welcome to the weekend...

it's just been that kind of week...

you can dress me in garnet hill any day...

it's no secret that if i had a bazillion dollars i would most likely buy all my clothes from garnet hill...


but now i want to have a little girl of my very own so i can dress her in garnet hill kids too, have you seen there stuff lately? to die for, i wish i could fit into some of this stuff myself...


oh, and speaking of garnet hill, i just got these flannel sheets (in back coffee ticking) in the mail yesterday, just in time for the colder weather... can't wait to cuddle up in them...

her (not so) story-book life...

do ya'll read mabel's house? well, if you don't you should. liz cracks me up, she just tells it like it is, a girl i would definitely be friends with. she recently gave birth to jane, the cutest darn baby you ever did see, but she's also been suffering from some very real post-partum issues and writes honestly about her struggle.

well, liz has put out a book, one that i can't wait to read. check out an excerpt from her book below...

Once one has breathed in the deep pungent aroma of sewage, you never again forget the nose-hair singeing, eye clawing, throat gagging experience. It comes over you slowly. You begin to feel like a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as your muscles involuntarily jerk and you run screaming and blowing raspberries. Anything to get away from the mind-numbing stench.

But let me explain.

It was 6:30 a.m. I was standing in my retro pink tiled bathroom trying to open my bleary eyes and ready myself for work. As I stood there, peering into the mirror and wondering what demented nighttime fairy had planted four new wrinkles on my face, I paused and sniffed.

“Matt… what’s that smell?”

Matt staggered from the bedroom in his underwear, eyes half shut. “I don’t smell anything.”

I pointed my nose into the air like a hunting dog. “Seriously? You can’t smell that? Did you go to the bathroom in here earlier? I told you to use the room spray when you do things like that.”

Matt puffed out his bare chest and gathered his pride as best a man can with sleep in his eyes and a small hole in the side of his underwear. “I just woke up!”

I frowned, catching a glimpse of my makeup-less hot-rollers-in-hair state and tried not to think about the fact that I looked fifty instead of twenty-nine. “Well, help me figure this out. Because something smells ripe.”

We sniffed the sink drain and ruled it out as a suspect.

“Is it coming from the toilet?” Matt asked, examining it from top to bottom.

“No, that’s not it,” I snapped. I’m not known for my milk of human kindness in a disaster. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a survivor. I plan on eating my radish like Scarlet and clawing my way out of the nuclear dust while dragging my loved ones with me. But I won’t be doing it with positive phrases and a smile.

“Hon, I just don’t know. We’ll call a plumber after work, maybe it’s coming from under the house.” Matt staggered a little, trying to get past me and out of our tiny bathroom.

“Well, that’s just great,” I moved aside and pulled the shower curtain back so I could perch on the side of the tub and give Matt room to move out the door.

That’s when the full brunt of nastiness filled the air around us, a swirling mix of excrement and acrid stench that would have brought the sewer dwelling Ninja Turtles to their knees. Where the normally slightly-clean-with-a-hint-of-soap-scum bottom of the tub should have been, there sloshed gallons and gallons of brown sewage.

I clutched the front of my sweatshirt and held my breath. Matt began to dry heave.

“Get out and shut the door!” I screamed as we bumbled into the hallway.

“I’ll deal with this,” Matt grabbed my shoulders, trying to talk and hold his breath at the same time.

I could feel my eyes glaze over, the horrors of typhoid and hepatitis in our bathtub filling my mind. But more importantly, I could envision our evaporated savings account. In my mind’s eye I could see the long, gray hallway at the bank. A worker shrouded in a black suit pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlatched a small locker labeled “Owen Bank Account.” Inside were two small stacks of quarters and a few crumpled dollar bills. It was bleak, not only because the banker with an unimaginative wardrobe gazed at me with an expression that could only be interpreted as “You’re a Big Fat Loser,” but also there was a very definite possibility we wouldn’t be able to pay for a plumber.

I wasn’t necessarily a spend thrift. In fact, I was downright frugal when it came to decorating with thrift store furniture and rewired vintage lamps. But the fact was, we were poor. We were starting out at starter jobs with starter salaries. We were starter adults with a starter bank account.

“Okay,” I nodded numbly, thankful that Matt was taking the lead on such a disastrous biohazard. “But make sure the plumber is super cheap. We don’t have much money!”

I left for work like a wino stumbling through a fog, not really remembering my commute, not really doing any work as I sipped my coffee and stared blankly at the computer screen. A disaster of such gargantuan proportions had previously been unthinkable in my life, and now I found myself attempting to push the image of a vast sea of bathtub poop from my mind. But I was sure of one thing: Anne Shirley never had to get ready for work while breathing raw sewage.

WTF is right...

playing in my head...and my heart...

dear frank, can i be your assistant?...

once upon a time frank roop lived in the same building in boston as my mom. too bad i didn't have the foresight way back when to become his new best friend/design assistant and be able to work for him and design fabulous spaces...you live & learn, i suppose...


his new book, the new bespoke, is now on my christmas list (hint, hint mom...oh, and try to get it signed for me will ya'?)...

sending the right message...

my mom used to be in the advertising/marketing business before she retired and she passed these along from some of her advertising contacts. how awesome would it have been to be in advertising back in the day when you could get away with this shit?...

like, when drugs were legal???...


we send subliminal message to just go kill yourself...


when we flat out called people fat (and tell them to take tape worms for it? wtf?)...


when a good wife only wanted appliances for gifts...


when we promoted beer drinking and motherhood at the same time...


when it was ok to rot your kids teeth and their brains...


and when doctors actually promoted smoking...