There's something about this time of year I really enjoy. The weather was perfect today; not too cold, but crisp and damp, and the clouds were thick jagged strips of cotton that partially obscured the mountains. We ate a egg and bacon croissant with fruit in a small bakery near our house; I've put up most of the Christmas decorations, with pine branches spread over the wood mantle, silver stars speckling the green, and white lights on our tree.
I have sipping chocolate and wine, and we had a rich dinner, and friends are over and we're writing with the rain dribbling down outside. And even though I still have inches left of papers to grade, I can feel the end drawing near, and it comforts me.
. . .
I love the drama of platinum hair. And her attitude about organic vs. big guns - I'm sort of similar. I'll do what's healthy/organic/responsible only up to a point. Although I'm almost contemplating following a gluten free diet for awhile and seeing what happens.
. . .
Give it your best. All anyone can ever ask for, and a perfect book inscription.
I didn't used to. For a long time I rarely carried cash on me at all. But recently, without my meaning for it to, change has started following me around.
I have a small stash in a compartment in the center console of my car. When you lift its cover, two small lights on either side illuminate the coins and other detritus - and your face, if it is dark enough - like the mysterious contents of the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. It used to only be pennies, but I've started dumping the leftovers from my cash drive-thru purchases in there, and so the treasure has grown.
I have no designated place in my purse for my change, so it gets thrown in the main compartment with everything else. This means that when I am craving Sour Worms as a midday pick-me-up, I must dig through layers of coupons, of my several accumulated lip potions, of pens and other forms of payment. It's not just limited to my small, everyday purse, either - the larger tote I take to work also suffers from the curse of the bottom-of-the-bag quarters.
Perhaps even worse is that I begin to make small piles of change for when I think I might get something from a vending machine, and then, for one of a myriad reasons, change my mind. I've started throwing those piles, when I realize I've made them and won't use them, into one of the small plastic sections of my desk drawer at school. That section has started overflowing and spilling into the others.
I have stashes of change in jean pockets. I have a pile in a metal desk organizer in my kitchen. I have a plastic jar of change that I collected briefly before Joley was born, with the idea that it could end up being some sort of college savings fund. I have change in my makeup bags. I have change in a couple small jewelry boxes. And yesterday, I added a small pile of Mexican change in a plastic baggie to my school desk drawer, holding it in trust for a student who used it for a class project.
In class the other day, one of my more unusual students said, "Miss, I know that for the last, like, thirty years or so, our Senate and House - well, our Congress - have been debating about whether or not we should just get rid of the dollar bill." I told her I doubted that was true, since I hoped they have more important things to discuss, but even more so because they haven't bothered to get rid of the penny, yet.
In some ways, I really wish they would. Bills don't haunt me the way those dim little disks of metal do.
Keys of rain Rain keyed in Slanted horizon and a girl looking perpetually over her shoulder in a dead Sea Things are not as you believe A wandering Jew and his daughter stopped to drink some water and found only salt tears in the sea If you believe in stars in a field of grass and sailing ships without masts I cannot help you
There is only watered down wine and people losing track of time oozing across tracks that don’t exist because time is an illusion
We’ve had a lot of sangria at this point. I myself am working on my fourth glass, and that after downing quite quickly the remnants of the Sofia Coppola Riesling that Colin and I opened for brunch.
It is, once again, our Sunday writing group. We’ve spent the last two years together—gaining and losing a few members along the way—changing our format until we evolved into a sort of pot luck dinner party/writing time/sharing time model.
I cannot tell you how good this writing group has been for me. For one, it ensures that I do actually write something every so often. For another, it has been instrumental in helping me keep my house clean on a regular basis (like my students, I need deadlines, or I have difficulty keeping up with the work). For a third, and probably most significantly, these people have very quickly become a social group I rely on—and will sorely miss when we dissolve away (slowly, I expect, as most things do).
At some point in the last few months, Taylor started bringing jugs of Carlo Rossi Sangria to our group. Tonight we went through the first one so quickly that Colin, thoughtful, loving man that he is, went and got another (four liters!).
As a result, we are now delightfully giggly, and when the cat wandered in a particular way across the living room, Tracy fell into such laughter that the rest of us followed and it was a long time until order was restored.
I suppose I am feeling nostalgic. Two of our six members will be leaving at the end of next month. April is moving to Ohio; the idea of having her Skype in to our writing group next year has been brought up at least twice tonight. Tracy got a job in Phoenix, but seemed to seriously consider driving down here to attend. (A three hour round trip for a three hour writing group with these folks? Totally justifiable.)
If we continue next year (and it seems we will, even if missing a member or two), things will have to evolve. As all things do.
