Fashion Survivor

I'm over there

2011-04-06T16:50:00.000-05:00

If you're looking for me, I'm posting at my other blog, Seeing Italy.

Oh, and my shoulder is back to 100 percent. Yay for good healing ability and strong bones! I did a lot of physical therapy last summer but it wasn't til I bought a car with a stick shift that I felt the strength and range really come back. Maybe they should have a fake stick-shift machine at rehab centers.

Shouldering On

2010-05-07T11:00:00.000-05:00

I have been savoring each day, listening to birdsong, enjoying the sound of the rushing of wind through the trees, sniffing freshly mown grass that wafts up to my windows. It's not just the Vicodin that I'm taking that's making me appreciate my life much more (although it definitely helps), but the fact that in many ways I still can't believe I am alive and walking with what is a relatively minor injury after what could have been a life-changing event, and not in a good way.

What happened? Last Saturday I was doing some minor chores, trying to get the place in some sort of order before dressing up and heading out for a group bike ride. It was a beautiful day, one of many we've been so lucky to have this spring, so unusual for Chicago. So I was in a good mood as I opened the back door to put out some recycling. My cat loves to explore the back deck, and I usually let him as long as he doesn't get too far. But that day, he headed up the stairs to the top floor, and I ran after him--I'm always slightly worried he'll find some hiding place or jump somewhere that I can't reach him.

I'd gotten an email that morning that some of the steps on our back stairway had actually broken, and there was a warning to be careful on them. As I scrambled after Angus, I saw that my neighbor had removed the broken step, so there was a gap. No problem, I thought, as I kept Angus in my sights, I'll just hop over it. And right then in some part of my brain there was a voice that said, But is that really a good idea? just as the step under me cracked and I fell through the gap.

When I was 7 or 8 I broke my collarbone sledding at my after-school day-care program. At the bottom of a hill was a stairway leading down to the basement of the building, and I saw that I was heading right toward the fencing that formed a barrier around it. I remember I was mostly afraid I would hit my head on the lower bar of the fence so I closed my eyes--the next thing I remember was looking up at the sky from the bottom of the stairwell. So it was this time--I don't know if I shut my eyes, but I knew I was in trouble.

I fell onto my back, hard, and hit my head too. (Later we established I fell about 15 feet.) I was so afraid I was paralyzed that I jumped right up to make sure I could move. There was a horrible pain in my shoulder that felt familiar, and I knew I'd probably broken a bone--I instantly remembered, or my body remembered, the nauseating pain of my broken collarbone.

It's embarrassing to admit, but my main concern was whether I'd be able to go on my vacation to Italy in three weeks. That, and the fact that I was relatively unscathed, confused the ER staff, I think. I don't think they understood what had happened at first. X-rays established that I had two fractures in my scapula, or shoulder blade. (Later X-rays found two more.) My toes were black and blue and my leg hurt a little--later I figured out I'd probably first landed on a step that broke and then fell backwards--but that, and big bruise on my lower back, were the extent of the visible injuries. Scapula fractures are pretty rare, unless you've been in a car accident or some such thing, and the staff kept asking me what happened, I think to make sure my boyfriend hadn't come after me with a baseball bat or some such thing.

I am not religious, but I have to think that someone, some thing was looking out for me. It could have been so much worse. Not that this is a picnic, but compared to the alternative, I will take it. (And the good news is that the doctors have given me the go-ahead to continue with my vacation.) I also apparently have really strong bones--when I asked my doctor if there were things I could eat or take to promote healing, she said, "Just do whatever you're doing!"

Originally I was really angry at myself for taking such a risk, but how could I have known that all of the steps were so unstable? Now I'm more angry at the developer of this building. We've had problems before, and I've learned that the term "shady developer" is redundant, but never something that posed such a serious threat to our safety. In a way, we were lucky it was an owner this happened to rather than a stranger, because this is a clear legal liability. (The back deck is only 10 years old!) Unfortunately we've looked into suing him, but others have tried, and there's no money to be had, apparently.

So now I'm just trying to rest up, trying not to be too mad that I can't go out on my bike right now in the amazing weather, and honestly feeling very lucky that things weren't worse. The pain isn't horrible, and I have a pretty good supply of Vicodin, which is fun (although I'm trying to wean myself off it). Friends and neighbors have been great, taking me out to get groceries, offering to run errands, etc. In fact, one of the questions I asked myself when this happened was, why did this happen? What is it supposed to teach me? And sometimes I think it was the answer to another question I've often asked myself, which is, what if something happened to me or I was sick? Who would take care of me? And now I have my answer. My friends will take care of me. I hope I'll never need them to, but I don't need to worry about it anymore.

Frankly, though, this would be a good time to have a boyfriend, who could help me do things like take my shirt on and off and button my jeans. Oh well...

I also have a new use for my Hermes scarf:

Oh, and PS: my cat is fine. Of course.

I don't think blogging is my thing

2010-03-21T10:53:00.004-05:00

As much as I wish blogging was a good writing outlet for me--I'm not immune to jealousy of the cool-kid bloggers with thousands of followers and an imminent book deal--it's just isn't. I've never been a fast writer. I mean, I can push out the short entries, but intricately reasoned arguments or moving essays on odd experiences or quirky preferences that shed warm, golden light on the human experience? Not so much. It takes me a long, long time to write things that I'm really happy with. I might worry over a paragraph for months. Consequently my output is miniscule, especially since I have little free time to indulge.

Nor can I use the blog as a personal journal, strictly speaking. In a journal, I feel comfortable slapping thinks down pretty raw, since no one is going to read it. In fact, now that I think about it, a blog is somewhere between a journal and a finished product for me. Except it's not a midway point on the way to anything--it's its own endeavor. One that I wish I found more satisfying, but there you are. One must accept one's talents and limitations, and do the best one can within them.

kids (or parents) today

2010-03-04T15:54:00.002-06:00

It drives me crazy when I hear parents asking their kids in a cloying voice to do something: "Do you want to pick up your toys? Do you want to get dressed so we can go to the store?" Aside from the fact that the obvious answer is "No," they're kids! You're supposed to tell them what to do! In a nice way of course, until they pitch a fit and start squalling right there on the sidewalk and you have to bundle them up and get them the hell out of there.

moral dilemma

2010-02-03T17:14:00.003-06:00

My wonderful, thoughtful family got me this ring with my birthstone, garnet, for my significant-number birthday:

But I would actually prefer this:

I'm pretty picky about jewelry--if I ever get married I'm going to have to pick out my own engagement ring. Do you think I should return the ring and get one I would wear more often? I don't see these family members all that often and it wouldn't seem weird if I wasn't wearing it at Thanksgiving or whatever. On the other hand the prospect of too much guilt is not appealing either. Well, maybe store credit will make this all moot anyway.

Emma

2010-01-27T16:39:00.002-06:00

Emma is not my favorite Jane Austen novel, but not because of the supposed unlikeability of the heroine. It's because Frank Churchill is too transparently obnoxious to ever be believable as a charmer, even by someone as self-deluded as Emma, Jane Fairfax is boring, and their subplot--although central to the main plot--generally uninteresting. However, so far I am enjoying the new Masterpiece adaptation, the third I've seen (fourth if you include Clueless). Romola Garai (forgive her Dirty Dancing 2: Electric Boogaloo and watch her in I Capture the Castle, which is also a fine book) doesn't have the annoying Hollywood-skinny superstar baggage of Gwyneth Paltrow, I've always had a secret crush on Jonny Lee Miller, and I'd pay to see Michael Gambon read the phone book.

I've seen Tamsin Greig in Green Wing (very funny British TV show) and Black Books (less amusing), and she's a good comic actress in the physical, quasi-Lucille Ball sense, all height and limbs. She plays Miss Bates--a meek, dithery, poor spinster who's generally been played strictly for laughs in the past-- with a pronounced element of pathos. Miss Bates talks and talks as if her mental health depends on it--which perhaps it does, as Greig's occasional weary stare suggests.

However, I think my favorite comic character in Austen's novels is Mary Musgrove, the married sister of Anne Elliot in Persuasion. Her whininess that is an ill-fitting mask for insecurity, her constant ploys for attention via complaints of illness, her all-too-obvious eagerness in social situations--we all know someone like this. Or if we're unlucky, several people.

I love Amanda Hale's work in the scene that starts at 7:45. She's so brilliantly dorky. Check out her panting laugh at 8:28.

high-low

2010-01-06T16:11:00.004-06:00

I have slowly turned into acquaintance S., whose wardrobe is at either end of the bell curve, i.e., either Forever 21 or Costume National. My last few purchases:

lace top and camisole from Rodarte for Target, both under $20
Chie Mihara shoes, $380
Diane von Furstenburg top from Barneys (but on sale for about $90!)
vintage brown leather wallet, $15

Can't remember the last time I was in Ann Taylor/Banana Republic/Macy's. (I have however graced J. Crew with my presence.) S.'s excuse was that mid-priced clothing is not made well enough to even justify the relatively affordable price, and after buying way too many items there that pill or fall apart, I have to (for the most part) agree. Luckily I don't actually need that many clothes, which makes it easier.

winter pleasures

2010-01-02T10:07:00.005-06:00

Rare rack of lamb, polenta, and ratatouille at Magnolia Cafe.

S'mores hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows at Cooper's Hawk.

I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago and was horrified when they weighed me. After throwing moderation out the window for the holidays and facing a long weekend of gluttony in the Napa Valley in just two weeks, I am planning on drastically reducing my calorie input. When I get hungry I'll just have to look at these photos and relive the experience.

new year's eves I have known

2009-12-31T09:10:00.002-06:00

Count me in the group of people who think that New Year's Eve is overrated, amateurs' night, an inevitable disappointment, etc. For the last couple years I've actually stayed home. I think the best NYE I ever had was about fifteen years ago. I had come back from New York that day and was exhausted from staying out until 5 or 6 AM at some divey Lower East Side saloon (where we saw MTV VJ Kennedy, remember her?). My then-boyfriend, who hadn't gone on the trip, came over and we had the express intention of going out--I don't remember where. But it was so comfortable on the couch, and somehow we ended up playing some sort of word game with this massive dictionary I've been carting around since the 8th grade. It was giggly and warm and nice, and suddenly we heard fireworks and realized we'd missed our chance of going out somewhere--but it didn't matter. This was a rare insecurity-free experience with this boyfriend, who tended to play a lot of emotional push-pull games (something he freely admits now!), so it's a good memory.

All of my other NYEs have, honestly, paled in comparison. However, I am still going to pop by not one but TWO parties tonight (one fancy, one not, and thankfully both in the general neighborhood), although if I'm not feeling the joy I will have no compunctions about going home before midnight.

According to my horoscope, 2009 was supposed to be THE year for Aquarians. Perhaps I can't quite see it since any changes were not dramatic. However, I can say the biggest difference is having a job. Although it's not my passion, it's nice to not worry about money all the time anymore. Plus I think I have finally accepted that in order to be happy, I need to do what I am meant to do...and that is write fiction, even if it's not any good or I'm the only person who sees it.

With that in mind, wishing you all a happy and prosperous 2010!

the garden in winter

2009-12-30T15:28:00.004-06:00

Photo by David & Linda McKnight

All too often winter gardens are ignored, all jumbled pots and abandoned implements until spring. But they can be made pretty with the addition of snow, twinkling lights, or perhaps even candlelight. I wanted to buy a Japanese stone lantern for the balcony this summer but was too late to get one at my local garden store. It would look inviting with a candle in it on the evenings. Might be a good New Year's present to myself--a little flame defying the winter darkness.

wildlife!

2009-08-22T12:56:00.003-05:00

Saw this little guy on the lakefront path. I noticed him slowly crawling down a tree on the golf course and stopped to take a look. I thought he might be curious about me too, but after getting about halfway underneath the fence he realized I didn't have any food on me and lost interest.

George Clooney's new flame

2009-08-03T17:29:00.004-05:00

I knew I recognized George Clooney's fliration du jour, Elisabetta Canalis. She was a velina (basically a dancing girl; long explanation for the term here) on one of my favored Italian TV shows, Striscia la notizia, when I was living there back in 2001-2.

As you can see from this video, dancing skills are not actually required for the job, just a pretty face and a lack of visible cellulite. (She's the brunette.)

a big part of the reason I don't freelance full-time anymore

2009-05-28T11:39:00.002-05:00

yet another addition to the blogosphere

2009-05-11T09:33:00.001-05:00

I've started a new blog, mostly just to try to sate my wanderlust: Seeing Italy.

seen on an evening bike ride on a warmish day that still threatens rain...

2009-05-01T10:37:00.003-05:00

--crabapple trees in bloom

--daffodils and tulips in the green spaces along the Metra train line

--a woman in a broad-brimmed hat sitting on a park bench, alone, in the growing dark

--a handwritten sign in a diner that starts "Why pay more?"

--a man inside a classroom with his arms folded on his chest, glancing out the window to look at me gliding by

annoying

2009-04-25T01:30:00.002-05:00

Why do so many people automatically assume "liberal" = "atheist" or "anti-religion"?

whew, that was close

2009-04-22T19:53:00.001-05:00

All I can say is, I got a job JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME.

Anglophilic TV tastes

2009-04-02T18:18:00.005-05:00

Really excited for the second series of the BBC series Ashes to Ashes. I miss the 80s!

Also, must write an essay about finding the character of a middle-aged, chauvinist, homophobic cop so incredibly hot.

Finally, a preview!

