I love flamingos. So, so much. First there’s their gorgeous coloration.
I want coral skin. It’s not fair.
Secondly, there’s their cat-like, spastic behavior. So many times have I seen a flamingo just standing in the pool, casually looking around, acting cool and collected; then out of nowhere, he’ll turn to the flamingo beside him, and attack. I’m talking honking, pecking, flapping, the works. Just as quickly as he started, he’ll stop and slowly walk away, leaving his victim behind like, “Dude. The fuck.”
Also, they sometimes do this thing where they spread their wings, start to make that obnoxious honking noise, stretch their heads toward the sky and walk slowly and ominously forward. One will do this, then another, and another, until the whole flock is marching in this bizarre homage to Nazi Germany.
Unfortunately for this guy, no one was in the mood.
That is how I chose to depict my flamingo; to me it reads elegance, confidence, and a whole lot of pride and egomania.
I cannot buy anything more for my apartment this month.
I know that. I really do.
But I figured, well, it doesn’t hurt to look. And that was true, until I saw this piece on Loveseat and felt my heart expand and then break a little at the thought that this cannot be mine.
Even if I had the money, it would be ridiculous to get a gold display case, especially since it would only be displaying books.
It’s best not to picture it in my house. It’s best not to imagine myself opening it to select a book to read to my grandchildren one day, because it’s the kind of piece that I would keep and cherish forever, and pass down to my children, and they would pass down to their children once they too leave this earth.
I will tell myself it is gaudy and would be too much in my home.
Yep. That’s what I’ll do.
Though it wouldn’t hurt to look at coffee tables while I’m already on the app…
A few days ago, I was furniture shopping and I learned something very important about myself. I am a master negotiator.
The thing is, there’s really nothing to it. Like, literally nothing. I don’t say a word. I stand and look at the piece I want, then look back at the person selling the item, then look back at the piece. Sometimes I make a little throaty-humming noise, awkwardly press my hand to my cheek or neck, and look around.
Ten times out of ten, the salesperson feels so uncomfortable, they offer to lower the price. This is a really important moment. They’ll expect you to talk, BUT YOU STILL DON’T. Maybe look at them with a scrunched up forehead. Repeat the Tina Belcheresque groan. Cock your head to the side and hunch your shoulders. Stare at them for a minute too long.
Then they fold. They always do.
Your awkwardness is hard to handle and they’ll be more than ready to bow out of the interaction as soon as possible. You can wait it out–you’ve been training for this your whole damn life.
That is how I ended up with these gorgeous pieces:
The media stand is technically an old record player holder. The front drawers are fake and do not open, so it’s maybe not the most functional piece BUT I DONT CARE I LOVE IT SO GODDAMN MUCH.
And you know how when you were a kid and would go to your grandparents’ house, there was always that one chair you weren’t allowed to sit in because it was your grandpa’s? Like exclusively his? And it was kind of a little too imposing and large and smack dab in the middle of the room? That is the relationship I plan on establishing with this beautiful, golden work of art.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go. I have a lot of sitting to do.
Hello world. Did you know that there has only been one black female senator in the history of these beautiful United States of America? Did you also know that there have been zero Indian senators, male or female, in said gorgeous country of ours?
Did you also also know that Kamala Harris is both black and Indian and just got one step closer to making those facts void?
That’s pretty cool. Glad I could help with that.
In other fun news, for the first time ever, it seems that two Democrats will make it to the California senatorial showdown come November. And not just that, two LADY Democrats. AND NOT JUST, NOT JUST THAT–TWO MINORITY LADY DEMOCRATS.
Way to go, California. You’re making your girl proud.
I’ve had to wait longer than usual to have a beach day this year. While most Mays can jump up into the high 80s and even 90s, this past month really seemed set on proving the whole “May Gray” theory. So when I pulled back my curtains this morning to reveal a sunny sky, I grabbed my bathing suit and a book, and headed to the beach.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was full and bright and there was a constant cool breeze to keep me from getting too warm and packing up early. I lounged on the sand, happy to be outside, happy to be young and alive! I laughed and shook my hair in the salt-tinged air like a woman in a shampoo commercial. I was beautiful! I was invincible! I was so comfortable, so delighted to be soaking up that much needed vitamin D, that I didn’t think twice about the fact that I had forgotten the most important thing to have on one’s first tanning-session of the year.
Sunscreen. I had forgotten sunscreen.
Fortunately for my delicate face, I was wearing my SPH-infused foundation. The rest of my body was not so lucky.
As per usual, my hubris was struck down swiftly by the forces that be and instead of feeling like a honey-dipped Gigi Hadid, I look like a walking ad for skin cancer screenings.
Let this serve as a cautionary tale to you all this weekend. Forget the book. Grab the sunscreen.
I had a creative writing professor my last year of college who told me I was one of the greatest students with whom he’s ever been blessed; however, he thought I could benefit from exploring literature and poetry. Though my writing was already bold and exciting, he believed I could only improve if I allowed myself to be influenced by as many authors and styles as I could expose myself to. In short, he told me the best thing I could do after graduating was to read A SHIT TON OF BOOKS.
A few years have passed since I received my degree so it’s possible some of that information is slightly exaggerated by a combination of elapsed time and my fragile ego–we may never know. What we do know is, like with all my other assignments, I procrastinated and opted to instead watch A SHIT TON OF NETFLIX. But like those other assignments, I found my way back to it, just a bit (ahem, six years) later than I probably should have.
This is my way of bragging that I just finished my 18th book of 2016 and have read just over 5,000 pages this year.
Holy fuck, right? See, my professor was onto something. I’m getting more eloquent already.
You know how in my last post, I talked about how much I adored my apartment and decorating and making it a home? Well my current roommate has told me she will be moving out come July 1, and as most of the furniture in our shared living space is hers, she will be taking it with her. I was fortunate enough to find a new roommate quickly and with great ease, so the stress level has receded, but financially, I was not yet off the hook. When I said most of the furniture is hers, I wasn’t kidding. The couch? Hers. The tv and tv stand? Hers. The lamp? Hers. The chair, the pillows, the dining table, the beautiful grey and yellow rug? Hers, hers, hers, half-hers (we thought splitting that one would be a good idea, and see in retrospect, it was not). The thought of my once-comforting home being depleted into a vacuous room was stressing me out. I’d still have my record player, but no chair in which to sit and enjoy the music. I’d have my book case, but no couch on which to read my books. And what would we do about the rug? Pull a Solomon and cut the thing in half?
Clearly, the whole thing was getting to me. Fortunately my new roommate has again soothed my anxieties because she also loves decorating and also also loves vintage, old lady, kitschy chic. Our house may come together much quicker and with less a financial burden than I worried it would because as it turns out, orange floral couches are relatively inexpensive.
Excited by the prospects of turning my home into a living museum, I found an adorable bar cart at an antique store in OB. She was put in their warehouse and simply forgotten about. I related to her neglect and knew I had to give her a good, loving home.