Roomy

When It Rains...

...my credenza is done!!

Chez Chaise

Nadia  just sent me pictures of my new chaise! It is bathed in a golden light.

Heaven, I'm in Heaven

I recently got back from a few heavely days on Fisher's Island. While it goes without saying that the company was the kind of company one hopes will greet on at the pearly gates, it's the house I will wax poetic on here. O, the house! It was a rambling old shingled mansion right on the water, with a kitchen to spend the rest of your life in, a porch to put southerners to shame, art by family and friends, and curiosities covering every available surface, and nooks and crannies inside every nook and cranny. Even as I was living it, I felt as though I were living in a photo album of "those were the days..."

Of course I took tons of photos of the house, but when I tried to download them, my computer ate them. Luckily, Deenah took a bunch of pictures too and while her concerns are primarily human, if you look past the peoples you can get a sense of the house.

Evidence of Life on Earth Art

Subway art, public bathroom art, dirty windshield art, cubicle art. These are all art forms that other people may dismiss, but that often are quite illuminating, indeed. Express! Express yo selves!

Today, via reader Hill Mill, comes this missive-slash-poem from the cubicle next to hers:

that's nice
that's really, really
nice
i can't believe
i just did this
fuck
nice
shit

No Brainer

The best decoration any room could ever  have?

A Crystal-Dog, duh.

She goes especially well with rugs and couches and beds,

I really miss my little doggle a lot tonight.  I know her grandparents are taking good care of their grandCrystal (Right? Right?!)  even if they haven't sent me any new pictures of her as confirmation that she still exists, but still...but still...

By way of doggie fix, I guess I'll just have to watch this for the eighty-billionth time.

Expert Expertise

I'm going to venture into new territory here (the dreaded restaurant review!). I had dinner this evening with Funshu our friend Alex at a new restaurant called James in Prospect Heights. Burgers, pasta, creamed Swiss Chard, strawberry salad, and wine were consumed. Alex complained that the location was weird (cursed corner problem-o); Anshu thought it was overpriced, but then admitted that she thinks everything is overpriced; I liked the tin ceiling and the paint job on the wall behind the bar (distressed paint), but thought that the booth seating was a little uncomfortable and wasn't crazy about their choice of wooden chairs (conventional and borrrrring). The highlight of the meal was probably when Alex, who is allergic to nuts, asked whether there is such a thing as, "Macadamia walnuts," to which Funshu responded, "Um, that's like asking if there's such a thing as a kiwi banana."

All in all, if I had a restaurant rating system that rated restaurants with on a system of one to five chins (as in the more chins the better, medieval style!), I would give James a healthy...

(drum roll)

three chins!

Congratulations, James! You have just won the promise of my patronage at least one more time.

If Bedrooms Were Nightmares

A few days ago, in those last golden days before returning to tom-schoolery, I was catching up on all the museum going I had been lazy about all summer and so I dragged my ass to the Guggenheim for the Louise Bourgeois exhibition. Two things of note happened while there:

1) I was wearing a little jacket with three buttons on it. I began the exhibit at the top of the Guggenheim and as soon as I arrived at the top and was about to begin the journey down to the lobby, a button fell off my jacket and landed so that it started rolling down the spiral hall. It went faster and faster. Instead of chasing it and risk looking like a total idiot, I simply watched as people watched the button rolled past them down and down and down the hall. They probably thought it was art.

2) Bourgeois' cell series totally gave me a panic attack. The cells are basically psychological interpretations of domestic spaces and peeking in on each one gave me a profound sense of dread. My legs started tingling and for a good hour there I  was convinced that the cells had given me muscular dystrophy or something horrible. 

Long story short? Excellent exhibition if you're the type of person who enjoys a good horror movie; not recommended for hypochondriacs.

Someone to Watch You While You Shower

 

Funshu and I were upstate one weekend this summer going around to various antique stores when we came across a bunch of Victorian pornography. About 30 of these framed photographs were hanging on the wall and we both thought that they were pretty rad. The perfect collection of bathroom art. (Bathroom art is a very particular kind of art, you realize.) However, the first problem was that a single photograph ranged in price from sixty dollars to ninety dollars. The second problem was that both Anshu and I agreed that the photographs looked better as a grouping of porn photos as opposed to a single photo hanging above a toilet (which is where we would hang them if we bought them). Then Anshu had the bra-zilliant (get it?! Badabing!) idea that we download old porn pictures off the big internets, print them up real nice, frame 'em, and do our own porn collection budget-style. Of course, we haven't gotten around to it yet. So, note to Funshu: Next weekend? Craft-tastic?