Clips from the first series:

"But what does the box of chocolates represent?" Flashbacks to my college years.

stupidity . . . it's all around us.

2009-03-04T22:19:00.002-06:00

And yet I'm the one who's broke! I admit I'm cranky as my finances crash around me and I'm casting around desperately for work, but here are a couple of examples of dumb people that are just killing me.

1. I call a custom publishing company to find out who I should talk to about possible freelance writing work. (Custom publishers create custom-made magazines and other media for corporations, organizations, etc.) The woman answering the phone is confused. "Well, we have some magazines about custom wordworking. Is that who you want to talk to?" Lady, you work for a custom publishing company and you don't know what custom publishing is?

2. I decide to use LinkedIn to find possible contacts at a trade publishing company (similar to custom publishing, except they focus on specific areas, such as fashion retailing). The first person on the list is actually one of my LinkedIn contacts, a woman who does job coaching and runs an email networking list I'm on. I send her an email asking if she still has contacts at the company. She writes back and tells me I don't want to write for trade publishers, I need to be writing for consumer magazines. I should go to the library and check out this thing called the Writer's Market. Wow, it's not like I haven't been writing for over ten years and maybe learned that on my first day! And hey, it's not like consumer magazines are folding every day, slashing freelance budgets, and relying on staff to fill their pages! But thanks! (And this woman is a career coach! Oy.)

Sorry so angry (again), but I have a fun morning of explaining to several people that no, I don't have several thousand dollars to pay that money I owe you in full right now, sorry.

going to throw some things

2009-02-18T19:12:00.002-06:00

Oh my god, oh my god. I finally got a check for a story I did for a certain media outlet back in NOVEMBER. But it's for less than one-third of what I was told I would be paid. The original amount is small enough, but the amount on the check is just fucking insulting--especially after all the time and energy I have put into chasing after it. And I really need the paltry couple hundred dollars I was told I'd be paid. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you, fucking byzantine, inefficient, red-tape-laden, clumsy PAYMENT SYSTEM THAT FUCKS FREELANCERS!

mind dump

2009-02-12T18:57:00.002-06:00

I wish I was more disciplined about the content on this blog. I am not focused enough to write charming little mini essays like Amy (although it helps that she has a surplus of ready-made subject as a fish out of l'eau) or delightfully ornate tangents adorned with beautiful bits of wordplay a la Ms. Cahiers, or even the zany stream-of-consciousness perfected by Mimi. And so you all must suffer.

They say most accidents happen in the home, and boy howdee did we almost have a humdinger of a lulu over here Chez FS. I was so pleased to contract yet another cold earlier this month, the second one in 30 days. Or maybe I just have intractable sinus problems--it's the kind of thing that unless you have lots of money or a very good health insurance policy, you are just not going to get to the bottom of. (Actual quote from the doctor when I went to see her concerned over a series of massive colds complete with incredibly painful sore throat and ear tubes: "Everything in there looks OK to me.") So I've been pretty stuffed up the last couple weeks, which affects you in unforeseen ways, such as overcooking things because you can't smell when they're about to burn. So, one day last week, after cooking lunch, I went in another room for an hour or so, then came out to the living room. Huh--what is that smell--it's almost like gas, I thought to myself. I though I might be having one of those weird olfactory hallucinations or misintrepretations I'm subject to when I get sick. It's not the fireplace. It's not the oven. It's not the--oh Jesus. One of the stove burners somehow got turned to the left. I had the crazy thought that ghosts in my house were trying to kill me, when I remembered that I had been knocking around a tray on the stove top earlier. And then I realized that the furnace, which is housed in a closet not four feet away from the stove, was probably going to kick in any second. Thermostat down, windows open, crisis averted. How embarrassing an explosion would have been! And my neighbors would have been so mad.

That of course got me thinking about death, and reminded me of my periodic freakouts on the subject, which have been more frequent as of late. I don't want not to exist! But existing forever doesn't sound so great either! Help! Cue existential nausea, etc. I brought this up with my therapist once and she was more concerned about the reasons why I was worrying about it. Screw that. I want answers!

On to lighter subjects...the Internet is a bigger complication in online dating than it was during my first go-round with it about four or five years ago. One guy I was emailing with asked me if I was on Facebook, and I gracefully decided to ignore the question. Another guy, who I've been out with once and will see again this weekend, just befriended me on it. What if I want to write a clever, witty update about online dating? Can't do it. Then there's the interlaced nature of all this stuff. On one of the dating sites I am on, you can see who is looking at your profile. I was puzzled by one guy who lived in LA. Then I was Googling another potential date from that site (OK, so I use the Internet for my own nefarious purposes too) and found his Facebook page. Of course I couldn't see the whole thing, but it showed a few of his friends--one of whom was LA guy. I'm not freaked out, but it adds a whole new layer to the whole "playing it cool" thing.

Speaking of playing it cool, I've got to wrap it up because I am meeting above-mentioned Google subject for dinner. Normally I prefer drinks, but he had to cancel earlier this week and said buying dinner to make up for it would make him feel better. The whole "who pays on a date" controversy will have to wait for another post.

still can't believe it

2009-01-25T21:22:00.002-06:00

Totally tickled, for some reason, by a photo of President Obama strolling back to the Oval Office in the NYT today. I still find the whole thing amazing.

stuck inside on a Saturday again

2009-01-24T13:24:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I went to the friendly neighborhood police station to report the harassing text messages I've been getting. As far as obscene telecommunications go, they're pretty minor--some guy really, really wants a spanking. But it's annoying and gross, and my cop neighbor assured me they would not laugh at me for wanting to fill out a report. So we shall see. I suppose "John" with a 630 and 708 area code by turns will soon be getting a message he does not particularly want to receive.

I am trying to ramp up the dating and flirting, resulting in the awkwardness, especially on Facebook. By the way, can we declare FB off-limits for intra-relationship cutesy comments? Keep them to private emails so us lonely people don't (a) want to vomit or (b) want to strangle you for being so obviously, publicly happy. Anyway, it is all making me feel like I am in my early drunken 20s and desperate for male attention from too-cool musicians all over again. As an attempt to override old habits, I made a point to email the very nice guy I met on Match.com who took me out to dinner and a drink afterward and paid for everything.

Obligatory recession story: I was at Trader Joe's and the checkout guy told me my total was "3800--I mean, $38.50. That's from my trader days." A former trader working at Trader Joe's--there's something poetic about that, although still depressing. We chatted about the excellent quality and price of the frozen ahi tuna steaks. I said, "I sure hope I don't get mercury poisoning like Jeremy Piven from eating so much of it!" He snorted and said, "Yeah, right...anyone who's seen Piven out in Wrigleyville knows that's a joke." So JP hangs out in Wrigleyville when he's in town? I don't get it. It always seems like celebs go to the cheesiest clubs when they're in town. I guess I can understand it from non-Chicagoans, but you'd think an Evanston native would have some better ideas.

goal for 2009

2009-01-01T21:19:00.003-06:00

This year I am going to try to do one thing that scares me every day. I don't mean that I'm going to get into skydiving or bungee jumping. My fears are more about everyday things--like cold-calling potential clients, asking for feedback on my work, or dating, or going up to a cute guy at a bar, or having people expect things of me. Or writing about my family.

In the past year I realized that part of the reason I never write fiction or personal essays--or get very far with them when I do try to write them--is that there is so much pain (and hence fear) around old memories of my family, and writing anything remotely personal or meaningful inevitably brings all of it up. And yet I realize I will never be able to move forward in a lot of different arenas of my existence without laying them all out and taking their measure anew. Even writing about it here is difficult--I get all stiff and clumsy and descend into safe cliches. I suspect that these are the types of things that keep most people feeling stunted and frustrating.

I guess I should set up another blog for this so I can get a book deal at the end of it. I'll let you know!

bankruptcy

2008-12-29T13:28:00.003-06:00

No, not mine, thank God! Not yet, anyway (ha...ha?). In my mail today was a bankruptcy notice for creditors who might be owed money from the Tribune Company. Luckily I am not owed money (except for a $100 kill fee for a story for Chicago Magazine that I'd done some preliminary work on; the fee never materialized and I didn't feel like it was worth the bother to follow up, considering all the paperwork the Tribune Co. makes you go through to get your lousy check), but jeez louise, no doubt a lot of people are going to be MAD. The Tribune owns production companies, Channel 20, a construction company, a direct mail company, forsalebyowner.com, Hoy, WGN.. Let's just say I'm glad I never bothered sending any pitches to the Tribune in the last several months.

In the meantime, everyone wants something for free! I got an email from a leasing agent at the company that is apparently renting out the spaces at the new shopping complex being built on Block 37. Since I am a shopping expert, could I forward them a list of my favorite shops (in no less than 13 categories!) and suggest which ones might be interested in opening a downtown location? Sure, I'd be thrilled to do your job in my spare time for no other compensation than a free lunch! How about $100 per hour as a retail consultant? I think I am actually going to suggest that and see what happens.

I was in the Boston area for Christmas and was entertained by the accents of my sister-in-law's family. Their accents are whatever the Boston equivalent of Brooklynese would be. At one point on Christmas Eve one little girl was licking one of the lemons that came with the (terrifically succulent) lobster, and it was all "Don't do that! You'll get a cankah!" I am such a language chameleon that at the end of just two days I was fighting the urge to drop my r's myself. My brother acted the part of Santa and nearly died of heat stroke in the polyester garb.

Also saw Cape Cod for the first time. I bought lunch and the waiter asked where my credit card was from. Turns out he used to be in the band Poi Dog Pondering and we knew a few people in common. "How do you go from a band in Austin and Chicago to waiting tables on Cape Cod?" my sister-in-law wondered. Such are some meandering paths through life. Enjoyed some terrifically briny oysters and fabulous cannoli, not to mention all the seafood treats on Christmas Eve, including a scallop gratin to die for, the aforementioned lobsters, and shrimp scampi. January is really going to have to be a month of deprivation and possibly occasional fasting.

The beach in winter (Chatham, MA):

PSA: attention cold sufferers

2008-12-23T17:37:00.002-06:00

Snorting loudly and continuously in public is NOT an acceptable substitute for using a tissue.

an experiment

2008-12-16T14:14:00.012-06:00

Monday night: Put on old cotton pants that now function as pajama bottoms and notice that they are rather uncomfortably tight. Realize that the annual noshing of holiday treats is taking a toll. Resolve to eat lightly and pass up desserts tomorrow.

Tuesday morning: A chocolate croissant is OK. French people eat them and they are thin.

Lunch, noon: Eat miso soup and noodles, feeling virtuous. Decide to go for a brisk walk in the snow afterward since the end of bicycling weather means you never get any exercise.

12:15: Still hungry. Eat a pear, some wheat crackers, blue cheese, and walnuts. Fruit and nuts, that's healthy, right?

12:30 PM: One caramel-filled chocolate can't hurt. It's the only one left, and it is the holidays, after all.

2:30 PM: While waiting for phone to ring with some work, try not to think how good one of the gingerbread cookies you made for gifts would be so satisfying right now with a glass of milk.

3 PM: Feel sleepy after the brisk walk. Plus it's snowing pretty hard, so the plan to drive to the mall to do some errands and holiday shopping seems like a bad idea. Nap time!

4:30 PM: Wake up ravenous. The gingerbread cookies still beckon. Eat raisins and more walnuts instead. Hey, there are three emails from potential customers! Napping is a viable business technique after all.

6 PM: Takeout chicken from the Costa Rican place on the corner sounds good. Then remember the need for thriftiness. Decide on lentil soup, even if it will take at least an hour to make. Console self with thought that lentils are undoubtedly healthier and leaner than chicken.

6:30 PM: Oh no! UPS drops off a huge Eli's Cheesecake sampler, a gift from a magazine you write for. Clearly the gods are not on board with this "no dessert" thing. Take out one slice to defrost and plan to eat it with last half of pear, which at least will add fruit to the equation. Think how much you could have used a cash bonus instead of a cheesecake, then feel bad for being ungrateful.

6:40 PM: Lentil soup starts to burn while you are busy thinking of clever things to write in blog post.

8:30 PM: Decide you might as well start on a new batch of holiday cookies to give to friends.

Result: Only a partial failure. Really, who can be expected to resist cheesecake?

fashion of the past

2008-12-14T16:36:00.005-06:00

Spoiler alert: If my brother or sister-in-law are reading this, I must ask you to cease and desist and not come back until after Christmas, as the following post is related to one of your gifts.

OK? OK. Well, I was scanning some old photos of my family, including my grandmother, who died before I was born. I always heard from my great-aunts how gorgeous she was, and it's obvious from old photos that she also had great taste in clothes. Perhaps a love for fashion is genetic after all?

Check out these hats.

I adore the outfit she's wearing below. It looks black, but it could be dark green or burgundy silk or satin. That's my mom wearing the bonnet, my uncle, and my grandfather.

Several years ago I had a photo of her in her wedding dress framed. The dress, which I have, is a work of art--ivory silk, buttons up the back, and a long train. Too bad I'd have to lose about thirty pounds to fit in it.

My mother said that my grandfather absolutely adored my grandmother and he was devastated when she died. I only knew him as a stiff, formal gentleman whose visits my brother and I dreaded because he was always doing things like quizzing us in Latin (which we were not studying in school, needless to say). He was not a warm man. My mother once told me that she remembered someone asking him how old his daughter was, and he said, "Oh, about eight." She was sixteen. But he was a hard-working, intelligent man--the son of Polish immigrants--who became a dentist and also owned several buildings.