Change is good, often good. And so I will try not to be too sad that so many of my friends seem to be leaving, are finding jobs elsewhere, some as far as half the world away. My time will come soon enough, I guess, and there’s always the internet, purveyor of long-distance friendships the world over.
So here’s a glass raised to writing, to friendships, to sangria, to our last or next to last night spent, as this group, the way things are now, typing away together in comfortable, slightly tipsy, almost sacred silence.
The internet, I think, so often gets a bad reputation. People talk about porn and online gaming and stalkers and the lack of socialization so often that we forget sometimes that there are good things that happen, too.
One of my favorite "good things" about the internet is that it reminds me, often, how wonderful and truly generous people can be.
Recently, Michael of Forgotten Bookmarks decided to do a book care package giveaway, and asked his readers to nominate someone who was having a tough time. I nominated one of my students (whose story, even in the watered-down, anonymous version I emailed to Michael, is personal enough that I won't share it here). Suffice to say that "tough time" is an understatement, and I've been doing my best to help this student survive it.
Michael sent me an email back, saying that of all the stories he received, the one about my student stuck to him the most, so he would be sending the handmade journal and the care package. In his follow up post he talked about how hearing these stories had changed him, and how he planned on trying to get a package out to everyone who sent him a story.
The experience has changed me, a bit, too. It's a very generous thing he's doing; I can't even begin to comprehend how much such an endeavor will cost him in books and time and shipping (although other readers have offered to donate to help him with shipping costs, which speaks well of his community of followers, too). I forget, sometimes, in the midst of our budget cuts and wars and crime, that there are people out there like Michael; there are whole communities of strangers who are willing to help brighten someone's day, even for a moment.
I don't know that that level, that concentration, of generosity between strangers has ever had such an easy forum as the internet. This is one example, and perhaps the biggest I've experienced, but there are many more; and each time it happens, my faith in humanity is resuscitated just a little bit.
A woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting. ~Christian Dior
I've given a lot of thought to smell. More specifically, how I smell to other people.
It's a subject that's difficult to avoid, really, given that I go out social dancing as often as I do. On top of that, I've always been--and perhaps this is the result of too many romantic comedies or country songs when I was little--enchanted by the idea of having a particular scent, something subtle but distinct, that people recognize as me.
I've been hunting for a signature scent for years, now, to no avail. My search is complicated by several factors: one, nearly anything with musk in it gives me a headache; two, Colin has an incredibly sensitive sense of smell, and that means I have to be extremely careful that what I choose is something he enjoys.
Listen to this song by a band whose name is shared by a common ingredient in perfume.
I don't have anything that I wear on a day-to-day basis. Nevertheless, I am in possession of a few different scents, some of which are among the rotation of things I wear when I go dancing.
Anna Sui's Sui Dreams: first, I love that the name is a pun. I fell in love with this perfume when my friend Leeann started wearing it, and she never should have told me what it was, because I could not avoid purchasing it. For comparison's sake: the top notes are nectarine, mandarin orange, bergamot and bitter orange; middle notes are freesia, peach, chinese peony and rose; base notes are nutmeg, sandalwood, musk, tahitian vanilla, cedar and anise. It's an unusual perfume--they classify it as an Oriental Vanilla--but Colin claims it smells like nothing but old lady. I disagree, but since he's the one who's smelling me on a regular basis, this one has fallen out of favor.
Same thing goes for Amor Amor, for a different reason; after I had J, it didn't seem to mix with my body chemistry as well. (This seems to be some sort of mysterious factor in perfume: the same perfume smells different on different people. I once had a woman say that if you spritz a perfume on your skin and taste it, and it tastes like soap, it works with your chemistry. I find this suspect, as any perfume I've ever tasted tastes like soap, and it's not at all a pleasant experiment.) I haven't used it in years, and in fact, I'm not entirely sure where the bottle is. Probably in the back of my cabinet. The notes are: mandarin, black currant, melati blossom, lily of the valley, white musk, grey amber.
I bought Gucci's Envy Me in Paris, after Kate and I had decided that that's what we wanted to bring home as a souvenir (we'll ignore the fact that you can purchase that particular fragrance anywhere in the States . . . ). It was sort of an impulse buy, since it was the only one we found that we liked well enough to take home. I wore it rarely, and used it today out of curiosity; it's less strong than I remember it, after a few minutes, and seems to fit me better than it used to. It's still not quite right, though. I feel like it's what I'd wear if I were wearing a pencil skirt and suit jacket to work everyday. Notes: peony, jasmine, pink pepper, litchi, pomegranate, pineapple, pink musk, seringa, white tea, sandalwood, teakwood, sensual musk.
