I’m pretty into being 31. I was super into being 30. There isn’t much I have to gripe about that is age-related. However, the absence of something does not always infer the bounty of its polar point: I’m not exactly celebrating things like not having 23-year-old eye skin anymore, or rejoicing that I’m losing more freewheeling friends to babyhood. This becomes especially apparent when I work alongside girls just graduating college with dewy skin, dabbing concealer on their hickeys and stuff.

Until I was on a work call the other afternoon, sitting on the porch sipping a beer, getting to know a future colleague prior to a meeting. I’d venture to say she’s about 25 or 26, totally sweet, and smart as a tack. “I’m gonna get nosy for a second,” I said, “and ask how long you’ve been at it. How long have you been with the company? When did you graduate?”

“2009,” she says, “Three years ago now. Which makes me totally freaked out,” she laughs.

Freaked out at how much time had already passed? Goals not yet met? It tripped me up for a second.

[Wearing a nightie in public again.]

But rather than notice how farther along she is now than I was then, I immediately said a tiny thank you to Father Time that I wasn’t back there [not 25 in general, just my 25] entertaining that same anxiety. I didn’t enjoy much then without a constant throbbing feeling of failure. I prefer to call it “worrying my way forward,” rather than floundering. I was unsure of what I wanted, wondering why all my bosses hated me, and why my resume was such a disjointed piece of shit.

I came across a small straw worry doll while looking for scotch tape this morning. It made me think about a quote that’s been circulating recently—worrying is never going to be productive, so why do it?—or something like that. I scoffed, of course—I’m nothing if not stubborn, but worrying is somehow built into my framework. And I worry because I care.

Thinking back on how much b.s. I’ve had to go through from then until now—the years-long incubation periods after each failure before the failures are alternately viewed as stepping stones—all that has enabled me to speak confidently about something in the moment. I realized what a little victory that was. And I thought, dude I don’t want to go backwards. Not an inch.

[Look at Eli. He looks... worried.]

Like anyone, I vacillate. For every old worry I overcome, there are probably 500 new ones. But I don’t really care about that, at least not yet, so I won’t worry about that. And worrying about worrying sounds like I might inadvertently cause a freak lightning storm that will make cats start walking around on their hind legs, smoking pipes.

Hooray for today, I say.

-C

I know one thing for sure: Rob Burden was made for me.

It was a sort of rushed, uncool trip to the antique mall, as most of my finds were laughed off as absurd ["But, it's foul looking, and it has a cig burn in it," or "You're not serious," or "I think I liked the other severed baby head better."] and there were too many minks with their faces still on and too few decent vinyl records.

At the same time as I was retracing my steps to find the price tag I’d knocked off the Persian rug I was carrying, and/or the stall from which it came–”We’ll probably never know where you found it, but these things happen,”—leaning on crusty sideboards to catch my breath I was laughing so hard at my predicament–Rob was in the car affixing the child-sized gas mask he’d just bought to his huge melon.

Who else.

This purchase is going to live in the bathroom, btw.

C

[The porch next door.]

You can choose how close—or how separated—you are with your neighbors. That’s the funny thing about living in a place like the Fan: win, lose, or draw, your neighbors define your living experience. [Lenny, in Apt 3 above, with the elephant feet and the horrible taste in women/music/hours of sleep; I may curse your name until death. But I still love my apartment.]

But sometimes, the pace of a busy life isn’t enough to keep your subconscious from picking up on little vibes around you.

I knew something was wrong.

I knew he seemed lonely.

And after a long week of coming home from work and not seeing her on the porch with her glass of wine, noting, “Eli was very chatty today! I think he missed you,” or “Where is Eli? My husband has so missed seeing him!”—I wasn’t too surprised to hear she’d passed away from a heart attack last week.

I was just really sad.

Say a little something for the sweet lady next door, who had the cajones to lob treats up to Eli on our porch when she thought we’d left him out there alone, and who has left behind a very sweet, extremely kind-hearted, and inevitably lonely man. Kinda heartbroken tonight; not going to lie.

Life’s short, but made richer by the ones we let into it. So happy for all the nights I wanted so badly to get upstairs and take my shoes off, but lingered for awhile to chat with her.

