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…

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 

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…

It’s beginning to look a lot like some random version of my favorite holiday season.  But as the dynamics of nostalgia and annual traditions aide the recovery of food comas everywhere, it’s coming on that time of year when so-called private lives become public record to every relative in tow.  Let’s be honest, society begins to experience a gamut of emotions, and unexpectedly this quasi-arousing bedlam transforms into psychotic yuletide bliss, depression, or face it… they just don’t give a crap because they stopped believing in Santa Claus 20 years ago.   

The universal rift, otherwise known as the holidays, sparks an extravagant bankrupting forte while jingles bells merrily cheers each credit card (debt) swipe.  Seriously, every cart pusher, window peeker, road rager, and zany bargain seeker apparently conforms to the same spending Christmas rules.

So while a mass of strangers nearly pulverized one another over ‘it’ items, I couldn’t help wondering when giant conglomerates replaced the spirit of Christmas.

I couldn’t resist these images…

Lounging around the domicile after a fruitful and mildly eventful yesterday, my mind went into overdrive as I pounded the keys of the laptop beside my mounting manuscript garnish.  Thanksgiving is looming and while my nephews incessantly remind me of their own obligatory lists (Christmas lists that is), I can’t help wondering who officially bogarted the year.  An enthusiast of the season, everywhere I turn, twinkling lights and funky plastic reindeer festoon the lawns of suburbia, but as I barely stumble out of a semi-candy coma from Halloween… I’ve yet another fabulous reminder that time is melting away as if some true-to-life Salvador Dali rendition. 

 Hmmm, if only I had a pause button…  

While I posted these images on my other blog, circumstance has created a slight negligence as I realize I’ve been delinquent with my posts… but I wanted to shed a little spotlight on the alpha dog of my wardrobe. Fulfilling all my Carrie Bradshaw fashion fantasies, the tulle conception seemed a sublime manifesto as animate as any fairy tale turned true-to-life moment.  While it may have taken 12 gruesome hours, numerous sewing machine slanders, and a little 3am delirium to conquer, the finality was more than even I could have imagined… and honey let’s be honest, that sea is wide indeed. 

But several cartwheels later and a standing ovation worthy of any red carpet, I couldn’t help but to parade about like some schoolgirl gone naughty.  And despite all the blatant onlooker stares and unpleasantly cold ambiance, my Sex and the City Ballerocker turned out even better and even bigger than Mr. Big.