elephantine

lovelies

 

Made by Michelle Brusegaard.

No time to blog, watching Project Runway! And now I'm itching to sew, despite my past defeats.

intoxicate / detox

Angel Face Botanicals.

The cocoa machine at work is sort of hit and miss. Sometimes it spews out this rich, sweet hot chocolate, and other times it expels a watered down version of said drink. So I've learned to take a test sip before carrying it back to my desk, and if I've been served the watery version, then I'll add half-and-half to make it decently drinkable.

But recently I noticed something next to the half-and-half. A mystery container was wrapped in a grocery bag, with an attached note that read: "Do not drink! Will cause intoxication."

And along the side of the note, someone else had responded, "Do you really think that's going to stop anyone?" with a little smiley face.

quirk

Goodies from Canoe.

Well, it was a pretty typical day, except for the:

1. Man sitting next to me on the bus examining a "Fish Club" schedule, then proceeding to flip it over, whip out a pen, and start scribbling furiously in Chinese.
2. Albino man on the sidewalk using a monocular.
3. Man dressed up as a woman walking down the street with great determination.
4. A very young boy running through the park with a toy lawn mower.

silver & gold

Karen Walker Arrow Pin and Kimberly Baker Keiko Ring.

Low-key today. I finished watching Tremors and Transformers (neither of which I'll probably bother to watch again), read all of John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist (more philosophical than how-to and very good) then rubbed some blush & vaseline on my cheeks and went out for a walk in the rain, making use of my pear-patterned rainboots and stopping to pet a sweet Husky tied up outside the library. I'm not sure where the rest of the day went. I have mixed feelings about the book I've been reading (The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) – the plot's interesting enough, but the writing's a bit dull – and I might start cheating on it by reading some Faulkner...

that's pants!

Oh Leoluca makes me swoon forever and ever. There's a good reason I've repeatedly posted about it.

Recently I was walking up a wide outdoor stairway populated by scattered lunchers. Now, I wasn't trying to notice it, but it happened anyway: one guy had a split down the entire crotch of his pants. This wasn't some little inconspicuous hole; it was so large that ripping the pants the rest of the way apart seriously looked feasible. I don't understand how he couldn't have noticed. (He must have been wearing some thick undies.) Anyway, there he sat, chatting with his lunch-buddy without a care in the world, and at that moment I really wanted more than anything to see the expression on his face the moment he discovered his shortcoming. Would it be while he was still at work, in the middle of a critical meeting, a frozen terror instantly flashing across his face? Would it be that evening, at home, a much-delayed humiliation suddenly burning up his cheeks?

Today's advice: spot-check for horrific rips in outfit before dressing.

super supermarket

Sweetness from Supermarket: Egg Pants and randLCanvas Large Notebook.

smells like sweet spirits

Just discovered this lovely jewelry from Lauren Haupt.

As I'm waiting for the bus this morning, I'm thinking, "Something seems a little too familiar. I don't know what it is, but it feels like I'm somewhere else." Then I sniff my wrists and remember that I had put on a certain lotion that I hadn't used for several months. When I get on the bus, it is an entirely new wave of smells, unusually pleasant, a mix of plumeria flowers and after shave and incense.

Now, (skip this part if you don't want to hear about my novel-writing ramblings) today I also officially figured out a deadline for my book: 7 years from now (and in an ideal world, more like 5). Roughly 500 pages. Outline done by end of this August, before my birthday. Main reasons: that time frame seems comforting enough not to induce panic but a hard enough number to get me going; I have an unwarranted desire to write it before I'm 30; and Sylvia Plath had completed The Bell Jar by that age. The 500 page thing I'm not stuck on by any means, but that's the kind of weight and depth I'm going for. So, there, just wanted to get it on the record.

Hope your friday is most excellent.

feels like summer.

Muzina sandals from Revolve Clothing and Sateen dress from Free People (via Not Couture).