I'm realizing that I want to write more about my family. Not sure if I want to do memoir or use them as a jumping-off point for fiction, but there's a lot there, and I'm the only one who remembers anything from that side of the family. Everyone else is dead. I wish I knew more, but there's no one to ask. And now that my sister-in-law is pregnant, I want to make sure that the facts and memories I have retained are passed on.

bits, bobs

2008-12-01T16:10:00.004-06:00

We have a mouse in the house! An intruder in the condo. Well, not my unit, so far, anyway. But there have been sightings. I thank my cat for keeping my place mouse-free--I'm sure the things can smell their evolutionary predator. I have no idea what Angus' skills re mousing are though. Isak, my old cat, caught about four or five in an old dump I used to live in, and she didn't even have front claws. I'm not sure Angus can live up to that, even with claws intact. He is kind of a scaredy, although his jagged ear makes him look tuff--maybe that's what scares the mouse off, it's the feline equivalent of a knife scar across the cheek. Since the time change Angus starts whining for food at around 3:30 or 4 PM. Or possibly he is just wily, knowing that I will be weak and give him an extra meal later, at the real mealtime.

Last night I went to Second City and we got seated in the front row. During an improv some of the performers asked for a cell phone from someone else, and I started worrying they would ask for mine, because the photo of Angus on the front means there are endless comedic riffs on the "single woman, going to die alone and be eaten by her pet" theme.

I skipped my 20th high school reunion on Saturday night. I kept saying I would go, but let's face it, I chickened out. I did ask one of the few people I've talked to in the last 20 years if he was going, and he wasn't, so I had no idea if anyone I was friends with would even be there--if it was just going to be the "popular" folks or what. Plus it was organized by one of those reunion companies, so it seemed very impersonal. PLUS, tickets were $110 each!!!! I rarely spend that much in one night even on things I actually want to do. I was kind of curious but in the end curiosity was not enough. I didn't particularly care about showing people that I am no longer slightly nerdy/awkward/etc, because at our advanced age I think we all pretty much realize that most people are at least slightly more well-adjusted than we were in high school. Anyway, if I want to catch up with old classmates, there is always Facebook. Or they can Google me. I am not hard to find.

My new favorite writer is Andrea Lee. Her short stories are just perfect little treasures--I sigh and die with envy as I read them. Especially since she writes about being an expat in Italy. So it's a combo of jealousy of her writing ability and her infinitely superior expat experience compared to mine. In the novel I just read the couple even lives on my favorite street, the Via Panisperna. I was simultaneously tickled and annoyed when I read that--dammit, she gets everything! How can I possibly compete with Andrea Lee, especially when I was too chicken to go off to Madagascar with some old Roman I met in Cortona. That could have been the start of MY novel, or a louche life of parasitic near-prostitution and jet-setting. Who knows?

services I do not provide

2008-11-17T17:12:00.004-06:00

Sunday morning around 10:30 my cell rang. I didn't recognize the number, and although it was a little early to do business on a Sunday (my cell is also my work phone), I answered. It was a guy. "Sorry, wrong number," he mumbled, and hung up. Well, at least he apologized, I thought.

About two hours later the phone beeped that I had a text. I thought it was probably someone asking if I wanted to go to brunch. But no, it was from the same number. Here, paraphrased, is the message:

"hi my name is john please call me i need help with my wardrobe could you help me and maybe you could spank me too"

I wonder if he wanted me to help him find him an XXL baby bib and diapers.

a new day dawns

2008-11-11T10:37:00.003-06:00

I was downtown last Wednesday, and maybe it was just the wonderfully unseasonable weather (sunny and 70 degrees), but it seems that everyone was in a great mood and the barriers that we normally draw around ourselves in public (and even private) were a little lower for once. I am sure some cynicism and disillusionment are inevitable but, if I regret not hauling over to Grant Park on election night, feeling the energy downtown was the next best thing. I kept hoping I would run into Obama heading out for lunch or even see his motorcade (he was in meetings in the Aon Center) but no luck. Nice to know that the Obamas have great taste in food--Spiaggia is one of my favorite Italian restaurants too.

(Oh, the election night dress? Black and red is not my favorite combo, but it wasn't the color that was the problem, it was the part around her waist. Not my favorite piece. But it was a very minor blot on an otherwise perfect night. I hate even to mention it, but I am a fashion writer/stylist, after all. She could have worn a burlap bag and I would have shrugged it off. We know you are still super stylish, Michelle Obama!)

To get back to more important subjects, I have not been able to figure out what has been going on with my hair in recent weeks. Being so fine (yet wavy/curly--go figure), it always requires some fuss, but for a good part of October and into November it was like a limp, dull rag on my head. Seriously, washing it, not washing it, piling on the product, stripping out the product--there was no combination that would bring it back to its former self. In desperation I was popping multivitamins, looking at hats, and even thought about cutting it all off. Maybe it was election stress, because my hair is back to its old self--still a little too eager to frizz, but it will respond to hair products and pops into its normal shape. I was having panic attacks that aging was the culprit and that I would fall prey to my mother's curse of having super fine baby hair (which she had all her life, actually). But you don't have me in your clutches yet, perimenopause! Bwa ha ha!

I almost didn't get to vote

2008-11-04T17:45:00.001-06:00

I had a hard time voting today. Luckily, I had time, a car, and knowledge of my rights.

GOBAMA!

a real downer

2008-10-25T16:47:00.003-05:00

Warning: This post is full of self-pity.

I have been feeling pretty down lately. Well, who isn't, during this global financial meltdown. Depression + anxiety about work, paying bills, feeling like a professional and personal failure, etc = thinking about selling the condo and moving to Amalfi to wait tables at a bar. At least then I would have some fun. I am so bored. All I do is work, or now, when I have no work, work on getting work. I actually enjoy the marketing, the writing of newsletters, the blogging, but it's all going toward some (hopefully) future income. I haven't been anywhere fun for ages. I'm not dating anyone and there are no real romantic possibilities on the horizon. I don't have anything to get excited about. And it's been like this for years. From where I sit, it just looks gray, gray, gray, rather like the skies the past few days. And there is no hint of anything better, despite all my effort.

October and November always seem to herald bad things for me. Maybe it's my sign (cusp of Capricorn/Aquarius)? Twice I've had computers crash around this time of year. (Seems like the stock market tends to go awry around this time of year too.) And--I just realized this--I am pretty sure that it was in the fall about 20 years ago that I realized that my mother was not going to survive cancer. Is it possible that a particular point on the earth's rotation around the sun can carry such negative energy?

Don't worry, I usually rally. But I am so, so ready for a change in my fortunes.

mode a la frigidaire

2008-10-19T17:33:00.002-05:00

I've had a few minor fashion-related screwups this week. First, some background. A couple years ago there was a moth infestation in my closet that resulted in some very painful losses, including a black wool sweater I owned for about twenty years. So now whenever I see a moth, I throw my sweaters in the freezer, wrapped in a plastic bag. This is supposed to kill any moth eggs that are in the fibers. I think you are also supposed to run them in a hot dryer after 24-48 hours. Well, of course I left them in there all summer. Every time I opened the freezer, I thought, "Oh right...my sweaters. I should take those out." Then I would get whatever freezer item I was looking for and leave them in there. This is a pretty typical response to many household tasks on my part.

Today it's a bit chilly, so I took them out. It's kind of fun to see your sweaters again every fall, isn't it? It's like having new clothes. I put on a purple sweater and, after a few minutes, noticed a smell. Like a freezer smell. Like the smell of freezer burn combined with beef and chicken broth. Not an odor you really want wafting around and emanating from you. I guess I thought they'd be safe in the plastic bag. So now, because I want to wear it tonight, I've got the purple sweater in the dryer with a lavender sachet. The others I put out on the balcony to air out. Let's hope they do, because otherwise that will be a big dry cleaning bill. Or I will be cold this winter.

My other mistake was pulling out a pair of Doc Martens I haven't worn for probably about a dozen years. I got them when I was living in Seattle at the height of the grunge era: Kurt Cobain was still alive, flannel was de rigueur, and DMs were the shoe of choice. They're not really my style any more, to say the least, but it was raining quite hard a few nights ago and I am somewhat low in the rain-resistant footwear department, and I was taking the el downtown to see a movie about Yves Saint Laurent at the Alliance Francaise. It's about a 10-15 minute walk to the el stop from my place. By the time I sat down on the train, some tingling on my heels told me that I was in trouble. I literally hobbled the four blocks to the Alliance Francaise. I was afraid to look at my heels when I got home. Those DMs will definitely be up for grabs at the next clothing swap. What would Yves have said!?

meatball love

2008-10-12T10:25:00.004-05:00

Just a quick moment of love for Trader Joe's ready-made turkey meatballs.

I am not a huge fan of prepared foods, even Trader Joe's. Their brand is much better than the other options out there, but every time I decide to try some frozen gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce or chicken tamales, my reactions is always...meh. But I cannot stop eating these turkey meatballs, so much so that any idea of attempting to make my own meatballs, turkey or otherwise, is out of the question at the moment. How could I ever get the turkey meat so perfectly shredded, the melange of spices just so? With grilled zucchini, red peppers, and tomatoes, they make a healthy, protein-laden, excitingly tasty lunch. O turkey meatballs, how I adore thee.

say cheese

2008-10-03T14:31:00.002-05:00

Your intrepid yet intermittent correspondent went to the NBC Tower today to be interviewed for a style segment on the local news. It was pretty bare bones--no makeup person with the big powder puff on hand or lots of people running around with headsets and clipboards, just a table, two union-type guys, and the reporter. I think I did OK, except for perhaps saying "you know" too often and once veering off into Palinesque territory as I tried to think of smart things to say about belts. Luckily it was taped! Thank God for editing! I think I would--will?--get better with practice, but I was a little distracted as I reminded myself to stand up straight and don't touch your hair too much and suck in your gut and oh my god is that a hair in my mouth? A lot to think about. Anyway, so much buildup and worry about something that took about an hour, but as I say, next time it will be easier as I will know what to expect. Now I feel justified in having a nice relaxing glass of wine with a late lunch.

up early

2008-09-20T08:26:00.003-05:00

So I'm up early on a Saturday because we have workers rebuilding part of the parapet on our building and they started drilling today at 7:30 AM. Apparently it needed to be done, but it's a bit galling to have to pay a rather large special assessment for something so boring. A friend is having a new roof and new siding put on her place and, while I'm sure it cost a mint, at least her place will look different. A new parapet is pretty boring. That's homeowning for you--all glamour! The noise is troublesome, but on the other hand it's sweet payback to the neighbors in the house in back of us, who have kept me up late and woken me up early more times than I can count.

Last week I gave a talk on fall trends. If I had to do the talk this week it would be substantially different. This week, after the meltdown of the global financial market, I am now predicting Mad Max-style apocalyptic fashion: goggles, lots of raggy bits, and combat boots, the last to outrun the gangs out to steal your stores of fuel and precious water after civilization as we know it ends.

In my sad quest to re-enter the dating scene (and to meet new people in general) I went to a meetup of Italian speakers and fans of Italian culture the other night and promptly discovered that my speaking abilities have deteriorated to an alarming degree. I had had the vague thought that it might be a good idea to review some verbs and grammar before going, but it was swept away with all the usual career and domestic drama of the week. I really should have; at one point I went totally blank and couldn't even remember how to say "I lived," as in "I lived in Italy." Fortunately people were pretty patient and I could understand what they were saying, mostly, but who wants to hang out with a mute girl for very long? In fact it was rather like my first few months in Italy, when I would get exhausted trying to keep up with the conversation and felt really frustrated that I couldn't get my personality across with my limited skills. There were non-Italian speakers there and I did meet a cool woman who works for the company that makes Flor tiles, square carpet tiles that stick to your floors. Those were a big hit when I worked at CB2 so we bonded. And the next day Francesco, a photographer whose photos were on display at the cafe where the event was held, sent me a nice thank you note for coming. So I'll definitely go again. I'd like to talk to more of the men though. I don't know why at my ripe age I am shy about this. I used to have no problems going up to guys, but back then I was a lot sluttier. So somehow in my mind chatting up a guy = I must want to sleep with him. Must remind myself that this does not have to be the case. I actually did talk to one cute guy (who I suspect is probably a bit younger than me) and he told me about a movie being shown next week at the Italian Cultural Institute, so I might show up for that, although I watched a preview on YouTube and I can't say it looks incredibly interesting. Still, for the sake of new experiences...

It's about a 40-something married couple who have to downsize their home and lifestyle when the husband loses his job. (OK, I cheated and read a review in English.) How timely!

The movie I really want to see is Cedric Klapisch's latest, Paris. But there is no world on when it is coming out on DVD for the American market, and my French skills are definitely not up to watching it en V.O.

creepiest photo ever

2008-09-03T17:13:00.003-05:00

Great grandpappy McCain giving the happy couple a pep talk.

it's OVER!

2008-09-03T15:27:00.004-05:00

The summer, that is. Well, not technically, but it sure feels over. There's a golden tinge to the sun that gives it away. Even if it was about 90 degrees yesterday. I refused to turn on the air conditioning out of some perverse need to suffer.

All in all I had a pretty good été. I managed to cross several things off my list (see movie outside in Grant Park, check; go to Botanic Garden, check), although I did not have my summer fling. Although I don't know if you can have a summer fling when you are in your (OK, late) 30s. In fact I'm starting to doubt you can find luv at all in your late 30s because you're (I'm) too scarred and fearful. It's not like when you're young and you're like, "I am now completely fulfilled! Love makes everything OK!" Oh well, I must not be that bitter because I had a friend take some new photos of me for a new online dating service I'm going to try. Hope springs eternal.