Sad night in the Fan tonight.

-C&R

[Exhibit A: Reasons to Believe. Photos courtesy The Sartorialist.]

If I ever need inspiration on how to wear a blazer properly, The Sartorialist is a great place to mine nuggets. I say that after very minimal experience, since I don’t wear blazers often, and even then, the belligerent quest for inspiration comes only after a crash and burn. [I'm always wrestling blazers off at stoplights, it seems.]

I don’t do polished—at least, not anymore. [In the Bayeaux Tapestry of my life, there'd be a pencil skirt flaming in the frame after I was let go from my last, and I mean last, corporate gig.]

But make no mistake, it’s a calculated unpolished—nay, deconstructed. And it’s hard. This formula for putting things un-together can be like setting out to make a successful, eyebrow-raising Skittles commercial turn into an immortal Internet meme vs. a Totino’s Pizza Roll spot running on a huge media buy. If you’re in the biz, you know exactly what I’m talking about: thinking about something else entirely, while executing brilliance in the moment. A logical removal of logic that fosters a gut reaction.

Exhibit B: BRILLIANCE.

[Ladies, well done.]

You’ve got to be a little off-kilter, clearly: you’re not thinking about a catalog, or a trend, or highlighting your best features—you’re thinking about Keith Richards’ scrappy butt in a velvet kimono.

The conundrum being: polished works well on almost every body type. It flatters curves, and it’s categorical in its assembly. 1-2-sssrree. [That was Eli counting; 3 is his favorite number.] Deconstructed is tougher, and unforgiving: minutiae—a bigger cup size (I’d know), the wrong wash of denim, not enough slouch, and not where it counts—can make it a little tragic.

N.B. ShopBop has some inspiration to spare:

It’s all about the approach. And if the approach is to incorporate a little menswear-inspired irony—boom. If it’s to meet some sort of accepted female professional dress code that I incubate in the cobwebby part of my brain that thinks about bothering to look ‘nice,’ it’s a theme I irrationally default to—Nanette Lepore, Banana or J.Crew, circa 2004—prrttt. No boom.

Exhibit C: If you bought a blazer to be fitted or ‘cute’ at one point, it will never work. Points for the cord bellbottoms and Rob’s high school backpack, but otherwise: womp.

An identity crisis on wooden platforms. I’m laughing because I’m late for a meeting and also, can’t feel my armpits.

Now let’s get all Bowie on this whole thing. Freak out on these Miu Miu shots:

Naturally, this makes me think of PJs. Bear with me here.

Exhibit D: My inspiration: Dolce & Gabbana PJ-Fest of Spring 2009.

As long as you don’t look like you’re going bowling… which I’m not sure I’ve nailed yet, but practice makes poifect.

Exhibit E. Bowling for Bordeaux.

Here’s the face of someone ‘helping’ in hopes of getting a pour on the house for efforts:

I threw in the old pointy Prada pumps of my cubicle days for anecdotal irony. Like flicking a booger on the floorboard of a brand new car.

Gotta make your mark.

To be continued.

-Carey

[Urban Outfitters dashiki t-shirt you should get + maxi skirt + Miu Miu platforms + jiffy feet.]

Post-work V&Ts on the porch! Can’t emphasize this enough. 

Speaking of dashiki prints, this 5-yo skirt is definitely coming back into rotation. Pictured with me enjoying some Rosé, and later some sparkling Rosé, after a busy night at the wine shop:

More dashiki madness in this old post! Memory lane.

I decided if I ever have a kid, I’m going to require him/her to play me ballads on the piano—”Send in the Clowns,” for example—while puffing on a candy cigarette. Is that really inappropriate?

Anyway, if I didn’t write that down just now I was certainly going to forget it. And who knows when that mental image might come in handy.

-C

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/24/such-great-lengths/feed/ 3 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/19/take-a-penny-leave-a-penny/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/19/take-a-penny-leave-a-penny/#comments Thu, 19 Apr 2012 17:17:51 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18005

As promised, a post of epic proportions, summing up any activity not directly work-related over the last month or so.