Post pasta making, I spent the rest of yesterday morning vacuuming the rufus-fur off the entire apartment, ran multiple loads of laundry and dishes, watched a dumpy Kevin Bacon movie, and sunk a little more into Middlesex. In the evening, beau and I wandered around Golden Gardens with Goji juice from the grocery store and soft serve ice cream from Little Coney. It was balmy and extra gusty out on the dock, the wind nudging my tower of ice cream to one side, drips of vanilla spilling across my knuckles, glazing my skin.

Oh yes, and my favorite quote from MTV that night (and it sums up why I resist watching it): standing amidst heinous prom dresses, one manicured teen says to another in a southern drawl, "Think about it. We've been best friends since ninth grade and never been to a prom together. Ever!" Wait, wait. How many proms, exactly, do these girls go to? Five, six? Is MTV-land so privileged that they get double of everything? Somehow, I wouldn't be surprised.

shiny and new

I likey: Sedum Necklace from Elsewares & Leather Contrast Heel from Asos.

Just back from the gym, almost every ounce of energy torn from me. 92:03 minutes remaining, the treadmill had insisted, but I only stayed on for another twelve. I didn't have my headphones and watched the suspended televisions via subtitles. Subtitle Guy must have fallen asleep on the keyboard during one commercial, the entire thirty seconds annotated, "opopopopopopopopo..."

This morning there's a slightly begrimed woman on the bus that is leading a terribly portly beagle. She's moved up from the back of the bus and sits down next to a snoozing man, tapping him gently, saying, "Sir, don't want to miss your stop, sir."

After two or three more attempts to free him from slumber, she succeeds.

"We're all the way downtown," she alerts him. He mumbles something about his destination, still groggy.

"Oh, you're going to have to take the 5 back uptown. You're way past your stop. You're going to have to take the 5 and then transfer and go over to Ballard." She slides to a different seat, still talking at him. "Sir, you were really sleeping. You're going to be late for whatever it was you were going to."

"Thank you," the man slurs, still slumping in the seat. Then: "How old's yer dog?"

"Nine," she answers, then with hardly another breath, "Boy, you were really sleeping. I could hardly wake you up. You'll have to take the 5, or maybe the 7, back out of downtown. This bus is almost to the end of the route. You're going to be late, now."

"Thank you," he repeats.

"The 5 or the 7. I'm not sure what else you can take. What a way to start the morning. You're going to be late for whatever it was you were going to, sir. Unless you had an appointment."

Wait – unless he had an appointment?

I feel sorry for the pooch. I helplessly imagine her feeding him five times a day and endlessly talking to him, telling him all the ways he can walk around their scattered house, warning him about missing his doggy appointments and falling asleep at inappropriate times.

cereal and pork

I'm very much wanting Andrew Neyer's new limited edition zine, Space Junk 2 (found via Book By Its Cover). Not only is it tucked inside a cereal box, but a handmade, silkscreened cereal box with real cereal, and is packed to the gunwales with the plumpest, most heart-swelling creatures to boot.

My funny bone was tickled today by this article about a piglet fitted with wellington boots due to her fear of mud. After my amusement wore off, though, the doubts started creeping in. Don't phobias entail a freak-out session of sorts, not simply "refusing to join her siblings as they splashed around in the mud"? Are you telling me that Boot Piggy got one eyeful of the mud, a look of horror flashed across her face, and she ran the other way, squealing with anxiety? Maybe she just DOESN'T LIKE THE OTHER PIGS – lookie here in this video and you won't see any boots on her hind legs, yet she seems as fine as pie.

Wait – the worst part is that she lives on a SAUSAGE FARM. The owners say she's "more" of a pet now, but is that only slaughter code for "let's wait another week"? Don't you think they're going to grow sick of continually finding new mini wellingtons as she ruins and outgrows pairs upon pairs? I SMELL A PUBLICITY STUNT.