And I ate a lot of nectarines from the farmers market these last few weeks! I think they're my favorite. I was re-reading a book by this woman about her life in France and I followed her recipe for clafoutis, which is basically fruit topped with a batter that turns slightly custardy in the oven. I had made clafoutis before and thought it so-so, but this one was, as they don't say in France, kick-ass.

staycation

2008-08-11T10:25:00.007-05:00

I think I first heard the term "staycation" two months ago and it's already one of the most overused terms of the year. However, I took one last week, my first rest in a while. I really tried to get out and do stuff, as opposed to noodling around on my laptop and pretending to get ready to work on some big home project. (I did vacuum though.)

Monday it rained, putting a stop to my plans to go to the Botanic Garden. I went to the Art Institute instead. Not very original of me, but I tried to pretend I was in France or Italy at some new-to-me museum.

The little park tucked into the courtyard of the Art Institute is a pleasant place to ruminate on the beauty you've just seen within--or hide from the rain under the trees.

On Michigan Avenue at Van Buren is this Metra entrance designed by Hector Guimard in 1900 and cast from the original molds. It was even constructed by French laborers brought over especially for that purpose. In Paris it would say "Metro"...get it? I had to wait for a woman to finish smoking her cigarette to get a clear shot. How very appropriate.

Tuesday I got slammed with one of my quarterly sinus infections, so I spent that day in bed, mostly. However, one of the oddest side effects of these infections is that once I can sort of breathe again, the air smells like Italy. I can't explain it--it's a scent of old stone, old books, and ancient infrastructure that I first noticed on my first trip to Italy in 1997. It's a weird trick my brain plays on me. Once I started feeling better, it was not unwelcome.

I finally made it to the Botanic Garden on Thursday. I hauled my bike up to intersect the North Branch trail, which is amazing--I can't believe I never knew about it while I was growing up there. You pass all of these ponds and lagoons in a forest preserve and it's very quiet. In Glencoe you enter the Botanic Garden via a back entrance, pedal past some prairie areas and staff areas, and park at one of the bike racks.

I quite like this shot for the varying shades of green.

A shot of the Japanese Gardens, which is spread over two islands.

Pretty leaves against the background of the water.

I'm having a hard time getting back to work. That could also be because of a weekend of heavy drinking, of which I am still feeling the effects this morning. Having a hard time thinking of original things to say about clothes and stores. I need a real vacation!

Attn Sam Zell: This is why cutting editorial staffs to the bone is a bad idea

2008-07-21T18:54:00.002-05:00

This headline has been up all frickin' day on the front page of the Chicago Tribune website.

aargh

2008-07-19T16:45:00.003-05:00

A slightly rainy, humid Saturday. Hard work all week--including on this day--and a cold coming on makes a nap seem very attractive. Yet at the back of the building, where the bedroom is, the neighbors are having yet another one of their seemingly endless series of parties. The sofa in the living room, in front, starts to look more attractive. And that's when a neighbor on that side decides it would be a perfect time to rev up the saw in their garage workshop.

Heeeeelllpppp....

playing tourist

2008-07-11T11:03:00.006-05:00

I had a meeting downtown about a week ago and was heading back to my car in the Millennium Park garage when I realized it was a beautiful day and I should enjoy it for a while. I wanted to walk to Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park, but it was the first day of Taste of Chicago--too many crowds. So I went to Millennium Park instead. I'd never walked on the BP Bridge before, which winds across Columbus Drive to deposit you in Grant Park. That's the top of Frank Gehry's bandshell on the left.

There are flowers planted in the spaces made by the bridge's curves.

Poor Grant Park! It is now somewhat underappreciated next to Millennium Park's star power. But I still like it better, I think. There are so many lovely garden areas in a variety of styles. I especially like the native prairie landscaping--the smell of the wildflowers and grasses reminds me of bike rides along the Green Bay Trail in Highland Park, where I grew up. And look at those sightlines! You don't realize until you walk its length how massive Grant Park is. It goes from Randolph Street all the way down to Roosevelt Road, in the South Loop, where it links with the Museum Campus.

I've been bitching nonstop about this guidebook to Chicago I've been writing, but despite the stress I've found it incredibly inspiring and a reminder of why I love this place. I just finished the Parks, Gardens, and Beaches chapter (can you tell?) and am now working on one about public art. There was just a photo in the New York Times' travel section of a French tourist having her photo taken under the Bean in Millennium Park, and her quote was about how everyone associates Chicago with great architecture but that it also has an impressive and varied collection of public art. Which I will be an expert on when I finish this chapter. Actually, forget Italy: I should really offer tours of Chicago.

me too

2008-06-28T22:22:00.002-05:00

Hilarious blog. It reminds me of a friend who says she is going through a horny high-school phase right now. She asks boys in bars if she can make out with them. That's one way to meet men. The blog idea might be a better one, though.

grown-up things

2008-06-28T21:43:00.004-05:00

I had a date*. Well, it was a first meeting with someone who I met through the online personals. I had some credit with a personals company from years ago so I decided to start it all up again, although I don't really like having my photo up there. Especially since I recognize some of the guys on it and they aren't very encouraging. Such as, former editorial assistant at the paper I used to work at with huge chip on his shoulder about his peon-like status (which he would not have had if he actually did the things he was supposed to do without scowling...he eventually got fired) and guys whose pictures and profiles I actually remembered from four years ago. It's probably a good idea to rehaul those things once in a while.

The guys I met in the past were nice, but I found I was selecting men who would be just one or two degrees of separation from my friends. This time I am going outside of my comfort zone. No musicians, no one with roommates, someone who pays for dinner would be a nice change of pace...in a word, no hipsters. I realized that this might mean ending up with a non-ironic Phil Collins fan (although come on, you have to admit some of his songs are catchy), but who am I to be judgmental, me, Ms. Hasn't-bought-new-music-in-ten-years-besides-a-half-dozen-songs-on-iTunes?

Against all odds (see what I did there?), the meeting with Bachelor #1--the only guy who's made it to the meeting stage--went terrifically well. He was attractive, funny, well-dressed, and paid for the drinks! It actually makes me a little nervous--it shouldn't be that easy the first time out.

I hired people to clean my place. I hate cleaning and frankly am really bad at it--I mean, even when I get down on my knees and really scrub, it still never seems to measure up. However, I like to have people over without worrying about them eyeing the dust bunnies under the dining table. They came, they cleaned, and in an hour and a half it was over. I did clean regularly, but all I can say it, a lot of dirt and grime must build up over three years because this place looks as good as the day I moved in. I never thought the knobs on my stove would be so pristinely white again. And I don't feel guilty at all!

I am dealing with typical homeowner maintenance issues in a calm, (relatively) timely manner. My upstairs neighbor's bathtub apparently needed to be regrouted and water started leaking down into my place. It actually does not look too bad, and if I was a renter I would ignore it--but I ain't a renter no more. I am trying not to freak out about contractors who never call back and handymen who promise to email written estimates but do not. Meanwhile, we need masonry work done on our building. Say it with me: The money will come. Repeat.

I got a pedicure. I really needed one.

*Yes, the beau and I have broken up. But don't worry, it is all very friendly and drama-free--the best break-up I've ever had!

meeting Simon Doonan

2008-05-26T08:23:00.006-05:00

Looks like I've got some catching up to do, so let me start with one of the more exciting bits: I met Simon Doonan, creative director of Barneys New York and writer of such tomes as Eccentric Glamour: Creating an Insanely More Fabulous You. It was for this last reason that he was in town, signing books at Barneys. He seemed a little exhausted but gamely indulged in my babbling about how I too admire fashion kooks and that we should all do things like wear fur stoles to the grocery store more often. Simon believes that the enforcers of good taste have wrung all of the fun out of fashion. I tend to agree. I miss the days when you could count on someone wearing toreador pants or a design of one's own creation to the Academy Awards. Now everyone's too scared.

Anyway, here's a shot of us, with my face obscured to keep this blog semi-anonymous. Or else he just thought his book cover was better-looking than me.

One thing (0ne of the many things) I like about my chosen career path is that I get to go to different parts of the city and see cool buildings and other things I didn't realize were there. Since I don't get to travel much these days I have to be satisfied with snatches of Paris or Italy here in Chicago--whether it's a leafy side street or the glow of a reddish building in late afternoon.

I snapped these after an appointment with a client. These buildings are just east of Sheridan around Wellington.

The second actually probably couldn't be anywhere but in the Midwest. Still, some nice unexpected treasures. Interestingly, just around the corner is a block of very modernist townhomes built in the 40s, I think. I was lucky enough to see the inside of one of those when I interviewed someone who lived in one for a story. They don't quite fit into the neighborhood--there are a ton of high-rises lining that section of Sheridan--but they're quite striking for just that reason. In a good way.

Then I went on a bike ride of the Irving Park neighborhood this weekend led by Lee Diamond of Big Shoulders Realty. (He was also my mortgage broker.) Lee does hours and hours of research for these rides. I missed the first two because, well, I am a fair-weather cyclist. It rained a little, but was quite warm, and then the sun came out at the end after all. He showed us some houses dating all the way back to the 1860s, a house by Prairie School architect Walter Burley Griffin, as well as a little area called the Villa. I'd stumbed across the Villa while riding before but didn't know much about it. Besides the adorable bungalows, the streets have landscaped medians, and most of the homeowners seems to be serious gardeners, or hire some very talented professionals. This time of year, the scent of lilacs and crabapple trees in flower is a very welcome bonus. No photos, but no doubt Lee will put some up on his website very soon.

trippin'

2008-05-10T12:40:00.004-05:00

This exact same thing happened to me yesterday. (Apologies for the crap quality and the fact it's in Spanish--this was the only clip I could find on YouTube.)

Except that me caí in Banana Republic, the definition of a mid-market retailer. And no one came to my aid--or even asked if I was OK--except for the sweet salesgirl.

PS: I am fine, except for a bruise on my thigh (and ego, of course).

spring

2008-05-06T19:20:00.002-05:00

The weather today was slated to be quite lovely, in the 70s. I had an appointment in the morning in Andersonville (translation for non-Chicago readers: a neighborhood on the north side of the city) and then another one downtown. I really didn't want to be stuck in the car or on the el all day (or pay for parking), so I decided to ride my bike on the lakefront path. It's probably about five miles from Andersonville to downtown and I gave myself more than an hour to get there--I'm kind of out of shape.

I had to look presentable for the meeting downtown, and I hate going out in public in any type of workout clothes anyway, so I just wore jeans and a sleeveless top and put my bag in the bike basket. I don't worry about getting all sweaty as I go pretty slowly. It seems like people's fear of getting dirty and sweaty is one of the big obstacles to commuting by bike. I guess I can understand it on really hot days, but mostly I think this is a result of our hygiene-obsessed society. Anyway, I like being dressed up on a bicycle. It looks tres chic and distinguishes you from all the T-shirt-and-Spandex-clad lemmings.

Most people on the path were obviously out for exercise, but there were a few walkers, a dad with two little boys and a kite, and a few people zipping around in motorized carts. It was warm enough to lie out on the beach and I did see a few early birds getting a leg up on their tans. I actually did get a little warm. But then after my meeting, as I was riding home, there was a chilly breeze coming in off the lake--I almost put on my jacket. It dissipated as soon as I headed west, aka away from the water. I should have taken a detour to Grant Park to see all the trees in bloom, but for some reason I thought I should get back and get some work done. Not that that happened.

I had also been worried about finding a bike rack on Michigan Avenue, but silly me--this is Bike City USA after all. There were plenty of racks. There's apparently also a bike "garage" near the northeast corner of Millennium Park with 300 spaces. I called to ask about it and the woman who answered the phone told me they hadn't ever reach capacity.

want.

2008-04-26T20:36:00.002-05:00

I'm a size 8, in case anyone is feeling generous.

and the winner is

2008-04-26T12:25:00.004-05:00

A fellow freelance writer and I were nominated for a writing award for a piece we did last year, and last night was the awards ceremony. I met up with my editor (who is also a good friend) and we trekked over to the Hotel Intercontinental. I attended the same awards a few times when I was an editor and they tend to be somewhat boring and the food not so good. But I thought if I didn't go and then I won, I would be disappointed. I don't know why--it's not like you get to make a speech or anything.

To save you the suspense, let me tell you right now I didn't win. I would have liked to so I could call myself an "award-winning writer," but I can't say I'm terribly upset. I don't know when I'll ever be nominated again though--award for covering fashion and style are somewhat thin on the ground.

One of the few people I recognized was a writer at the Wall Street Journal who I know through a friend. She didn't win either (and then she snuck out early!). I also saw--but didn't talk to--the managing editor of a publication who I interviewed with for a job about a year ago. I remember I was worrying about whether I could wear a sleeveless top to the interview--I knew it would be informal but I think it's always better to err on the side of caution. In the end I did wear the top, sans jacket, and guess what she wore? A halter top. I don't think her midriff was showing but it was an honest-to-God halter top. I probably didn't get the job because I was staring at her tits the whole time. I really don't think it's appropriate office wear, even at an informal, "hip" workplace--and did I mention she was in her late 30s at least? Then I saw her a few months later and she didn't remember me, or pretended not to. Tsk. So I certainly didn't bother to say hello last night. Yep, she was showing the flesh again. Although at least it wasn't a halter top this time.

the good life

2008-04-22T11:04:00.002-05:00

what is this?