I lusted after Victoria's Secret Satin Rose de Mai for several months, spritzing myself with it every time I passed through the store, before I finally purchased the body spray. (Part of my issue is that full eau de parfums always seem so absurdly strong, even if you spray them only once; plus, the body spray is cheaper.) Of course, once I actually owned it, it suddenly felt like it didn't fit. It's relatively light and sort of summery, but just doesn't fully feel like me. I still wear it when I'm dancing fairly often, though. The notes in it are rose, honeysuckle, grapefruit and mandarin blossom.
I received a sample of the company's Bombshell, and I like it, though it's quite strong. A friend bought me the body spray for Christmas, and I've purchased the rollerball version; while I like wearing it for dancing, there's always the risk that one of my other two friends may be wearing it on the same evening. So much for originality, I suppose. Plus, it feels sort of collegiate and show-offy at the same time: purple passion fruit, shangri-la peony, vanilla orchid, and Italian sunstruck pine.
My most recent purchase was Tisserand's Rose Absolute Oil (with jojoba, so you can apply it directly to the skin). It smells divine in the bottle, but fades almost immediately once I've applied it; I've taken to putting a heavy layer of unscented lotion on first, and then I can keep it around for a few hours. I like that it's so simple, but I worry that, unlike everything else, it's so subtle it's unnoticeable.
Perhaps it's completely absurd of me to think that I'll find anything so distinctly me that I can wear it on a daily basis; perhaps it's ever-illusive, like a signature drink; perhaps I really shouldn't bother, given that my nature is so easily dissatisfied with routine that soap and shampoo on regular days, mixed with a rotation on nights out, is more suited to me anyway.
Part of what spurred this post was this video I saw today of the ever-lovely Keira Knightly promoting Coco Mademoiselle (which I'm pretty sure I find repulsive, though I liked what she had to say about it):
Lose something every day, before one of us has accidental babies. —Happiness never, like a rootless tree. Out, out, brief candle! Put out the light, and then— fly to others we know not of.
Flights of angels sing to thee as one who lies down to pleasant dreams. So it goes. We’ll know better next time.
This is the top of my jewelry chest. I thought it sort of poetic-looking, and it was entirely unintentional--I didn't specifically position any of it.
I'm a naturally nosy person, and I assume most people are too, if they're being honest with themselves. I especially enjoy poking through other people's jewelry and hearing the history behind pieces, so I thought I might explain the stories behind these.
The picture is a couple in an Argentine tango pose. I bought it in Flagstaff, long before I really learned anything about the dance.
I don't remember what wine we were having that night, but it's in a Ridel crystal goblet that Colin got as a present from a friend. Now that we have them, and have discovered that the wine really does taste better out of them, I don't want to bother with our glass goblets.
A better shot of the surface.
The chest itself was a present from my friend BreeAnna. She claimed she really didn't want it (although really--how could anyone not want a giant jewelry chest to fill?). Now I need to either purge some of my jewelry or get a bigger one.
I'll move clockwise from the top right. The box was a gift from my father when he went to Saudi Arabia for three months on business. For a long time, he had a tradition of bringing us something little home whenever he went away. I was in high school, and used to him traveling quite often, but three months was the longest I had ever gone without seeing him. Because the trip was so long (and, perhaps, because it was so exotic a locale), he brought us quite a few things.
The pink rose pendant was also a gift from my father, this time from when he went to London. It came in a green box that said Herrods on it, and he told us it was a famous department store in England. I made sure to go when I finally made it over there. My sister got a pansy, but I haven't seen it in years.
The starfish was from Target for ten bucks. I bought it because I had been trolling the Tiffany's website and fell in love with the Elsa Perretti starfish, and since $150 for sterling was something far beyond my college-student budget, I jumped on the knock-off. It's bigger than the Perretti versions, but I've decided I actually like that better. That said, though, if anyone wants to get me the diamond version, I wouldn't mind in the least.
The faux pearls are opera-length, and supposedly from the 1930's. I got them at a vintage store in Sedona the last time we went up. Again, childhood tradition dictates that one buys oneself a souvenir on vacations. I actually walked out of the store without buying these, but went back at the last second to purchase them (which I am very glad of). They're quite heavy.
The silver flower necklace was a bridesmaid's present from Leeann, whose wedding was about a year and a half ago. It's one of two pieces I have from Tiffany's (the other also from Leeann, come to think of it. She spoils me).
The glass mouse and the fish were also presents my dad brought home from the Saudi trip.
I paid ten dollars for a strand of lapis lazuli at the gem and mineral show and made that necklace. The gold-tone beads between the lapis were from a necklace my mother owned in the eighties that I dismantled. Again, very heavy, but I love the stones.