Things have been so hectic! (Smile.) But even as I wake up most mornings in a sheer panic wondering how I will possibly get through to the end of the day (I’m very dramatic in the wee hours, and there is not enough sleep for those who work retail), we do. And we sigh. And we laugh. And then we do it over again. Lately I’ve taken to late-night soliloquies in bed—soft, rambling rants and organizations of thoughts that feel like I’m mouth-typing a stream of consciousness into the blackness with only Eli’s warm little body anchoring me to the mattress—which Rob may or may not sleep through. (He’s smart to sleep through them.) I can never be sure. So I run tests to verify his consciousness, throwing in absurd things to garner a reaction: “…but I made it in time, thank God, but if I hadn’t taken that phone call, which I always do, I always take the call when I can’t talk, it’s like this sickness, and I think (pausing for emphasis)… Take me away from all this death…,” while stifling a snort.

To his credit, he jolted upright in the darkness and half yelled, “Jesus Christ, Carey!” Clearly not a Bram Stoker fan!

With that, let’s celebrate the little moments in between the exhaustion and the ironic sleeplessness. The weekends, and the front porches. The amazing friends! And the return of ghastly back of hand freckles that will always give me away.

To Spring! To Richmond! To you!

We snuck out of town and had a marvelous Sunday by the lake…

[Sudden transpiring of circular fog!]

…took an evening bike ride for beers at Curbside to celebrate something, but I can’t remember what, nor do I care at this juncture…

…enjoyed a Heffeweizen with Eli on the porch prior to a Cocktails and Creatives event at Pasture w/ Lizzie…

…Rob hosted an incredible French wine tasting at the Thief…

…and as promised, we went down to Ledbury to see friends and celebrate the kick-off of Richmond Street Art Festival 2010…

Lizzie, Rob and I marched around for Easter on Parade on Monument Ave, a block over from our humble abode. This guy didn’t stand a chance the second I saw his sign. I cut through the crowd and said, “I really need one, can I have one?”

Look at those cats in strollers. I almost died.

The Food Truck Court kicked off at the VHS, and got awesomer as the weeks went by. We biked over on a cool night and put Boka tacos in our tummies:

A bike tour for the ages, including a quick pit stop at the Battlefields for wine and cheese. Of course.

Go team!

And later that day, we cooled our heels on the porch.

The porch is like the refueling station for The Life C+C. You can witness a lot of things from our little joint: cats up trees, scooter test drives, funny shoes, cranky bicycle chains, and, sometimes, very sad conversations. You can see the life of the Fan coming and going.

I suppose that view works both ways; they can see a little existence going on up there, and it plays a part in the tapestry, as cheesy as that is. What with the grey cat who yells at people from the ledge and the girl fannying about watering ferns (sometimes in a robe, egads) and the guy pouring her wine and asking her to name the varietal. And in so many respects, being a tiny part of that big canvas imparts an energy—the very same one that gets us through the long days, the short nights, and everything else.

So these were our contributions for the month. The taking-part-ins. The continuation-ofs. The buying and selling of fun and good will.

No matter where you live, you’re doing the same thing. Just by being out of doors.

Happy spring.

-C.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/19/take-a-penny-leave-a-penny/feed/ 3 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/13/bee-spotting/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/13/bee-spotting/#comments Fri, 13 Apr 2012 18:40:55 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18065

Argh, I’m sorry—I promise we still exist. [sidenote: I seem to microblog way more consistently from Instagram now, so feel free to follow there and get spammed with cat/food/wine photos. We're wodehizzle & rwb5150.]

As a peace offering, here’s a preview of a post—see how I did that? Now I’ll have to do it—of a planned trip downtown tonight to the Ledbury party to kick off the 2012 RVA Street Art Festival, and hopefully to rope Rob into getting one of their fantastic shirts. Barboursville Vinyards (peep this post from Rob at the Wine Blogger’s Conference in Cville last fall) will be there, too, so I kind of can’t think of a more appropriate event for us to attend.