2008-04-16T15:43:00.004-05:00

The door to the balcony left open? A strange yellow orb in the sky? The heat not kicking on every 20 minutes? Could it be...spring?

See that box next to the open door? Those are my Christmas tree ornaments. Yes, they have been sitting there for about three and a half months. Hey, I hurt my back, remember?

les petits soins

2008-04-14T10:18:00.005-05:00

We women are supposed to be so plucked and perfect, which includes our eyebrows. I've always had thickish eyebrows, but recently I decided to let them grow out a bit, a la Carine Roitfeld, editor of French Vogue. Hey, if a French fashion icon can have wild, bushy brows, so can I.

While the main parts of my eyebrows were fine, I thought the ends were looking a little thin, because I've always tried to keep them in line. I kept thinking of my mother, who at some point plucked so much from the ends of her eyebrows that they never grew back. So she always had to (very skillfully) color that part in with a pencil. When you saw her without makeup her eyebrows were like two accent marks, grave and aigu. I can tell you this because she has been gone a long time and I don't think she would mind too much. Well, she might mind a little, actually.

My brows do tend to be a teeny bit unruly so it was a little weird to let them go. I mean, I still clean them up. But I think they look better, or at least a little different. Maybe they draw attention away from the little wrinkles under my eyes that are at long last beginning to appear? Probably no one notices except for me--on both points.

good things

2008-04-10T18:23:00.003-05:00

The other day I was walking home from the el and a lady with a baby in a stroller said she was a psychic and she could do a reading at her office down the street: "I see good things for you." I politely declined and walked away, worried that she was cursing me behind my back. Then I remembered: I no longer live in Rome and I don't have to worry about Gypsies threatening me with the Evil Eye.

Anyway, perhaps she was telling the truth. I have received my first writing award nomination! It's an honor just to be, etc. On the other hand that doesn't mean I get out of faxing a certain local publishing conglomerate about three times with the same forms because they can't get their act together to pay me...

I am alive.

2008-03-20T11:06:00.002-05:00

And busy. But that's good, because I plan to have enough money to pay off my $%#! tax bill. (The first quarter tax bill for 2008, though, that might be another story.)

More soon.

a homonym lesson, occasioned by much gnashing of teeth while reading blogs, press releases, and even "old-style" journalism websites

2008-02-07T18:42:00.001-06:00

Something piques your curiosity, it does not peek or peak it. Or you might have a fit of pique.

You can get a sneak peek of something, but not a sneak peak, unless you are perhaps referring to a secret orgasm or some such thing. After which you would probably not be peaked (pronounced pee-kid), but rather somewhat flushed.

Then you might try to rein in your feelings, not reign them in.

Thank you for your understanding.

birthday bits n bobs

2008-01-21T16:53:00.000-06:00

Another year older. I’ve noticed the aging process a lot more in the last couple years, little things like brown patches on my skin (even though I wear SPF 15 all the time and have never been a huge sun bunny, daggone it), the aforementioned herniated disk (which really made me feel like an old woman), thickening middle, etc. But I can’t complain that much so far—no gray hairs yet and people still usually think I’m a decade younger than I am. I do get a little upset about these things, especially when I realize they’re not going to go away and in fact will get worse—but then I just have to shrug, because consider the alternatives: plastic surgery (which is more of a signifier of youth than an illusion of it, IMHO) and of course early death, which leaves one forever young in others' memories at least. But it's not much fun.

There is a blog I read all the time in which the author, who recently turned 50, bemoans the invisibility of women at that age. I’ll certainly agree that older women are disrespected/ignored/feared in our depressingly youth-worshiping culture, but every time she posts a photo of herself she’s got one of those unflattering short “mom” haircuts and is wearing a sweatshirt and blah jeans. If I were a man I probably wouldn't look at her twice either.

Friday I went to a dinner and opening party for the new! Marc Jacobs! boutique! in Wicker Park! which was quite an event. Jacobs himself was there, looking sleek and tanned in his new toned, post-rehab incarnation (I liked his longtime nerdy lool--pale, pudgy, and slightly sloppy--better). My friend took advantage of an opening in the crowds around him to run over and introduce herself, using the classic line, “Cold enough for ya?” Perry Farrell DJed, playing some surprisingly typical club tunes, not what I would expect from the singer of Jane’s Addiction. Maybe it got better after midnight, or maybe he was just playing what he thought we backwards midwesterners could handle. Photographer Victor Skrebneski was at my dinner table. The couple next to me were friends of his and the husband told me the famous story that Skrebneski advised Cindy Crawford to get rid of her mole when she was just starting out. “Don’t mention that in front of him, though,” he said.

Some recent purchases at tough-to-resist winter sales:

--an amazing pair of wide-legged, slightly high-waisted black wool pants that make me feel like Kristin Scott Thomas’ fearless modern 30s woman in The English Patient (minus the sad lonely death in a desert cave, of course). Only $110 at p45 (which became $140 after I had to have them hemmed twice, the second time because I didn’t have them do it short enough the first time, d’oh, still a steal tho).

--an odd purple sweater from Robin Richman that has buttons all over and all sorts of straps that I can arrange however I like, yet not at all bondagey-y. A much-needed addition to my sweater collection after the Great Moth Invasion of last winter.

--A totally impractical but utterly gorj cream leather overnight case (evocatively called a "ballet box") that I don’t think I would ever trust to an airplane’s overhead compartment. But it was just $85! Too evocative of an earlier time to pass up. However, I am still mulling the eBay possibilities.

--Again from p45, a silk plum blouse with a transparent panel at the collarbone and bell sleeves. $100!

Off now to do the work that will help pay for these little babies.

hpi nu yr

2008-01-02T14:05:00.000-06:00

Second day of 2008--my mouse didn't work because my cat broke it. Really.

Subject line from a spam email: "Earth barbecue." I like that one, it sounds like an invitation. Hey alien life across the galaxy, we'll be grilling over here on our planet from 3 PM til ?? Bring beer.

That's all I got today, so you can see how fried my brain is from all the time off.

the eve of

2007-12-24T11:55:00.000-06:00

I got tired of making gingerbread men pretty quickly (make dough...roll out dough...cut out cookies...bake cookies...ice cookies...repeat), so I decided to try another cookie recipe to switch things up. Because I am nothing if not crazy and unpredictable! I ended up with a recipe that was actually more labor intensive, but so damn delicious it doesn't matter: chocolate sandwich cookies with peppermint buttercream, rolled in crushed candy canes.

Buttercream is basically pure butter, so each one is a mini fat-delivery system. But so good. Angh.

Getting and decorating the tree this year was a bit complicated due to what seems to be a herniated disk in my back (boo!), but I did it. This is not necessarily my favorite ornament (that would be a little red satin horse that has been on my family's tree ever since I can remember), but the one I felt most appropriate for this blog:

The chicly garbed shopping cat.

Merry Christmas!

insta-glam for the holidays

2007-12-14T14:05:00.000-06:00

One flower brooch slipped onto one narrow headband = instant flirty cocktail chapeau.

traditions

2007-12-06T17:57:00.000-06:00

A winter wonderland . . .

. . . means it's time to make gingerbread cookies!

Better not eat too many though, as I can't run right now. Not because of the snow--because the excruciating pain from what I thought was a pulled muscle turned out to be sciatica. The doctor prescribed high doses of ibuprofen, Vicodin (yay!), and physical therapy. If I don't feel better by Monday, it's on to steroids, which I don't particularly want to take, and I don't think I can afford the physical therapy right now, or I won't when my new $1000 deductible kicks in after the new year, sigh. I am already drowning in medical bills, both human and vet. Ah, the modern insurance dilemma! It's so expensive you can't pay for the actual medical care you need.

blood pressure rising

2007-11-28T19:59:00.000-06:00

If I ever decided to go over to the dark side of public relations, I would be the best fashion pr flack ever--because the bar is so fucking low. Typical example: I email a company to ask if they have high resolution, off-model product shots of their bags we can use in our layout. Sure, no problem, they say. A day later they say, we have to send the bags somewhere else, can we just send you images? I say, images are what I asked for in the first place. Then they send me small, extremely low-res crappo snapshots of the bags hanging on hangers. Who in their right mind think this will work for a magazine layout? I want to reach through my email program and wring this clueless woman's neck for making my job so much harder. I am thinking about quitting this gig for just this reason. The writing is easy--it's the art gathering that is making my hair fall out. And don't get me started about the huge multinational fashion company (think plaid) whose voice mail system goes into an endless loop, and their customer service department doesn't even have a fucking phone number for them.

existential exercise

2007-11-24T14:39:00.000-06:00

Very strange experience today. I went for a run--and actually enjoyed it.

Let me explain. While I try to lead a relatively healthy lifestyle--I try to eat right, attempt to do some sort of exercise regularly, don't smoke, ride a bike, etc--I have always considered myself someone who only runs when she's trying to catch a bus. I drink, I have a severe sweet tooth, and I've always viewed exercise as a chore. My relationship with my longtime cheapo gym was one of hostile tolerance: the bathrooms smelled slightly off, some lunkhead was always grunting loudly on the weight machines, and the amenities were super-minimal. On the plus side, they had decent yoga classes and elliptical machines, and did I mention it is really cheap? Still, when they informed me the credit card they had on file had expired and they couldn't charge me for the upcoming year, I didn't exactly jump to renew and started looking at other possibilities.

In the meantime, I have to do some type of exercise, and a couple of weeks ago I went running in the park near my house. After the first few minutes, I felt like John Candy in the racquetball scene from Splash (Gasping: "Jesus, how long have we been playing?" "About ten minutes." "Oh my god, I need a break," lights a cigarette) and it didn't get much better. Yep, I thought to myself, running is still Not For Me.

But today, faced with no way to burn calories easily save for a $15 yoga class, I decided to try again. It was nice and sunny today and not horribly cold. I layered up, put on my running shoes (which I got in Italy about six years ago and are no doubt totally unfit for any sort of actual exercise), and set out, feeling supremely unattractive in an outfit cobbled together from my sad collection of workout gear and oversize promotional T-shirts. I went pretty slowly. A fast walker could probably overtake me quite easily. But soon I found that instead of telling myself, "OK, I'll just make it to that next lamppost and then walk for a bit," I didn't need to stop running. I even took the long way around the park. Whaaa? I actually looked back to make sure that I hadn't dropped dead of a heart attack somewhere back on my route and that my ghost was continuing to jog along, blissfully unaware of my demise. And when I got home I realized I felt great. Maybe it's that runner's high they talk about? Best part: not driving to the gym and back saved me about a half-hour, and I didn't have to get annoyed at other people's terrible driving.

This whole thing is giving me an identity crisis. If I now enjoy running, what else can happen? Will I suddenly decide to get rid of my TV? Give up refined sugar? Stop eating meat? Although I still think if that last one happens, you should alert the authorities, because aliens have surely taken over my brain.

cats 'n' shoes (not cats in shoes)

2007-11-17T14:40:00.001-06:00

I had resolved not to write so much here about ongoing unexpected expenses and boring stuff about my cat, but cannot resist a short complaint about vet bills. I feel rather guilty comparing Angus to a car, but in the six months since I got him from the shelter, he has had nonstop, er, gastrointestinal problems that changes in diet haven't helped. So the vet says it is time for some more tests, cha-ching! Of course after all the bills associated with Isak's last months I was hoping that a much younger cat would give me some respite, and I can't help being a little annoyed. Of course it's no one's fault, least of all poor Angus--after all, who knows what happened to him in the two years before I got him? And, as the beau pointed out to me, Angus chose me, after all--I had very little say in it, as I found I could not bring myself to leave the shelter without him.

The good news is that Angus grows ever more trusting and, dare I say, affectionate. He has always liked to be petted--but not on the stomach; he gets bitey--but has not been one to sit in my lap or sleep snuggled up, which was always one of my favorite parts of having a cat. I really felt something missing for a long time without Isak perched on my back or side when I went to sleep. But the other night Angus actually hung out next to me as I went to sleep, at least for a while. Pian piano, as the Italians say.

In other exciting news, I finally figured out how to get photos off my phone!

I am currently obsessed with coats with funnel collars, which is not what I need. I need sweaters and shoes. I ended up returning the sweater I bought at Nordstrom. I liked the cobalt color, but in the end it was just too bright for me. I looked fine in it, but it just required a certain stamina to wear that I don't always have. If I could find a dark purple or eggplant sweater, that would be perfect. As for shoes, it seems that I cannot for the life of me find a cool-looking flat everyday leather shoe--not ballet flats and not those horrible athletic shoe/loafer crosses. I am wondering if they even make them anymore for women--seems we're always supposed to be in dressy flats, boots, or heels.

worst. week. ever.

2007-11-07T17:39:00.000-06:00

OK, not really, in the grand scheme of things. But from the viewpoint of my bank account, very bad indeed! Well, the furnace and the teeth were just the beginning. I won't even mention everything that happened (some of which could have been horrific but because of luck, some shadowy daemon on my side, etc, were saved from being absolute disasters), but my hard drive also died. Good-bye, two and a half years of photos that I apparently did not back up on the hard drive I have specifically for backing up these types of things! Fortunately, I did save my documents, email, and address book files, so after hundreds of dollars we are back in business. My computer guy says I should really get a new computer, but ha ha, we know that's not happening right now. However, "new Mac laptop fund" may be #1 on my Christmas list this year. (Followed by "erase incredibly stubborn credit card debt fund.") It would probably be smart for me to have two computers anyway.

