clad audience.

After overcoming infertility (she adopted three kids and founded an organization to help place kids with families), alcoholism and the death of two husbands she said, "these days I am a teetotal, mean-spirited, right-wing, narrow-minded, conservative Christian bigot, but not a racist.^"

^{Rest in peace, Jane.} 

 

RIP Blake Edwards

Thanks for the laughs.

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Cat Scratch Fever

I have it. Not this:

In fact, let me state for the record: Ted Nugent lied. It's a lot less angry sex and a lot more debilitating malaise than he would have us think. But I'm looking on the bright side: not only do I have an excuse to lie around and watch 30 Rock (which, let's be honest, I really love) but my excuse also has a hilarious name. Come on! Cat scratch fever!

Sure, I could do without the cough, the fever, the achiness and going so long without working my ass off is driving me bonkers, but I'm trying to think positive. And now, because all this thinking is exhausting me, here are some pretty pictures of summertime lovelies.

Afternoon naps in the sun.


Biking everywhere.

Stripes, baby!


Fiestas

Lakes that mirror the sky.
Image by the Erratic Traveller. All other images courtesy of Apartment 34

I hope you all have a gorgeous week, and that I can be a normal human being again soon!

These past few months have, unfortunately, given me a lot of time to think about memorials. I hate the word 'funeral,' for some reason, but love the word 'memorial.' Funeral evokes the more visceral end of death: ashes, dirt, decay. But a memorial is like a world made of memories. It is a place where the best of the deceased comes to the front of everyone's mind. A funeral is a place for tears only, but a memorial is a place to laugh through the pain.

With one tragic and notable exception, the funerals of this year have been for people who have been sick for a long time. Of course it didn't always feel like a long time. Sometimes it felt as though I'd turned around and my grandmother had disappeared in a heartbeat. As though the transformation from viciously intelligent powerhouse to sweet, silly, little girl had been instantaneous. But of course it wasn't. It was a painfully gradual change that broke my family apart.

And while my grandfather's stroke was certainly a catalyst for a drastic change, it wasn't as simple as that. There were other factors that were a part of his staying in bed for some twelve years. Other factors that linger and haunt the rest of our family. It may have felt as though one day he simply couldn't find a reason within himself to get out of bed but, in reality, he must have struggled to find that reason and found it more and more difficult as time went on.

So. They were sick for a long time, and then they were gone. So what?

So a lot. So a whole lot.
What does my family do with the memories they would just as soon forget?

What do I do with twelve years of mostly sad memories making up most of what I know of my grandfather?

What does my father do with the time he cherished with his mother, even as her mind disintegrated and the rest of our family wanted so much to look away?

We remember. We come together and remember what we loved about them, and what we want to hold on in the void they have left. And, in remembering, we paint pictures for each other. We show each other parts of our grandfather, grandmother, mother, father, friend, boss, teacher that had been hidden in our psyches.

How odd that it took a funeral to bring these people fully to life. How wonderful.