Things have been good, busy, predictably unpredictable, and a smooshing-together of work, awesome outfits that never get photographed, the shift into hanging plant season on the porch, and the continued discovery of this most incredible city that we live in. I’m telling you, Richmond just gets better and better. My nephew calls airplanes “bees”—at the drone of the jet engine, he flies to the window and babbles, a lot—so I’ve swiped this and now use it to describe doing, finding, and seeing things of pure awesomeness.

Richmond is full of bee-spotting opportunities.

Oh, hey, yeah, I hope you had good Easters and things. In conclusion, here are two ghosts of Easters past, me & Rob, sporting equally adorable getups!

Haha. Only that cookie is keeping him from a complete and total tantrum.

Epic recap post of recent weeks to follow.

Toodles, ladies and germs,

-C.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/13/bee-spotting/feed/ 1 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/05/wine-review-2007-%c2%b7-genius-loci-%c2%b7-syrah-%c2%b7-folin-vineyard-%c2%b7-rogue-valley-oregon/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/05/wine-review-2007-%c2%b7-genius-loci-%c2%b7-syrah-%c2%b7-folin-vineyard-%c2%b7-rogue-valley-oregon/#comments Fri, 06 Apr 2012 03:15:24 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18047

This was one of the more difficult reviews to write.

Not because I think I have something important to say, or can offer an opinion that is either a validation or departure from something already said.

First, Michael Lundeen made this wine. He is a bit of a hero of mine, a talent of a winemaker that I respect, and was my boss in Oregon. Without speaking for him, I believe his ability doesn’t lie in a static ideology: that winemaking is not only one thing; however, it’s flexibility. Knowing how and when to let wine make itself while understanding how to pinpoint that moment when intervention can make better wine.

He showed me that vintage and vineyard comes first, that good winemaking isn’t food science or reverse engineering based on past successes, but something more peripherally influenced, like blowing a falling feather in a general direction. Where it finally falls? Well, that’s the exciting part. And that’s why writing about wine grew exponentially harder after being a part of making it.

Balanced, delicious Syrah; grown in southern Oregon and made in the north. Generous in flavor with a ripe core of fruit and orbiting aromas and supporting flavors of almond and fennel. The finish lingers, but not in a chewy, persistent way, leaving room for acid to show where it so rarely does. If I had more I would invite you over.

-Rob.

Well, now I have to buy one. Or all.

This is pretty rad: local jewelry designer and all around bodacious lady Rachel Albright’s Academy Jewelry dipped coral necklaces are going global via retail monolith, and furnisher of many a C+C moment, Anthropologie. There I was, just fussing around folding shirts, when I saw the sign “Made in RVA”—and was like, wait, wait, wait, that’s HERE. So I decided to do a little sniffing around.

[Coral necklaces, $48 each.]

Or you could check out her Etsy shop for some more variety. I want this one most of all:

Twittskies: @academyjewelry

Hooray! Support RVA and look extra super beachy while you’re at it.

-Carey

Whisked Rob away for a quick 2 days in DC for his birthday! Here’s the Sat Nav visually portraying this. Because I’m clever.

And if our first 10 minutes were any indication of the success of the trip, fingers crossed we witness just as many superbe Segway wipeouts on future trips. Man, she tackled that curb like it owed her money! And right in front of the White House. Many parallels to be made about train wrecks and things.

Cherry blossom fest remnants:

Excellent people watching on a quick beer break from the Holocaust museum:

View out of the lovely Sofitel. Can’t say enough good things about that place.

Air & Space museum for the airplane enthusiast!

Cigar bar.

Went to Proof on a dead-on recommendation from a friend. Cheese bar? Phenomenal.

Then we ate outside at the institution that is Cafe Milano. Rob overheard some talk about “passing this bill, once and for all” in the men’s room. Goosebumps.

Happy 31st, Bobo.

-C

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/04/02/birthday-road-trip-to-d-c/feed/ 2 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/03/30/staging-a-ringtervention/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/03/30/staging-a-ringtervention/#comments Fri, 30 Mar 2012 19:19:54 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=18012

[All images courtesy Purse 'n boots.]

I was holding a Riedel glass up to the ceiling in the kitchen at the wine bar, examining my polish job under the light for smudges. I am a connaisseur of wine vessels. I appraise them like jewels. A patron saint of transparency in a world where people still hold a wine glass by the bowl.