I was seriously considering consulting an astrologist or a voodoo priest to see who had put out a hit on me, but it all seems to be over now. I really don't believe in astrology at all, but apparently Mercury was in retrograde during this whole time, and oddly, I had a computer meltdown almost a year to the day last year. Clearly, this is not my time of year.

However, did that stop me from buying a somewhat pricey sweater at Nordstrom today? No, it did not. Herewith my justification: I am very picky and 85% of the time leave a store without buying anything. So even if a sweater is somewhat expensive, I am saving myself time by not going to ten more stores to find something. And frankly, I need some new clothes. I am in the odd position of having some basic items actually wear out, and last year's moth infestation claimed the lives of several sweaters, including one I had since college. It was from Tweeds. Remember Tweeds? I really liked that sweater and was quite upset. I still have it around on the off chance that I ever get around to having the holes rewoven. More likely I would just close them up with some thread (it's a black sweater). Also, did I mention the new sweater was on sale?

Right now I am being all homey and actually making my own chicken stock out of a chicken carcass left over from a dinner I made for sis and bro last week. Consulting my mother's 1960-something copy of the Joy of Cooking, I can see why it was redone several times. The chicken stock recipe says something like, "Cook the chicken carcass in 4 to 6 cups of water for about an hour and a half," followed by some explanatory notes. Then, only in the next paragraph does it say, "Also add chopped carrots, celery, bouquet garni," etc. Oh by the way, don't forget to add these things that make chicken stock delicious! Well, I hope that adding them 45 minutes late doesn't matter.

I am also making bolognese sauce according to Marcella Hazan's recipe. Marcella says it should simmer for 3 to 4 hours over what I can only assume is barely any flame at all. The practical cook in me says that one hour should be fine. We shall see who is the victor between old Italian practice and American practicality and impatience.

these modern times

2007-10-24T11:16:00.000-05:00

Is there anything less effective than the email "recall" message? Like when you get an email from a company you do work for announcing a big merger with another company and how it's going to be so amazing, and then a couple minutes later you get another email with one lonely meek-sounding line of text: "[Name redacted] would like to recall this message." I am sure you would! But there it is, still sitting in my in-box, while you are undoubtedly undergoing a severe beat-down in the CEO's office.

how to spend $3000 in one day; or, why did I become a homeowner again?

2007-10-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

Go to dentist. Find out you have four cavities. Oh, and you apparently grind your teeth, so you need a night guard. Cost: about $1000.

Later that afternoon, have guy come over to look at furnace, whose pilot light won't stay on. Keep fingers crossed that you won't have to replace it this year, even though you were told when you moved in that its days were numbered. After cleaning furnace and replacing a part, guy gives you the bad news that the furnace is indeed expired. Cost: $1700. The good news is you get an Angie's List discount, plus, today's visit is gratis. Also, new efficient furnace pays for itself in two years. Resolve to remind yourself of this if you start to freak out.

Decide you are definitely not going to Spain next month, may not go to Avec this weekend, can't buy a new computer battery just yet or those shoes you were eyeing, or anything else, really.

Fashion Focus Chicago report

2007-10-10T12:47:00.000-05:00

Three more days of Fashion Focus Chicago and I am already exhausted. There's a lot of drinking at these events, did you know? And it's all free, so you can't say no.

On Tuesday, the first day, I showed up at a private party after hastily doing a quick makeup application in the bathroom at Macy's (was too busy to stop at home and I do not have a pied-a-terre or an accommodating friend downtown). You know those monolithic condo towers that have sprouted up all over River North, replacing attractive-if-not-incredibly-noteworthy human-scaled buildings? At least one of them has a very nice pool.

I had barely eaten anything all day, but fortunately there were really delicious Vietnamese spring rolls there. Have you ever tried to casually stuff your face because you're starving while still attempting to appear suave and sophisticated? It's very difficult. When I got there I spent a few minutes chatting with the extremely nice hostess, but all the while my eyes were darting toward the food trays. Also provided: transportation to the Gen Art Fresh Faces in Fashion Show at Millennium Park in a trolley! It was kind of cheesy and sweet, but it also touched off a little too-cool-for-the-bus sentiment from some guests, who were talking about cabs. As I have no such compunctions about being too cool, I boarded the trolley. As did most of the guests in the end.

The show itself is about two hours of cocktails followed by a 15-minute runway presentation. This year I was pretty impressed with the selection--usually there are a couple clunkers, but this year's crop were all impressively fashion-forward. Abigail Glaum-Lathbury based her collection on insects, which sounds gross, but it resulted in painstakingly pieced-together tulip-shaped skirts that telegraphed a love for women's curves and recalled the wasp-waisted (get it?) gowns of Victorian and Edwardian women. However, I spotted some clothes that could have used a go-round with a steamer, stray/hanging threads, and other styling no-nos. The crowd: all the cool kids. This is show is the must-see. Gift bag: excellent. I scored a full-size bottle of Phyto shampoo among other luxury-brand goodies.

Wednesday: World Fashion Chicago, which is frankly more about the Sister Cities program than local designers. The crowd was very mixed and cosmopolitan: lots of embassy types, foreign visitors, etc. I amused myself by looking at the list of sister cities to Chicago and trying to find a theme. Recent additions to the program include Amman, Jordan (2004) and Lahore, Pakistan (2007). Chicago: fostering peace and understanding with Muslim culture through fashion! Gift bag: none, but plenty of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

Thursday: I was showing a woman from the French Trade Commission around various boutiques in Wicker Park and some guy flashed a sign at me that read, "Balding man, 40, seeks lover." Nice to see there are still some weirdos around there. Later, I stopped by the 4Lines installation at the Tourism Center to see clothes by a quartet of designer-artists who also teach at the School of the Art Institute: Katrin Schnabl, Anke Loh, Nick Cave, and Shane Gabier. Loved a jacket with subtle 3D pleats/folds by Shane Gabier. Nick Cave's creations were constructed from shirt cuffs and collars, etc, and covered with buttons, which means you can button on an accompanying sash, belt, etc., wherever and however you want. Brilliant. Spread: veggie trays from Jewel; no booze (which I desperately needed at that point).

The AIBI Chicago Is Red Hot show: better than I thought it would be, as I've heard so-so things about this show in the past. Was pleasantly surprised by wearable, pretty spring dresses in pink and green by Evil Kitty designer Lidia Wachowska. The crowd: very old-money Chicago (AIBI is a popular institution with the socially prominent)--I barely knew anyone. Food: there were about four waiters for 500 people, which meant I was reduced to stalking them for sustenance. Gift bags: The worst so far--a bag of Tootsie-Roll brand candies and a bottle of frosted red nail polish.

Wednesday:

the weirdest thing I've seen in a while

2007-10-01T13:55:00.000-05:00

http://www.style.com/trends/candy

My favorite part:
"And then you get like a gold bag, and you're at lunch, and people go, oh, you have a gold bag at lunch, but you have a gold bag!"

quiet

2007-09-05T15:58:00.000-05:00

I looked up from the laptop around noon and noticed it was awfully quiet in my 'hood--the only sounds were the wind and the occasional cicada buzz. "What's going on?" I thought. Oh yes, all the kids have gone back to school! Amazing what a difference it makes. If I closed my eyes it was like being on vacation in a country home.

wanderlust

2007-09-01T21:32:00.000-05:00

A simple fish stew supposedly dating back to Sicilian fisherman who kept the lesser bits of the catch for themselves is easy and very, very good. No wonder poor people's food has become so fetishized.

Cut up an onion and chop up a clove or two of garlic. Set them to saute in a pan with a couple tablespoons of olive oil. While the onions become aromatic, peel and cut up two tomatoes from the farmers' market into small pieces. If you've got some Italian parsley, chop that up too and add both to the pan. Slop in maybe a half cup of white wine and the same amount of water, more or less, as you like. Simmer for about ten minutes. Add about a pound of firm-fleshed fish: cod, halibut, etc. You could even thrown in some shrimp or mussels, although they'll cook faster. Cook for about 10-15 minutes more. Salt and pepper to taste. Drink too much wine and imagine you are in some rough seaside restaurant in Italy where the fish came out of the water just this morning, rather than the freezer at Whole Foods.

I want I want

2007-08-25T14:01:00.000-05:00

Most people have food cravings. I have fashion cravings. For fall I am craving a pair of orange leather opera-length gloves. Unfortunately so does everyone else, it seems: the Carolina Amato pair I was looking at is sold out in that color.

I would also like a handbag by a designer I just wrote about. Unfortunately I may end up making less for the story than the bag costs.

What happened to all the energy that carried me through three whirlwind weeks of a major project? It's gone, gone, gone. I don't know if I'm recovering or am suffering from a slight bug, but the legs in my muscles are achin' slightly and at 2 PM I'm ready for a nap; at 10 PM I'm pooped. Meanwhile I sleep eight or nine hours every night. I'm popping vitamins and eating my veggies in an attempt to get back to normal. Not that it's a debilitating illness or anything, I just hate being tired all the time. Especially when deadlines are a-calling.

I don't talk funny--you talk funny.

2007-08-18T11:04:00.000-05:00

Although Italy is my first love, I do have my corners of anglophilia, among them British comedy. For me one of its heights is surely the character of Alan Partridge, the insufferably un-self-aware, desperately ambitious two-bit radio host in Norwich played by Steve Coogan in two separate BBC series, Knowing Me Knowing You (Partridge is a big Abba fan) and I'm Alan Partridge. Recently I found out he created and stars in another series about a completely different character: Tommy Saxondale, a 50ish former roadie with anger issues. Now he owns a small pest-control business, which he refuses to sell to a corporation for a considerable profit because as an employee he'll be forced to shave his beard.

Coogan plays Tommy with completely different physicality than Alan, and a different accent, apparently from the East Midlands. That doesn't mean much to most Americans--it's been described as "drawling." Wait, this is the Internets--why don't I just show you a clip?

In a parallel universe, I became a linguist or an etymologist instead of a fashion writer. So, while trying to find out more about the East Midlands and how the accent developed, I found the George Mason University Speech Accent Archive, which has audio clips of accents in English from around the world, plus phonetic transcriptions, if you're into that kind of thing. English206, a woman from Nottinghamshire, seems to have a similar accent. Of course I couldn't resist checking out the Chicago accents. The nasality of English82's clip ("her brother Baaab") practically made my speakers buzz, although the other Chicago samples were a little more modulated. Maybe there's hope for us yet...

good things come to those who wait

2007-08-10T15:57:00.000-05:00

When I was about 11 or 12 miniskirts came back in a big way, and I really wanted one. After about the 20th time I whined to my mother about not having one yet, she snapped, "Oh, you know you always get what you want." And I did, a swingy navy blue number that I unfortunately paired with a dolman-sleeved top that was red on top and white on the bottom, so I looked a bit like a French flag turned on its side.

I noticed these Jeffrey Campbell shoes ("Jade") at various stores this spring:

But, as I'm on a serious budget, I decided not to indulge. A few weeks ago I saw a somewhat similar off-white pair by Corso Como, which were slightly more traditional Mary Janes but with the asymmetrical strap. Again, I couldn't justify the cost--especially since light-colored items don't stay pristine for long in my world.

However, today when I stopped at Lori's to kill some time between appointments, I saw that the Jeffrey Campbell shoes were on sale. In my size. For $30. Like they were waiting for me. When I got to the register, the salesperson told me they were a further 30 percent off--so the final price was $20.

So I guess this means I'll eventually get the amazing pair of Vic Matie boots I saw there--I'll just have to wait until January or so.

living vs. life

2007-08-05T17:57:00.000-05:00

I heart Heather Havrilesky not just for her spot-on commentary on TV but also for her deadpan-but-terribly-true asides:

Seizing the day is a slippery slope for old people like me. Once you're old enough to fully grasp just how short life is, you're constantly tempted to hop the next plane to Italy and max out your credit cards on really good pasta and Chianti. But you're also old enough to know that if you don't sublimate those urges, the dog won't get fed and the toaster will fill up with crumbs and then burst into flames and burn the house down at the exact moment when the fire insurance expires because the bill went unpaid for too long.

So true, especially when I get to reading expat-in-Italy blogs and thinking I've been away too long. It's hard to seize the day when you're afraid that credit card debt will evolve into seize-the-house.

I'm usually not terribly annoyed by people who choose to write emails without capitalization, other than thinking it's a little affected, and not in a terribly creative way, either. However, I tend to hold journalists to a higher standard, so imagine my surprise when I got a note from someone who writes regularly for--well, let's just say a major Chicago publication--with no caps whatsoever. I mean, it must have been a conscious choice at some point. I suppose caps do slow one down by .05 seconds or whatever. Maybe I'm just not that busy. I also got irritated walking past a neighborhood grocery with a sign proclaiming they had "HOT" coffee, which is not even worth getting irritated about, as there have been whole books written about this phenomenon already.

truly the end of an era

2007-07-26T17:01:00.000-05:00

If you are at all interested in Chicago media, you have probably heard already, but I felt the need for acknowledgment. All the "the Reader has gone down the tubes/Liz Armstrong sucks/it's too fluffy now/etc etc" comments at least show that people have very strong feelings about the paper. If I'm a-feared of anything, it's that they no longer will.

off with their wigs!