The Green Monster Is Looking at...

...Bridget Potter! Last night I had dinner with my wonderful BP. I have been a few times to Bridget's country house and each time I go, my breath is inevitably taken away as we drive up the road to it. It is beautiful in winter, spring, summer, and fall. And then, when you walk in the front door, it's like another world where domestic perfection has been achieved. (Applause for BP!) It's not fancy or ridiculously luxurious: it's just understated, comfortable, unpretentious, and elegant. The place is aspirational. Sometimes, I hope that weird best-seller book that says if you visualize something that it will happen is onto something. But I doubt it. Regardless, I visualize Bridget's house constantly. Moving on: last night, BP reminded me that there are photos of her house on a website for movie location scouts. Since I didn't take photos of the house last time I was there that I could then share with my fellow beautiful house-lovers, this is the best I can do for now. (By the way, if you want to browse dream houses in general, the website of the company--Proper Production --that has these pictures of Bridget's house is not a bad place to visit.)

Ah, Craigslist...

Hey, if I had an extra $300 lying around, I would consider this  something of a find.

Avian Flu

At first, I thought the ubiquitous bird motif was a ubiquity limited to Brooklyn alone. Take a stroll through Brooklyn on any given day, walk in and out of shops and restaurants and bars and flea markets and people's houses and and and and and (!) and you will eventually begin to think that someone of avian descent is running for office. If I see another bird-themed necklace, t-shirt, pillow, pair of earrings, tote bag, wallpaper, skirt, tattoo, whatever, I am going to pick the thing up and throw it out-of-bounds. I'm done with the bird motif. If it runs for Borough President, I am not voting for it. 

I mean, I was at the Brooklyn Flea this past Sunday with my camera because, just to prove a point, I wanted to walk through the stalls and take photos of all the bird-themed stuff on offer. At the first vendor I stopped at there were numerous objects featuring feathery friends. I pulled out my camera and aimed the first shot in my War on the Bird Motif. My opponent caught me pointing the weapon in the direction of his dumb bird necklace and put up his finger, wagging it "nonono"-style at me. "No pictures," he said. My white flag came up. "Fine." But really, did he think I wanted to steal his bird idea? Cause it's not an idea, it's...it's...I don't know what it is, but it is not an idea that would qualify as something that could possibly be stolen. It's like if I were a designer and didn't have 30 percent of my inventory devoted to birds, I would be ostracized. 

Then, the other day I was in the Anthropologie store on 18th street and Fifth Avenue and I noticed that right by the cash register was a freaking bird doodad! I'd had it. The trend is going global. So, I whipped out my phone and took a picture. The war has begun. It is on. If anyone is interested in joining the cause, please send in your boring-ass bird motif pictures and I will post them, then proceed to rant about everything from, "Why birds? They're effing creepy!" to "Yawn. Next!" 

All I know is that contrary to popular belief, bird is not the new black, people. Do you hear me?

(And no, that's not my stringy brown ponytail in the picture, although it is a relief to see that somewhere in this city full of people with beautiful hair that there is at least one other person out there with a stringy brown ponytail that resembles my own.)

If I Have Ever a Baby It Might Have a Complex Or Two

If I ever have a baby, not only am I not going to send baby announcements out that say neither, "It's a boy!" nor "It's a girl!" but instead say, "It's a panda!" I am also going to decorate said baby's room with panda pictures like these:

When my kid learns to talk and starts to ask why I have pictures of pandas in his (or her) room and no pictures of my kid, I'm going to explain that when I got knocked up my OBGYN had told me I was going to have a panda instead of a baby, so I mistakenly prepared ahead of time. Oops.

Thanks to Ms. Josephine Conover for the pics! Shout out to Charlottesville, V-shizzy!

Off Topic

I'm meandering away from my avowed theme here, but this was too adorable not to share.