Behold, a deep gash, spiraling down the inside of the glass like an orange peel.

“Dude, I think my ring did this,” I said, holding it up to show the chef. I furtively wiggled the fingers of my left hand by my side. Was it the thorny antler ring? The cameo pinky ring? The 2-inch cut quartz knuckle buster, the turquoise thumb ring, or my engagement ring?

“Carey, we’ve been meaning to bring this up,” he said, peering through the steel shelves. “We’ve decided to stage a ringtervention.” He was kidding, but I’d already murmured defensively, “I don’t have too many rings, just not enough fingers…”

Hello, foxy!

I used to ogle posts like this all day long, actually read other people’s blogs, comment on them—those were the days. And after seeing this blog today via Vanessa Mooney on FB, I remember why. Er, can I be this chick? Pink fuzz following me around, too, pls.

Let’s look at some cool rings hovering around in my virtual shopping bags:

[Brave arrowhead ring set, Bing Bang, $78; Double band oxidized silver pave rings, Made Her Think, $386; Gold Cowskull, Wildfox, $45; Exposed Druzy ring, Anthro, $98; Tribal cutout ring, Nasty Gal, $12; Little cross ring, Nasty Gal, $12.]

Sayonara from the Fan, peeps!

Zinfandel is an all-American grape. Its wines are brassy and intense, usually uncomplicated, and always good with barbecue and lingering summer days. The last decade, when bigger was always better, was made for Zinfandel—big fruit, big oak, obscene alcohol percentages, and just-in-time drinkability. But that model may have been fad, and now buyers are looking for more. Restraint, complexity, and ageability make sense, and wines are changing.

Nowhere is this more obvious than with California Zinfandel producers. Frog’s Leap Zinfandel, an eternal bestseller at the store I work at, is an enigma with 13.5% alcohol by volume, and Hawley’s Ponzo Vineyard Zinfandel is structured, complex, and as interesting as it is delicious. Mauritson’s Rockpile Zins are bold, but ageable, with intense, gritty tannins and layers of engaging flavors. It was at this last tasting of Mauritson’s wines that I started thinking about the Zinfandels that I’d gathered over the years, some of which were now over a decade old. Maybe age-worthy Zinfandels have been here all along, but were never given the chance.

The 2002 Sonoma Zinfandel from Seghesio may be such a wine. Number 11 on Wine Spectator’s top 100 list of 2004. Here’s what they had to say:

“Wonderful balance and sense of elegance, offering ripe, complex fruit flavors, with spicy black cherry, blackberry, pomegranate, herb and sage notes that add flavor dimensions and complexity. Firm but ripe tannins add structure, allowing the fruit to push through. Drink now through 2009.”

Oops, its 2012.

No matter, this wine is still young. It’s grown up though, and seasoned in its old age; it shrugs off its former excessiveness in a dismissive “what was I thinking?” moment. The fruit is rounded at this point, both lengthy and cool. This was an $18 wine when it was first sold, and a decade later, it’s wholly satisfying and so much more. I wish I had more.

-Rob.

[Illia caftan + vintage ring + Minnetonka mocassins.]

Just popping out on a warm night to split a burger and a beer around the corner on Strawberry Street. I love the ombre grey on this little baby—helpful in undie-hiding efforts, too. And it makes me want to be seaside on the Mediterranean. Now! God, I suddenly feel so blocked in!

Yesterday at work we were discussing the recent revelation that the actual end of the Mayan calendar (thus, doomsday) actually happened awhile back, thanks to leap years. You go, Caesar. [You go, Glen Coco.]

“So it happened; the world already ended.”

“Yes, I remember it: the earth stood still for a second—every laptop froze—and, my cat farted.”

-Carey

Carey and I were looking through some of my Oregon pictures the other day and I realized that there was still much left to be said.

Much.

What I stumbled into 6 months ago was life changing. And as I whittle my way through the wine I brought home, and those liquidy, sinewy connections to that time disappear into the recycling bin, I realized I can’t let anything go unsaid.