2007-07-13T11:31:00.000-05:00

Bit sorry to hear that the British judicial system has decided that the traditional wigs will (mostly) become a thing of the past next year. I can't help but think of this Monty Python sketch. "And then I waggled me wig, ever so slightly! Stunning effect!"

tales from the domestic front

2007-07-09T09:07:00.000-05:00

One of the reasons I put off buying a home for so long was that somewhere deep down I knew I would freak out at the inevitable home repairs. I don't know why the prospect of having to call a plumber or a repairman seemed so daunting--probably has something to do with my control and money issues. Anyway! Last night my garbage disposal jammed up. I know how to deal with that--you take an Allen wrench and unjam it from underneath the sink. However, I soon realized that a silver espresso spoon I brought back with me from Italy (poor spoon) had got caught in there and I hadn't even realized it. (Although I had been thinking that the disposal was louder than usual, duh.) I managed to retrieve a couple of bits, but the remaining fragment, which I couldn't locate, was causing trouble. You can imagine the scene: me laboring for an hour and a half over the disposal until very late, forced to peer into it without the benefit of a flashlight, lots of cursing, etc. (Fortunately I do have central air, so yesterday's crushing heat was not included in the equation.) Finally the disposal seemed totally jammed: I couldn't turn it from below no matter how hard I pushed and pulled. After much swearing at the universe about yet another expense and maybe some tears, I went to bed, thinking that things would look better in the morning.

Well! Against my better judgment, this morning I decided to try the Allen wrench method one more time. And it turned with no resistance or grinding whatsoever. Gingerly, I flipped the switch. It works fine. I don't know if it was little elves or the universe giving me a break, but I'm very grateful.

things to complain about, and things to be happy about

2007-06-26T19:14:00.001-05:00

If there were a need for any more proof that being rich and having a famous name excuses everything, we have Lapo Elkann, heir to the Fiat fortune and grandson of the superstylish Gianni Agnelli. I don't understand why magazines are slobbering all over him. Or rather, I do understand, but do not see why the farce that these rich folk also are good-looking and talented must continue. I suppose Lapo's blondness may do it for some, but I never liked the pale eyebrow'd look myself. And if his OD'ing at a transvestite hooker's apartment in Turin were not enough to convince you that he is perhaps not a gentleman, he also insults waitresses. Classy.

Don't mind me. I'm just grumpy that today's rainstorm meant it took me an hour and a half to get home today from an appointment downtown, and then there was an $850 medical bill waiting for me. My insurance (which just went up again this month) says the procedures are not medically necessary. I plan to appeal and argue that it's medically necessary to me, at least, to catch possibly inherited ovarian cancer at the earliest possible moment, but we know those crazy insurance companies would rather save $850 now and pay out thousands of dollars later. I do not actually believe I am going to get ovarian cancer but, after seeing what my mother went through, I would rather have the peace of mind of knowing I do everything possible to check for it. I guess that's worth $850. Sure wish the insurance company thought so too.

One of the big fashiony things-in-the-making that I alluded to worked out and the other one didn't. I'm not so sad about the one that didn't, except it would have meant I would have some money coming in right away. The other one will take some time but it has much more potential. So it's good, as long as I can keep keeping all these balls in the air. I know I am being enigmatic.

Today I was wearing a dress to bike to the farmers' market (where they had fresh peas again! and zucchini blossoms!) and as I was unlocking it a woman said, "I always wear a dress when I ride my bike too, it look so charming." Although the helmet ruins the effect somewhat. I wish more people would make random comments to strangers like that; it's fun. Then I went home, stuffed the blossoms with goat cheese, fried them, and ate them.

label whore

2007-06-07T18:59:00.000-05:00

I visited Tula the other day, a boutique whose opening I somehow missed, and ended up trying on a very light blue, very light cotton sleeveless top with a bubble hem, but not so bubbly that I look like a clown. It was by Hache, which is an Italian label that doesn't seem to have much of a presence in the U.S. It is also apparently a lower-price copy of the Italian designer brand Marni (which, as I have pointed out before, is my very very favorite), down to the labels:

Not that the top wasn't expensive, although they did put it on sale while I was there. But this was one of those times where an item passed the 24-hour test (in this case, more like the 96-hour test): I kept thinking how great it looked on me, what I could wear it with, and how perfect it would be for the summer: chic yet comfortable. (The saleswoman said, "It's like wearing a cloud!" And it is.) So I bought it, feeling guilty because of the cost and also because I am in really dire need of bottoms, not tops. However, I've already worn it a couple times and can tell this is one of those really good investments.

Another big purchase: a new cat! Meet Angus.

He is a grey tabby, almost two years old, and he loves da head rubs.

There are lot of exciting fashion-related developments and possible developments over here at Fashion Survivor HQ, but as this is a semi-anonymous blog, I'm not going to tell you about them. (Friends, you can email me for the scoop.) Suffice it to say, for now at least, that I am very excited and gratified that my hard work is starting to pay off. And not just in exposure--in dollas. Yeaa, I'm talkin green, and not the environmental kind!

how it goes in my neighborhood on the weekends

2007-06-02T09:58:00.001-05:00

Neighbors down the block have a party until 3 AM (or later; I finally managed to fall asleep). Then, neighbors next door decide to have a loud coffeeklatch outside at 9 AM for 45 minutes, heedless of the long brick wall of windows directly facing their backyard. When I finally give up and get up to make coffee, they're done! Silence.

Grrr.

I'm back, y'all

2007-05-23T18:18:00.000-05:00

Savannah was beautiful, although unfortunately I didn't meet any odd locals a la Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. We did have a walking tour-guide who could have passed for one...he told us he was legally blind, "because I didn't want y'all to think I was drunk." And lots of yankee-insulting, of course. I did hear lots of ghost stories from one of the hotel clerks, Glen, who says that Savannah is the most haunted city in the country (yep, even more than New Orleans) and claimed that when they were digging the foundation for a new development downtown they had to dig through six feet of bones. He told us about the resident ghost at the hotel across the street, who doesn't like women and will shove them, and how his brother, who is the kitchen manager, has had dishes and pots fly at him from the shelves. No ghosts at our hotel, other than him hearing the footsteps of a little girl on the second floor each night who supposedly hit her head and bled to death. It might not have given me the creeps so much except that my brother, who is perhaps the least likely person to believe in Messages From the Other Side, told us that one night he was staying overnight at the home of his best friend from high school, who had died recently, and he heard footsteps overhead when there was no one else at home. (He didn't go check it out.) So I did not get much sleep that night. I wouldn't mind seeing a ghost, I suppose, if I was with someone, but they always seem to show up when you're by yourself. Which I would not like. So don't get any ideas, Spirit World.

We ate pretty well--did not get to Paula Deen's restaurant as it was a huge hassle (no phone reservations, and you have to get there early to put your name in--screw that!) but we did eat at Mrs. Wilkes' Boarding House, which was amazing--all family style, and they put out bowls and bowls of southern home cookin': the best fried chicken I've ever had, sweet pickled beets, black-eyed peas, bbq pork, stuffing, squash, collard greens...needless to say I gained several pounds over the course of the week. We also spent a couple days in the Georgia Islands, which I also highly recommend. Perhaps to some a beach is a beach is a beach, but I enjoyed the southern Gothic feel of the marshes in the early morning (despite the condos and the beach McMansions everywhere) and seeing crabs twittering along on the sand. Also dolphins. These things are exciting for a midwesterner living near a freshwater lake where the most exciting sealife are the dead alewives that periodically wash ashore.

Needless to say, a week with the family is more than enough and I am quite back to be home, even if the cicadas are coming. Are they? I haven't seen any, which is perfectly fine with me.

more on Isabella Blow

2007-05-10T09:48:00.000-05:00

Here's a wonderful (and sad) tribute by Cathy Horyn in the New York Times.

the untimely death of a fashion eccentric

2007-05-08T17:40:00.000-05:00

I was very sorry to read that the madcap stylist Isabella Blow died the other day at the age of 48. She was one of a breed that is itself dying out--the true eccentric, something I have written about here in the past. I really admired her approach to both life and fashion. She was an odd-looking woman in a world where a very narrow definition of beauty is accepted (she once said she looked like "a Plantagenet portrait") but hardly let that get in her way. Although she was born into a aristocratic family, her father left her very little and she had to work for her dinner. She was confident and courageous enough to dress up in an age when there are thousands of versions of Joan Rivers just waiting to savage the unwary celebrity who makes the mistake of trying to look original. I was always particularly charmed by her love for hats. Perhaps I will wear one out this week as a tribute, although it certainly won't be as attention-getting as the ones she wore--in the shape of lobsters or giant sailing ships.

Various obits said she died of ovarian cancer (which my mother died of at age 43)--such a cruel disease, because it's very difficult to detect, and by the time symptoms start manifesting it's too late. There are also whispers that she might have committed suicide--apparently she had suffered from depression and had tried it before. Either option is quite sad, and besides the personal loss to her friends and family, the fashion industry is a little less interesting and vibrant without her.

I have no idea

2007-05-05T18:13:00.000-05:00

...why the font and size on that last post is different. I've gotten really annoyed trying to fix it. Well, perhaps things will get to normal after a few days...that is my usual MO with far too many problems in my life.

pensando di Roma

2007-05-05T18:08:00.001-05:00

I had set aside today to work on a story that really should be turned in on Monday, but it's not happening. Instead I found myself noodling around on the Interwebs, reading my-life-in-Italy blogs. (I had one of these was I was in Italy, sort of a proto-blog--they called them home pages then, remember?) Most of these are by women, and a surprising amount moved there because they met and married an Italian man. They make it sound so easy, like Giancarlo is just waiting to meet you when you buy your first cappuccino. But maybe it is easy--how would I know? I stupidly maintained a long-distance relationship the entire time I lived in Rome. I still think about what could have been, especially with one adorable Filippo...

Reading about these people's tales of visiting markets, meeting their fruit vendor's dad, chatting with the vet...it made me wistful for the interwoven lifestyle there, where you actually go out and talk to the same people each day, and it's not going to be the sullen teenage cashier at Walgreens. Or if it is a sullen teenager, it is someone who you've known since they were a kid and will know later when they finally exit the terrible teens, because a lot of business are family-owned.

In Rome I lived on the via Buonarroti in a neighborhood called Esquilino, not far from the Colosseum. It was (and remains) both a very old-school, somewhat worn Roman neighborhood as well as the site of a sizeable immigrant community, mostly Asians and Africans. (Imagine my dismay to see an article earlier this year in Travel + Leisure by the novelist Gary Shteyngart exposing his favorite hidden corners of Rome, one of which was my beloved Esquilino!) I remember "auditioning" various cafes, because in Italy where you go for your coffee and/or nightcap is very important and says a lot about you. I axed one place because the barista called me a bimba, or baby. I finally settled on a very no-frills establishment about a block from my apartment. It was run by a family--the parents and their children, a son and a daughter. It was all very working-class, very matter-of-fact--no thing to draw the average tourist, who were just tolerated. I was one of those tourists, but I kept going anyway. The son was very kind to me (no surprise there), and we chatted occasionally about things like the weather--I still remember, on a day that threatened rainstorms, his mouth opening like a bubble on the word buio. The others were much tougher. The daughter was what I came to think of as a certain type of Roman girl--tough, engaging in repartee with the regulars that always sounded like a challenge. I never got anywhere with her, or the father, who tended to wear a distressingly dirty work tunic. But by the end of my stay--about nine months--I considered it a personal victory that mamma finally acknowledged my regular status with a little nod and occasionally even cracking a slight smile. But I still never went stopped by to tell them I was leaving. I don't know why. I guess I didn't really think they would care.

But even if I never achieved the level of intimacy the Italian residents did, I always looked forward to my visits. I thought of it as a process, with each visit taking me a little closer to my goal. More importantly, it gave me a bit of an anchor and routine in a country where I didn't really know anyone, besides my crazy American roommate. I still existed, because the family at the cafe recognized me, even if they didn't act like it, and they might even (I imagined) fleetingly register my absence if I went missing for too long. On my next visit I would like to see if they are still there. I hope so.

2007-04-27T10:47:00.000-05:00

I had to put my poor cat down yesterday. I knew it was coming for a while, but one is never really prepared. She’d seemed worse than usual the last couple days, not really eating (although happy to eat treats and look expectantly at my food) and not meowing and yowling as much. Then, yesterday, she climbed up on my lap and was all trembly, flinching when I spoke and even at the sounds of me typing on the laptop. I decided to make an appointment for her at the vet, thinking at least they might do something to make her more comfortable. Not a minute after I got off the phone, she had some sort of seizure, which lasted about thirty seconds, and I thought that was it. I didn’t know what else to do but keep my hands on her to let her know I was there. When it was over, she lay there sort of stunned. Of course I scooped her up and took her right to the vet—it seemed pretty dire, but they told me to put Karo syrup on her gums, which is what you’re supposed to do when a diabetic cat is hypoglycemic, so I had some hope that it was just that. She hadn’t been eating much, after all.

Turns out my regular vet “was no longer with [the office],” (a turn of phrase that seemed to suggest some sort of non-amicable split), so I ended up seeing another one, who showed me the X-ray of her by now massive tumor and asked me if I’d been aware of it. Well of course—I’ve basically been waiting for her to die for six months! Anyway, that was that. Now I am having all sorts of guilt about little details, like I should have held her in my arms instead of just petting her while they did the thing, and that I should have stayed with the body longer—it seemed wrong to just leave her lying there, but I suppose that’s normal. On the other hand I am really grateful that it happened while I was home and I was able to get her to the vet right away. Also, very thoughtful of her to go right before I had to buy another expensive bottle of insulin (but not before I replenished the supply of syringes. Oh well.).