I was on the train this afternoon and was sitting next to an old man dressed in a blue suit, a purple bow tie, round tortoise shell eye glasses, and shiny dress shoes. A bunch of trendy college students were standing in front of him. Somehow they got to talking. I don't know how they got to talking but here is where I tuned into the conversation:

Old Man: You should wear bow ties.

Kid #1: Oh yeah?

Old Man: Yeah. You know where you can get them?

Kid #1: Where?

Old Man: Brooks Brothers.

Kid #1: Cool.

Old Man: So what do you think you want to do when you grow up?

Kid #1: I want to be a creative director.

Kid #2: I want to be a biological researcher.

Kid #3: I want to be an orthopedic surgeon.

Kid #2: What do you do?

Old Man: I run a cruise ship company.

Kid #1: Where do you guys go?

Old Man: Oh, lots of places. South America, the Caribbean.

Kid #2: What's your company called?

Old Man: Royal Caribbean.

Kid #1: You own that?

Old Man: Well, my family does. I help run it.

Kid #3: So, if you were going to offer and 18-year-old some advice, what would you say?

Old Man: Well, I would have to think about that. I guess I would say that it's critical to develop special skills and insight. It's the only way to compete. I'll tell you where you can find success.

Kid #2: Oh yeah? Where?

Old Man: The business section of the New York Public Library.

Kid #2: Cool. 

Old Man: Well, my stop is next.

Kid #1: We appreciate your advice. We will try to follow it. 

Old Man: Think about. Find the library anyway.

I have to admit when he asked the kids what they wanted to be when they grew up and they began answering so earnestly, in my head I was waiting for one of them to answer, Snoop Dogg -style, "I want to be a mother fucking hustler." But I'm glad they didn't. That might have ruined the moment. (I never thought that I would ever want to patronize Royal Caribbean. I may have changed my mind today.)

In other Adorable Old Man News, yesterday I was at JG Melon for dinner with a friend and before he left, I was sitting next to Gus Edson. I know because the manager told me so after the Adorable Old Man departed. Probably for bed. It was 8pm, after all.

For the Record

If you see one movie in the next year see this one. Everyone, everyone should see this movie. The entire country should be locked in a room together and made to watch it. Seriously. Phenomenal. It's playing here.

Memories of the Way...

For some reason, that last post reminded me of this exact time last year. It was my first day of graduate school and I was sitting in a classroom for the first time in five years looking at the faces of my future classmates who I had never met before and who all looked uniformly strange and terrifying to me. By way of introducing ourselves, we were supposed to go around the room and introduce ourselves and then say a sentence that finished the phrase, "I like..." As in, "My name is so-and-so, and I like blahblahblah." Before saying your name and what you liked, you also had to repeat everyone else's name who had come before you and what they liked as well. "That's so-and-so, and she likes whales. That's so-and-so, and he likes music." It was a mildly retarded exercise in retardation. Nevertheless, it was an exercise that I found incredibly complicated and stressful. I could not think of anything that I liked. My turn came and I froze. Then, I found myself saying out loud, "My name is Nell and I like shopping." I felt like the whole room was like, "Weird. Out of all the things in the world that girl could have said she liks she said, 'shopping.'" I felt like I was speaking another language and couldn't remember how to conjugate any other verbs besides "to shop." I then had to listen to 15 people repeat the phrase, "Her name is Nell and she likes shopping." It was pure hell.

However, a year after this traumatic experience, I've fully recovered and if some MFA student gave me the hairy eyeball in the wake of such I statement now, I would be all, "Meh. Whatever. It's true. My name is Nell and I like shopping. Deal with it, biatch." Oh, how far I have come.

Plus, I have a new traumatic experience I am recovering from: Last week I was trying on one of those maxi dresses, the kind that doesn't have any straps, just some elastic around the boobal area. The dressing room didn't have a mirror, so I had to leave the dressing room to see what it looked like. I was staring at it in the big mirror in the middle of the store and chatting with the salesgirl about the pros and cons of the dress when she said brightly, "Oh! And it doubles as a skirt!" Without thinking I totally pulled to dress down to my waist. I then looked into the mirror and saw my boobs staring back at me; I then looked over at the salesgirl and saw her not knowing what to say to my boobs.