Of course, I had nothing to do in making the wine I’m drinking, but—it’s the anticipation of waiting for my year to roll around. So much good wine has been made under the Walnut City roof, that I hope in a few years another intern packs one of my bottles into his suitcase—exhausted, fulfilled, and changed—before he (or she) goes home. I hope they feel the same connection.

Walnut City makes honest wine—it’s unpretentious and undisguised, a presentation of vineyard and vintage, not polish and puffery. The 2006 Reserve is vibrant, texturally engaging, earthy and peripherally oaked. It’s complex because it’s good Pinot Noir; it’s simple because the winemaking isn’t showy.

The end of harvest came out of nowhere. I was filling barrels with Pinot Noir when—just like that—Michael informed me that my task was complete.

The sprint was over; it was time to celebrate. A week to shuffle around the winery and tie up loose ends would have been the perfect comedown, but Thanksgiving was days away, and it was time to come home. Instead, we decompressed with an afternoon of homemade food, Grand Cru Corton, vintage Port, pecan pie, and emotional goodbyes.

Thanks, everybody.

-Rob.

So many reasons to love the Fan. And this was an early frontrunner.

Scuffletown Park has a pretty interesting little history—best explained in the comment section of this Fan of the Fan post—and it’s becoming a part of ours now, too. It seems to draw out something different in an afternoon solely intended for sun soaking and reading. Namely, naps—it’s gloriously and consistently peaceful back there—but also happy, dreamy conversations that seem to ignite once feet touch grass.

You’ve seen Scuffletown before on this site… remember the Mouse Faucet!? And my spirit animal epiphany? And this recap of our first week in the Fan, from last July, had me beating a drum for summer, and wistful for those first days together in this place. [And for longer hair. And my Vermont-given musculature. Sigh.]

Layage of landage. We are smack between Scuffletown and Meadow, but our preference need not be named:

The best thing about our location is the myriad Fan cats you encounter along the way.

This gentleman was having a drink in our neighbors’ little pond:

And Eli’s girlfriend came forth for a nudge:

If you read that Fan of the Fan post, take note: that salty, wonderful man she mentioned still makes regular stops. Daily, I’d imagine. And he hums while he works. Loudly. Happily! She forgot to mention that.

And it might be the best part of the whole bloody experience!

-C.

I have this little quote snipped from a magazine that I’ve hung onto for years. It’s good advice, and advice I wish I’d inherently understood from ages 15-30. Quick retrospective:

Ages 1-7: sport clothes for life that involves crotches full of sand, full days on flats boat baiting shrimps with hooks through their eyeballs in Florida Keys, monkey bars, and mouthfuls of grouper; thrive. Ages 8-14: wear clothes that make you as invisible ordinary Richmondy as possible; survive. Ages 15-22: buy clothes that do any combination of: hide flaws, accentuate positives, peacock status, display flagrant tans, or convey impossibly inaccurate impressions of audacity; crash dive. Ages 23-25: what can I afford; deprive? Ages 26-27: I am flower child. I date singer in band. He is next coming of Duane Allman. Shoes optional. Cat Stevens is my dad; revive. Ages 28-31: Jersey knits. Phone and computer synced calendars. Leather. Fringe. Concerts on school nights. Married best friend. Balance. Holey t-shirts. Feathers. Kitty litter. Pendleton blankets. Repeat; high five.

But I am possibly taking the above words too literally right now. I do prefer to sleep; admittance. Witness one of 4 nighties I’ve bought recently,with full intentions of wearing publicly.

[Anthropologie nightgown, shrug + Linea Pelle belt.]

Belts and cardigans work wonders to disguise the intention of silky bedtime garments.

More (3, to be precise) where that came from.

Also, happening lately:

Listened to some tunes by the record player with dad:

Had some meals with friends:

Bought some rad vintage turquoise on Etsy:

Lounged around drinking coffee on a 60-degree, windy, Keys-like Florida morning in a caftan:

Ordered, then ate, 3 lbs of steamed oysters.

I peeped some old photos that reminded me people just aren’t as sexy today as they were yesterday. Relatively speaking.