Purses, it turns out, are a very odd thing. I don't know if it's just me, but it takes me a long time to find a purse that I'm actually alright with carrying on a daily basis. Much of it has to do with the amount of stuff it holds and in what configuration it holds it, but the other part is much more exacting: will I, no matter what I'm wearing, feel more put together if I'm carrying this purse, or less? If the answer is less, then it's immediately rejected.
I tend to vacillate between very large or mediumly small purses. I either want something big enough that I can carry it to work, stuffed with my lunch and a file with essays to grade in it, or something small enough that I can slip it in said larger bag, but enough to hold my wallet, checkbook, lipgloss, etc.
There are color requirements, too. Absurd patterns are too hard to pull off on a daily basis. I wear a lot of both brown and black, so especially for the smaller bag, it has to go with both. There's a shade of tan that's just right, or you can go with something bright that will just contrast.
Right now I'm using a yellow faux-leather clutch I got at Kohl's with a $10 gift card I got for free in the mail and a large black bag that was a Target collaboration with . . . some designer I've forgotten. However, the clutch is looking shabby and the straps are about to break on the large bag, so I've been searching for a substitute. Or two.
Time for window-shopping. For the large bag, I want something along these lines:
(They are all absurdly expensive, but this one is especially absurd, as it's real crocodile.)
For the smaller one:
This one is a bit big for my purposes, but I kind of like it anyway.
My basic shopping strategy is to notice things I like online that, usually, are absurdly expensive, and then go find something very similar--that looks like it could be expensive--for very little money. The problem with these sorts of bags is that cheaper, decent looking versions don't seem to exist. I want something structured, simple, and well-designed, but most of what is lurking in the places I normally shop at at the moment is plastered in crap, squishy, and made of cheap-looking materials. And, to be honest, after the holiday season's expenses, I shouldn't be shopping for anything new anyway. Curses.
Diana is golden skin and hair and green eyes with a slice of gold in one a grin with one corner of her mouth turned up and capoeira when she’s too drunk to drive or remember--
She is the sum of a blond mother with perfect English grammar and a heavy, charming accent, still beautiful and voluptuous; and a balding father, small, intense, a full moustache and a habitual silence deep enough to communicate worlds.
Diana dances, a kinetic expression of non-stop hips and knees and feet tapping complicated salsa rhythms; a high hitch of leg and low, sensual bachata dips; her head down, lips parted, slow tango steps and legs like taut pins, tapping, sliding, in tiered lace.
Diana is kisses of greeting on cheeks, hand flutterings when agitated, raspberry beer for sexy evenings and the insistence that her happy birthday be sung in five languages before the candles are blown.
I love hosting things at our house. Finally, I have a place that is large, that is interesting, that has no room that I don’t let people see because I use it to stash the excess from the others. We have balconies, and a sweep of sky off the biggest that puts most places in town to shame. If I had more money, I would have the kind of dinner parties I’ve seen in magazines, or on the blogs of people I don’t know but who are much more worldly than I—dinner parties with thousands of tiny lights or baubles hung painstakingly from ceilings, where each course looks like an award winning dish from a five star restaurant, where there is wine and laughter and a beautifully decorated table.
Before I manage that, though, I have to learn the art of being welcoming, of setting people at ease and getting them talking, of obtaining drinks just when people want them without being obtrusive, of having the right amount and variety of food. That’s definitely a “learned” thing, and I didn’t have a mother who hosted well to teach me. When she hosted—which was ages ago—the food was always delicious, but she was tense to the point of awkwardness, and lord knows she always talked to fill any silence anyone might have thought to have (“It seems to me you suffer from what we call ‘pressure of speech’”). I remember being very small and my parents rushing around the house in preparation for some event, vacuuming hurriedly, hiding various things in places people wouldn’t see (the laundry room). It’s partially because of that that one of my goals is to have no closet I’d be concerned about a guest looking in. Plus there is something entirely satisfying about a well-organized storage space—and once it’s organized, it takes very little maintenance.
So I practice on my writing group (to whom I will, of course, read this once I am done). I am the de facto host as our numbers have increased, and I am grateful for the obligatory nature of it—for one thing, it means that at least every three weeks, my house will be clean. (Note to self: next time, clean the day before). Also, because the time is fairly structured, I don’t have to worry about coming up with entertainment.
Perhaps I will have a Christmas party—or New Year’s—wind twinkle lights up and down the trees in the backyard and the front courtyard, have cocktails and cheesecake and a huge Christmas tree downstairs, invite everyone we know.
Unhate.
I am in love with macabre jewelry, although I still really just want Keith Richard's skull ring.
It's a great concept, but this is the only photo whose composition I enjoyed.
Love the atmosphere of this print, and of several of his others.
NG's picture of the day.
Red baubles in white snow. <3
