Clamoring for affection from the retail vestiges like some fashion decay, I corner-spotted these skinnies and thought what the hell, why not add a little color rush to the manically gloomy weather inconsistencies.  A hastened turn-on-heel and about a minute’s thought later, I surrendered to their visual residency regardless the legion of the others jam-packed in my wardrobe.  Outfitted with faded knees and an obvious cherry-siren glory, I confess…  I’m semi-addicted to their valentine sweetness.

What else:

The writing forefront is fantastic, toying with some unshakable ideas.

Expensive latte concoctions at noon.

Berries by the bulk.

Waiting impatiently for a handful of e-Bay items to arrive.

Finally scored the coveted Emma Cook boots for Topshop.

Tonight, episodes of House.

Random photos with the camera love child.

Oh, yeah… quit f***ing spamming my site! 

As I wrap my mind around it like some unreal fantasy, I realize the thing about closets is that they contain much more than clothes, shoes, and handbags… apparently they store our lives in a fashion nutshell.  The pair of jeans we refuse to surrender, the t-shirt worn only in the company of our laptops, the torn and tatty sweater we forgot we owned, and even that hideous pair of heels that while the 80’s called and said they want them back… vintage really isn’t the appropriate word. Okay, there might be ramifications to these actions but let’s face it… it’s going to take more than a militia of angry fashion mobsters before we ever throw in the towel on all our favorite things.  With that said, I suppose it’s true that while some depend on the sanctuary of comfort food, given the circumstance, this is really a cut and dry case of comfort clothes and shoes. 

So, after that late night dinner party I aforementioned, and several cocktails later, I started rifling through my closet, one of my natural habitats.  And I couldn’t help wondering why I was hoarding all these items like some dirty little secret.  But most importantly…  I couldn’t figure out when (exactly) I’d managed to collect all of it. Anyway.

Lounging around the domicile in a beat-up Wang t-shirt and VS jumper, the afternoon slips away as I enthusiastically make some headway through the blogosphere and about 345 e-mails… not to mention, deciphering all of the flourishing ideas tangling about inside the memory warehouse for my newest novel, as well the short fiction piece I’m (also) currently pondering. 

It’s exhausting just thinking about it, so maybe I should’ve jokingly prefaced the above declaration by adding that the Smirnoff laptop garnish is helping to variable degrees.

Arbitrary side note:  The weekend came with a juxtaposition of what has been deemed The Invention of Leisure Chaos… and while there’s still plenty to conquer before the workweek reappears, tonight–after a quick dinner party–I have every intention of curling up and watching relic episodes of Felicity in near marathon-style.        

Noting the unapologetic sprinkling of jewelry hands and other (funky/quirky) ornamental holders lounging aimlessly around the domicile, my thoughts began to wander.  This fleeting mental reprieve or lapsing work ethic (call it what you will) quickly had me thinking about relationships… particularly women and theirs.  I digress, realizing they’re happily created outside the bubble, because let’s be honest, many of us share a deeply evocative connection with accessories, our very special social armor.  Obviously, my endless throng of chains, spikes, and studs has achieved some sort of narcissistic greatness over the years or else I wouldn’t bother writing and rambling on about it.

But that’s just me… playing around inside the jewelry box.                                             

* Yesterday is gone…  and today will never return.

* As the weather warms to near 80 degrees from last weeks somersaulting 30-60 degree variances, another Midwest conundrum leaves meteorologists in a state of wonder.  A rarity among the norm of March’s suburbanite ambiance, the sky seemed to split like two halves forming a sun-drenched gateway… through the spread of blue, it finally warmed. Taking into account the shameless reality that had me suffering from post-traumatic cutoff syndrome, we canted about in perfect misdirection, which somehow led us back to the camera euphoria of this disco-inferno bowling alley.

* Sometimes peanut butter and jelly makes everything else better… but she won’t admit this in public even though she wears ballerina tutus. 

* I’ve been contemplating joining Twitter but can’t help thinking that it’s just the weirdest word, and the more I say it the more it lacks meaning….  Twitter, Twitter… whatever, moving on.

* Like some dark plague lurking with its twice-yearly appointments, I try to avoid it… but today I muster around that familiar/highly relevant/impending feeling of dread, because dammit, I hate going to the dentist.

* Okay, back to work…

After two dreaded months apart due to unavoidable circumstance and fixed work schedules, we finally had a long overdue weekend romance.  Man, it’s always a hilarious adventure… but we have some seriously good times together.

It was a cruel 28 degrees, so our gadabout photo brigade was cut relatively short.

Obviously, if you saw my blog, you’d know I’m on some sort of DIY binge… but honestly, sometimes a dousing of self-gratification and wardrobe reinvention is far better than the unrelenting Internet stalking of runway pieces I may never own.

Half-serious note:  I have the strangest feeling I might actually be physically ill if I don’t eventually score the (coveted) Emma Cook ankle boots for Topshop.

My Marc Jacobs boots arrived… insert zealous jubilation!  

Always seems like such an incredible pause between posts, but what can I say in justification… life is demanding outside the blogosphere realm.

• At the publisher’s request, my all-hailed manuscript is currently traveling stateside, no doubt crammed amid a slush pile of other parcels and envelopes awaiting final destination.
• Present mood:  breezy.
• The pre-weekend itinerary entails finishing a newly started short story, albeit have every intention of serious rabblerousing come Saturday afternoon, which means post-weekend will require a much-needed state of REM.
• Current DIY inspiration:  Meadham Kirchhoff.
• As of late, my most employed (and quasi-obsessive) general Google search has been Chloé and Sam Edelman.
• After posting this, I plan to engage/entertain the Q&A for my upcoming feature, and subsequently knuckle down.

Meadham Kirchhoff 

Feeling a semi-disobedient surge of creativity, my inspirational musings seem a mid-month leftover from a wanton holiday wish list.  Obviously, one that doesn’t require specific public celebration… the inventory of insatiable fashion cravings, online shopping, and wishful (though sometimes near imaginary) cart filling, tends to increase year-round. 

And while never to disparage the mounting stockpile that was so selflessly deposited among the legions of others in my closet, I felt a sudden urge to collage these must-haves like there was no tomorrow. 

But let’s face it, this is what comes when a girl is left to her own devices… I suppose.  

 Happy New Year… cheers to all the wishful prospects of 2009!

After gallivanting about the city streets for several hours, and subsequently enjoying the very low-key evening that came perfectly equipped with an intimate dinner party amongst loved ones… the only things on the agenda for the novel day, thus far, have been much needed leisure and the kind of workload that requires very minimal commotion.  But like any other year, there’s still plenty on the vanguard.  And though the holiday season is winding down like a broken wristwatch you forgot you owned, I can only hope the New Year ahead brings dreams to reality, prosperity, and infinite happiness.

It’s that time of year again when gallivanting about the cold December wind bring a flurry of wafting wood smoke, jingling sleigh bells, and ongoing yuletide bliss.  Every house is bejeweled with twinkling lights and funky reindeer, and as they navigate Saint Nick’s route to the firesides of suburbia… we wait in hopeful anticipation. 

A nostalgic character of the bustling downtown city streets lends an air of Norman Rockwell.  And deposited safely beneath a trim of Christmas greenery, shimmering snowman wrapping paper commingles a number of mounting presents as we celebrate the entrance of yet another year.   

Wishing you and yours a joyful holiday season…