Oh, mom in your red maxi dress…

It’s cool if you develop a crush on my dad (or mom) right now, I understand:

Also listened to more vinyl:

And got inspired by Jimi:

And I poked around my grandparents’ house before a red-eye flight home:

How are you, dudes?

-C.

]]> http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/03/12/so-many-nighties-so-little-time-photo-recap/feed/ 5 http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/03/05/call-me-the-tumblin-dice/ http://www.corksandcaftans.com/2012/03/05/call-me-the-tumblin-dice/#comments Tue, 06 Mar 2012 02:20:37 +0000 Corks and Caftans http://www.corksandcaftans.com/?p=17931

[Urban t-shirt + AG jeans + vintage turquoise + old mocs from Taos + hat from Pink in Richmond.]

So this was an awesome day—noontime beer and a lot of improvisational fluting between emails—oh, and it was a Monday?

Normally I’d say it’s pretty rare and cool that we are both working from home for the day. Since the pad is technically my office. And Eli’s hunting ground. I’m gonna go ahead and edit that to “pretty rare and wildly unproductive,” this working together from home for the day.

“Got an idea,” Rob said. “Shoot!” I crowed. “Ok. At exactly 4:30—no, 5—no, 5:30—we’ll stop working, close our laptops,” I nodded along enthusiastically, “…and then sit out on the porch and drink some beers. But until then, we focus.”

But he’d already lost me. I was busy coloring the side of my 20-lb dumbell with an orange Cray-Pas, singing the ABC’s in French.

“Hey. Are you even listening to me?”

-C.

All $35/each.

And here’s some ’76 Little Feat for a hot ‘n’ sexy Saturday afternoon.

-C.

[Vintage Black Crowes t-shirt + shorts.]

Hey from Orlando, FL. Here on business, and feeling like this corner of the continent is some sort of mutant view on reality…

Was riding from the airport to the hotel today in a shuttle bus [hotels, hotels, everywhere. Even the goddamned baggage claim was a Hyatt], just thinking about crap and watching weird patches of swamp blow by. I was descending about 30 minutes behind the plane I’d been on.

The guy next to me said, “Funny, how open it all is here. None of the houses got any fences in the back.” I couldn’t think of anything to say, so let about 10 minutes go by in silence. I was tapping the backs of my fingernails on the glass, mouthing the words “cypress tree,” then turned to him and said, with a huge smile on my face:

“I sure wish I could get paid to count blades of grass! Look at all of that grass.”

-C.

[Theory bomber + Wildfox Couture t-shirt + AG Legging jean + Jeffrey Cambell booties + Low Luv x Erin Wasson chain and bone cross earrings. Stalked this t-shirt for months and it was worth it.]

From my Keel’s Simple Diary entry for Feb 26, 2012:

Your day was ( ) history  ( ) well exposed  (X) shallow.

Explain why: hungover (prrrrt), on-call shift a no-go, rejuvenating sunny walk thru Fan to 8 1/2 for sammy, fat nap, saw cats in sunshine.

Someone you miss: [I crossed out the '-one' and wrote '-where'] The Keys (of ’88, not ’12)

Most people are: too quick to blame

The key to a convincing answer is never to include this dumb word: “obviously.”

Compare your life with others’: (X) you don’t like comparisons ( ) you can live with it  ( ) yours is better  ( ) theirs is definitely better  ( ) you are not cosmopolitan enough to answer that.

This morning I remembered my answer to that last question in a flash. Just as I was going through the motions of busily sipping coffee, reading an article about new Google web history privacy changes, and about to click “Delete All Web History,” I was stunned at the entire first page of my inputted image searches: Blake Lively, times, like 3,000.

From someone so quick to avoid the 4 seconds it would take to look inside and answer the above question with a bit more raw honesty [although I note to myself my good fortune on many levels, numerous times a day], I had certainly spent enough of my own glorious free time clicking from photo to photo gauging relative legginess, arm circumference, turgidity of upper boobage, and, regrettably, how the poor girl looked naked. [Guess there was a scandal I missed.]

It was like I’d fallen into a well.

[Scenes from last week: celebrating a night of work in the wine cafe with a hard-earned Jever in the kitchen, listening to Exile on Main Street.]