Here she is several months ago. Notice her choice of reading material. Even kitties want to keep on top of trends.

The beau came over last night and we went to get something to eat, although I am annoyed because he didn’t offer to pay for my dinner. I didn’t mention it because it seemed petty and I didn’t feel like arguing, but is it too much to expect to be treated when your cat dies? And it’s not like we were at Chez Spendy—we were at the Hopleaf eating Belgian pub grup. It’s not the money anyway, it’s the lack of thoughtfulness, or this insistence on going Dutch at all times no matter what.

Anyway, I have lots of deadlines, so there’s no more time to devote to red-eyed sniffling on the couch. I’m working on a feature about wedding trends and while doing research discovered that a potential source, a woman who ran a store selling wedding accessories, had gone out of business, apparently because she had a second baby. (That’s what it says on the website, anyway.) I hate to be judgmental because (a) I don’t even have one baby and (b) I don’t know what the state of her business was like, but it seems to me to be such a waste (more so than just leaving a job), to build up a brand, get all this press, be relatively prominent in the industry, and then just close up shop altogether instead of hiring someone to oversee everything, or getting a partner, or something. Well, as I say, I don’t know the whole story. But it depressed me.

tips for shopping at Trader Joe's

2007-04-18T11:02:00.000-05:00

Of course the staff here is always superhelpful and preternaturally cheerful (just what do those Hawaiian shirts do to a person?), but if you find that's not enough, try dropping by after a cocktail party wearing a pencil skirt, black tights, and chunky heels, stand thoughtfully gazing at the wine aisle, and see what happens. I never had so many offers of help choosing between merlot and zinfandel in my life. (Reminder to self: easy pick-me-up next time confidence in appearance is flagging.)

However, this might not be as effective if you are not a woman.

risking alienating my five readers with cat stories

2007-04-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

Lately my cat likes to hang out by her water bowl to the point that she falls asleep with her chin on the rim. I keep trying to get a picture of it to send to cuteoverload.com (yes, just sign me up for spinsterhood right now) but she inevitably wakes up as I creep up with the camera. This behavior has been going on for several weeks now and I can't figure it out. Is she so thirsty that she can't bear to leave the water bowl, even for a nap? Maybe she needs more insulin. I suppose I should take her to the vet but frankly the prospect of another $600 bill to tell me something I already know (i.e., she is one sick kitty) is nudging me toward the inexpert diagnosis route. Still, she's still here, which is pleasant, despite weird behavior like standing on my chest while I am watching TV in bed and staring at me for about five minutes at a time. It was actually quite eerie. I started out joking with her--"Stop staring at me! You're freaking me out!" And then she really was freaking me out. It was like that scene in Gods and Monsters when Ian McKellen is having a WWI flashback and gets right in Brendan Fraser's face to stare at him like some sort of evil alien with his skinny face and bulgy eyes.

Anyway, I thought of this because a couple days ago I got a banh mi sandwich from Nhu Lan Bakery (2612 W. Lawrence), which perfumed my car with the scent of pork products and for which my cat went crazy, trying to stick her head in the plastic bag it came in. I got the #2, which is pate, ham, and--I think--head cheese, plus some pickled vegetables on a remarkably flaky baguette. Oh my god, so amazing--and only a couple bucks. You must go. I was expecting some sort of loaf-y pate but it was super rich and pasty, and such a play of textures with the other ingredients. I may have to go back tonight and get more. I also tried a can of "sugar cane drink," which I was not a fan of--a little musty tasting, although I suppose I could see how it could become an acquired taste.

waiting by the phone like a lovelorn teenager

2007-04-03T15:02:00.000-05:00

So a story subject promised me two hours ago he would call me back asap so I could check some facts, a process I assured him would take about ten minutes at most. So I'm stuck sitting by the phone, unable to concentrate on much else because I'm hyperaware about my editor freaking out. Perfect time to throw up a post on the ol' blog!

Funny how certain words fall out of fashion. I've been sensitive to the word "classy" lately, as in "she's a classy lady." Has it always sounded like so hoi polloi? It's like when certain people unironically describe a restaurant as "fancy." Or "gourmet." Remember when that signified fine food? Now it just sounds out of date. (Oddly, the noun form seems to be OK, if not used very often anymore.) The vaunted terms today are "artisanal," "organic," "free range." I wonder if it's a case of the bar being set ever higher--that is, as better-quality food is increasingly available to everyone, even the language shifts to reflect the increasingly aspirational and expert-ized nature of dining and food. I'm sure a linguist or an etymologist would have something to say on the subject. (Hmm, I sense a story idea here. Don't steal it!) I'm always sorry I didn't study more on those subjects--I've actually been dying for a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary for years, and I often think of Erin McKean's career as a living, breathing, uncomfortably close version of The Path Not Taken.

Meanwhile, the path I have taken is winding down an exciting path...the kind of path that keeps you up uncomplainingly until the wee hours working on a project. The kind of path I feel so energized by that after a day of work, rather than staggering into the kitchen and pouring myself a big ol' glass of wine, I biked to the gym, worked out, and came back still feeling exhilarated. A very unusual sensation for me, but most welcome.

yet another C-list celeb copying me

2007-03-20T14:11:00.000-05:00

First it was Nicky Hilton. Now Dita Von Teese is macking my style. Although to be fair I sold this Nanette Lepore top on eBay several years ago.

Dita, if I'd known it was you bidding on it, I would've cut you a break.

2007-03-19T17:51:00.000-05:00

I hugely enjoyed the profile of Karl Lagerfeld in the New Yorker this week. Say what you want about former fatty Karl whispering that a model needs to lose a few kilos or stirring up rivalries in his social circle like a bored monarch—as I’ve alluded to before, fashion absolutely requires these oversize, outré personalities. (Favorite quote: “I am not knowing so many unknown people, hmm?”) Also, this story makes me feel better about having magazines and other media detritus covering nearly every surface in my home. Even if they are cluttering up a table I got for $50 from CB2 and not one made in the 17th century.

As a writer I also liked the description of Lagerfeld talking nearly nonstop for two hours. Obviously as a writer you want your subject to talk a lot, but sometimes you start to get tired, you start thinking about how much time this is going to take to transcribe and write versus how much you’re getting paid, and can’t this person just edit him or herself and give you what you need in a tidy little package? Then you start to feel guilty, because this is what being a writer is all about, and if you want everything all neat and tidy, you should just go work for a bank or something, and if the person didn’t talk your job would be even more difficult, so just put another tape in the recorder and keep listening, dammit.

Watched “The Holiday” yesterday in a spasm of chick-flickitude. I must confess I love romantic movies set at Christmastime—see "Love, Actually." I’m not a huge Cameron Diaz fan, but she wasn’t too annoying. Except for her clothes. I suppose as a big-shot LA film editor she is supposed to dress in weird Ugg-like boots and shearling coats, but surely after a day or two staying in a small English town you would turn it down a notch, no? If only just to stop all the old biddies in their sensible M&S separates from staring.

which one once compared investigative journalists to “swarming, grunting masses of jackals"?

2007-03-15T18:33:00.000-05:00

Why has no one yet commented on the remarkable resemblance between Conrad Black, the former owner of Hollinger International, on trial right now for defrauding that company out of millions of dollars....

...and the actor Albert Finney?

the windows are open

2007-03-13T14:11:00.000-05:00

Really nice weather today, but riding the bike does not yet bring spring's full offerings of pleasure, as the trees are still woefully bare. Everything is gray gray gray, except for the sky.

I've been thinking about my very skewed perception about how much money most people have/make: probably a result of reading too many fashion magazines and the New York Times style section. I start to think that anything under $100K/year is poverty level, and then I read some salary survey that brings me back to reality. It doesn't help that talking about money is, as they say, the last taboo. A very important taboo that helps keep our capitalist system afloat. Can you tell that I am looking for a job?

del toro va a ser cerrado

2007-03-09T16:29:00.000-06:00

Sad news today that Del Toro (whose website is not configured for Firefox) in Wicker Park is closing. (Glad I chose it for my birthday dinner this year.) I remember everything being delicious, especially the Tater-Tot-like tomato-filled patatas bravas and the spicy dried chickpeas. I am not even a big fan of chickpeas. I hope chef Andrew Zimmerman finds a new job soon--I would imagine he'll stick around Chicago, since his wife Lindsay is doing so well with Habit.

the world wasn't ready

2007-02-27T16:57:00.000-06:00

The Gap announced today it is closing down all of its Forth & Towne stores. Aww. Just when F&T was starting to grow on me. As I said, in the end shopping is all about the clothes, and that's what sank them. Although the silly clothing categories were the most obvious example of how they were trying to force a way of thinking on customers--which is pretty hard to make work.

Does this mean my top will be a collectible someday?

vindicated!

2007-02-26T09:53:00.000-06:00

Last night on Barbara Walters' Oscars special, Helen Mirren explained that she never wears pants because, she claims, she has a big rear end and short legs. And then she said (paraphrasing), "And never shorts. Why do American women always wear shorts? They look so horrible, those little shorts."

Ha ha!

Other random Oscar fashion thoughts:

You had to wonder what Andre Leon Talley was thinking when he put Jennifer Hudson in that space-age silver bolero jacket. Thankfully, she ended up taking it off inside.

No one really made a huge style splash like Michelle Williams in her canary-yellow dress and red lips last year. But we should all hope to be as hot as Helen Mirren in our 60s.

chicago less fashionable than sf or houston?

2007-02-25T12:23:00.000-06:00

I had no sooner requested a press pass to IMG's Fashion Week Live than I was informed that the event has been cancelled in Chicago as well as Dallas...but it will go on in San Francisco and Houston. Reportedly it's because massive entertainment and media conglomerate IMG was concerned about being spread too thin. I can't believe it was because of low ticket sales...this city turns out in droves for anything smacking of fashion and fame.

everybody get random

2007-02-19T15:20:00.000-06:00

I like Paris, but Rome is still tops with me. The northern grey and brown cityscape of the City of Lights cannot compete with the golden sunlight and ocher and terracotta hues of the Eternal City.

Today at Walgreens the cashier called me "sweetie." I probably had a good five or ten years on her. I hate that. It's like a verbal pat on the head. I'm almost 40 for god's sake--some respect, please.

I haven't bothered to buy winter footwear for about ten years--I mean real winter boots, the kind you have to wear when two feet of snow comes tumbling down or when it starts to melt, leaving rivers of mucky water draining in the gutters for days on end, lest you ruin those pretty leather boots--I guess because we haven't had all that much snow for a long time and it seemed ridiculous to spend so much money on something I would end up wearing for a week, tops. But this week I have been hauling out the winter moccasins, which aside from my hiking boots and some bright yellow rainboots (which the beau says make me look like a superhero) are my only options with so much crap on the ground. All I can say is, people in Paris don't have to deal with this--that's why they get to wear cute flats year-round.

je suis fatiguee

2007-02-18T19:08:00.000-06:00

I've been back for about two days now and I'm still in a jet lag haze, having just spent an hour in a weird half-dreaming state tinged with guilt for not making a list of all the things I have to do now that I'm back in my Real Life. I hate reentry.

I really looked for some gorgeous piece of clothing that I could feel good about spending money on, but it did not appear. I did see a jacket I liked--asymmetrical opening, big buttons--but with the dollar so insanely low (about $1.30 to the euro), adding on 30 percent to everything quickly brought me back to reality, even when things were on sale. I stopped in at my favorite shop, Isabel Marant, but nothing thrilled me. Unfortunately I didn't make it to Colette, but I figured I wouldn't be able to afford anything anyway--why torture myself? I went to Muji looking for cunning Japanese-designed housewares but came out with a pretty cool grey cardigan instead. And I picked up a couple tops at Zara. Also two bottles of wine, expensive olive oil, and several delicious chocolate purchases, most notably a salty caramel macaron and a puck of rich chocolate ganache (which also had an intriguing tang of salt) at Pierre Herme. So I did pretty well without breaking the bank.

I won't write about our restaurant experiences just yet because I want to try to sell an article about it, but when in Paris you must get hot chocolate at Cafe Angelina. It's like a melted bar of the best chocolate bar you've ever tasted in a cup.

Trends? I saw a lot of ballet flats and shorter coats. Perfectly tied knit scarves are still the norm, of course. Men's style in Paris impresses me more than women's, probably because I don't see much mysterious about Parisian women's style anymore--it's more a matter of making an effort every day to look pretty. But how I do wish men here would pay more attention to how they look! I saw so many guys dripping with style--not just the classic Gallic ensemble of black turtleneck and artfully draped cashmere scarf but the scruffy jeans-and-sweater look. (I sat next to one of these cute scruffy-chic types on the plane home, sneaked a look at his immigration form, and discovered he was 27. I felt old.)

And then I got home from six days of meat-eatin' (including three servings of foie gras--would've eaten more if I could've) and headed to a fashion show sponsored by the Humane Society of the United States for an assignment. And who should be receiving an honor but Alderman Joe Moore, the man behind the much-derided foie gras ban? He spoke with pride of the city finally fining one of the restaurateurs "flouting" the law (it was Doug Sohn of Hot Doug's, probably the easiest target as well as the least wise choice with which to send a message, in terms of public sentiment at least) and compared the public's ridicule of him to the sufferings endured by early supporters of civil rights. Feh. Later, when I was getting a drink, I noticed that he had left his engraved crystal paperweight of an award on the bar. I might have stolen it if I hadn't been working.