[Leyendecker LA poncho :: last seen here :: + Daydreamer LA t-shirt + Club Monaco necklace + AG jeans.]
What makes you happy?
That no bullshit, unapologetic, 100% successful/60% of the time, in the moment, bar-none happy maker—that thing that just works for you. That you don’t need to explain.
Get specific with me. I’m not talking Fridays; I’m talking: putting the key in the ignition on Friday after work, putting your hair in a bun, and driving right to the corner market for a 6-pack of Hoegaarden. [Hey, I write what I know.] Taking off an itchy wool sweater. Burying thine face in a pile of warm, sleeping cat fur when you’re already running 10 minutes late! A dirty, dirty martini for dinner and nothing else. Shouting out loud in the middle of the night—to the dismay of your spouse—how awesome that cold patch of sheets are you just found. A Bernie’s sub at 3PM after you’ve already had lunch.
So what is it?
One of mine? Showing up unannounced at Rob’s work and coming in through the back door—prrt.
Usually, I’m dressed to the nines. [Dressing up for Rob has always been a fun part of being married to me. And thanks, Leyendecker. B/c this poncho always makes Rob tell me I'm "so cool", even if I just made him watch 4 Maru videos, while in the middle of something important, like shaving.]
Sometimes I arrive bearing gifts of food, or midget cans of Coke. Almost always, it’s midway through tucking my sunglasses into the collar of my shirt—as if I had no idea he’d be there—cocking my head, and inquiring, “So… what’re yeh pouring?”
My happy maker: an open afternoon, and all the things that entails. That’s what I’d draw from the old bean.
While I’d expect your magazine of answers to be vast and varied, those first few things that bubble up taste best. It’s the chewy, slippery thing we writers thrive on: compact descriptions of the indescribable. First-liners.
It was more the way he drank the water—like he wanted to, and not that he was supposed to—that bothered her. She loved Gatorade, though, and kept it by the bed. She mostly only drank it when a car alarm woke her up in the middle of the night, but tucked away a satisfaction in its glossy orange contents and ‘hydration while she slept’.
That’s mine. So give me your best first paragraph of a novel about you. What you like. And why it makes you utterly fascinating. Release the hounds!
-Carey
LOVE your poncho
How is it that you can wear a rug and look so gorgeous ?
Forever jealous I am.
xo Chunks
the unsolicted, “mommy you look so beautiful today”, pop of a champagne cork, sunday family dinners, heated seats, random texts from old friends, etc, etc.
I like: being barefoot, peeling the price stickers off the back of books, waiting in airports and train stations, a purring kitty next to me while I fall asleep, randomly running into Tom downtown while we’ve both been attending to separate errands, seeing a girl wearing something she bought from the shop around town and having a bloody mary (or two) on a Sunday afternoon.
The first stretch in the morning after I’ve woken up. Amy’s ringtone, which is just Cooper laughing hysterically. Waffles with warmed-up maple syrup and too much butter. Driving Rte. 20 from Charlottesville to Scottsville on a perfect sunny day with the windows down and a cigarette in my hand. Sabering a bottle of bubbly on New Year’s Eve. DANCE SONGS.
Dancing. Moving my hips when no one is watching to the rhythmic-latin tunes that I love so much. The music gyrates it’s way into my soul and doesn’t want to leave, it’s parked – anchored – and I can’t control the movements. It’s freeing and frightening all at once. Nothing makes me happier, although nudity and buying something on sale are tied for close second. I love the little high I get from buying something with red pen all over it.
I’m a bit jealous, not only because that poncho is awesome (although I am distracted by your necklace and squash blossom cuff) but also because you can actually wear it…in january…and not have another 30 layers on top of it. I’ve also just discovered that whenever I look at your blog I immediately want to pour myself a big glass of wine. This seems potential hazardous, since i’m usually working and/or writing at the same time.