I know where the well-peering turned into well-diving, though. That glorious day we had on Friday? I wanted to spend it on a blanket in Scuffletown Park, reading something. I stood dumbly at my bedside table looking for something that didn’t require a power cord, and grabbed the most recent ELLE.

I still subscribe to a few of these tomes—BAZAAR and ELLE, because I liked their collage-y pages better than VOGUE—but I haven’t looked through one in over two years. I’m being serious.

Years. I have to tear them out of their plastic so they look better stacked on the shelves.

[Keith and Anita, just being cool.]

And I quit anything to do with celebrity gossip years ago, too—it was like I had maxed out my allotted intake for the consumption of useless crap in a lifespan, with large chunks devoted to the Olsen twins. At times I have felt out of the loop, but other times [with regards to my sliver of television intake---Top Gear on BBC], quite smugly superior. But this article about Blake swallowed me whole. The hottest girl on the planet? It was like I took that word as gospel, but ever a skeptic of religion [the church of fashion notwithstanding], had to back up this claim in some self-fulfilling prophecy of superficiality.

And when you rope this airbrushed photo binge together with a curious, highly observant 31-yr-old noticing abrupt changes in her appearance in harsh winter morning light…. well, I probably should have been tossed into surveillance in a padded room somewhere.

It’d been a long time since I took that particular drug. I realized there was a reason I’d quit that s**t cold turkey.

My rejection of fashion magazines—printed, digital, and otherwise—has felt negligent at times, as an increasingly slack ‘journalist’ of the fashion medium. But magazines are simply counterproductive to my cause. Maybe some digest this stuff well, but for me, it blocked out my ability to process what my own style was. And why. Whereas some get energized and excited, getting from cover to cover literally drains me.

Once I figured that out, things fell into place. I’m not placing blame, but when I stopped with dog-earing pages of glossies, I was happier, less jealous, less obsessed with shopping and with what I didn’t have… even the fact I’d spent 3 painful years with an eating disorder seemed incomprehensible. [As opposed to, I don't know, viewing it as a misguided, but A-for-effort, means to an end? Yikes!]

All my interests expanded. I was finally comfortable in my own skin. A little late to the game, I started cultivating a little nest for myself that was 100% from me. I found that music influenced my style more than fashion; a state of mind determined how I wanted to dress. Inside v. outside. Oddly enough, my boyfriend at the time shined a big huge spotlight on this shift. At least, I see our sitting around listening to vinyl records—and his patiently telling me the story behind every album, who produced it, who collaborated, who inspired who, the enduring presence of the Delta blues, listening for certain notes or echoes of other melodies, the legends of the artists—as a pivotal point. He taught me to value other things, and let those things shape and guide me.

I’m not saying those who read these glorious things are all like me. I don’t know how to explain it—it’s like how I have to turn the music down when I park a car. My focus is painfully tight, but nearly impossible to train. Like I have a tiny porthole on the world and thus have to choose my view carefully.

It’s taken since around 2005 [2004 being a peak of the sickness] to scrape off all the barnacles of years prior: dressing myself to look like someone else [someone taller, someone wealthier, someone thinner]; a closet full of seriously disjointed, overpriced designer items I felt I needed, and acquired either through tedious saving or simply because they were on sale; and, creepy, hoarder-style glossy pages stashed everywhere, falling out of books, folders, drawers, plastic bags. I remember my bedside table drawer jamming and reaching under to pull out a little wad of carefully clipped images of beaded Fendi baguettes. [I'm putting a serious expiration date on myself here.]

What the hell was I going to do with all those scissored out threats to my sanity? Scary.

It was like, if I could just get them all in one place, glued in one bound book, I’d have the puzzle solved. All the loose ends of what I coveted between two covers. And I had no earthly idea who I was.

[I could reference Keith's autobiography in every post, but refrain. However, reading that he would pick up his old lady's clothes from the floor and wear them hit a nerve with me. Boom, you're an icon.]

Delicious irony and hypocrisy, these sentiments in this context. I think that’s what I like most about this blog.

Big grin.

-C.