832

I grew up in one house. It was, and remains, a great house. When I go back home it's still the home. Signs of how it crafted us are everywhere. Its foundation is my foundation. Its number was 832.

Nowadays seeing 832 fills me with warm, comforting feelings. The number almost has a smell. I love finding it randomly, like in hotel hallways and receipt subtotals and on digital clockfaces. 

In a world that (I can't verify but) I think is getting more stressful by the millisecond, 832 makes me happy. It's so simple and silly. It's nonsense.

I'll take it.

Fair finds

I'm not allowed to buy any more mugs. There's no room for more. Spending 30 bucks on a mug that I love from a craft fair is not allowed. But what if I were to break a few mugs. Accidentally. Then I might as well replace them with one that I love, right?

So here's my new strategy - at craft fairs, of which I frequent, if I love a shop I will take their card and add their website to a new folder on my Bookmark bar, the "ShopFair" folder. 

Behold: 

Thanks, Amazon, but I can handle my global wishlist by myself, thankyouverymuch.

This way I can remember the places that make my heart sing. When my nephew's birthday comes around I can remember those superhero masks. I can buy matching earrings to go with my birch bracelet. I can remember those rad leggings for friend X. When the time comes to buy myself or my loved ones something crafty, there's a starting point less intimidating than the entirety of Etsy. And if someone asks me what I might want for a gift, I can provide them with links of vetted shops, guaranteed to carry things I love that they can personally select from. Genius, I know.

masks, earrings, leggings, RGB

Now if I could only find that damn business card from that brilliant potter at the Penn State Arts Fest. I guess it will take a little longer to perfect my new protocol :(

Timeless comfy glamour

After quite the hiatus from SATC clothing raves, I'm ready to reengage. Topic - robes.

Carrie wears 2 or 3 robes (sometimes more than once!) that give me funny feelings. Just looking at their silky texture, their light, breezy sway, their inspirational patterns and colors, makes me want to traipse around in a clean apartment and see where the day takes me. Maybe I'll make toast and read a magazine from that pile. Maybe I'll paint my nails while watching When Harry Met Sally on a cool Fall day. Maybe I'll open that new bottle of wine and call a long distance friend. Maybe I'll organize my stationary. The perfect robe is the perfect start to any home bound activity. 

Your day or night can truly begin by slipping your clean body into a luxurious robe, the elegant cousin of the muumuu. Silk or modal, organic cotton or satin (nah, not satin), make it smooth and thin. Terry cloth not permitted! Make it flowery or abstract. Make it colorful in an obnoxious way that you have a sick affinity for. Make it kimono-style. Make is one size bigger than you need. Go barefoot, put on fun socks, or wear those heels you love but never have an occasion for. Just don't dress it down with granny slippers. This is not your granny's robe (unless your granny is Simon Doonan, you lucky little bitch).

After a reasonable amount of searching I realize a good robe is not so easy to come by unless you're willing to lay down some dough. Sure you can get one in scratchy, second rate satin. But the good kind, the slippery, luxe, feels so damn good against your skin kind... just think of it as an investment in timeless comfy glamour and endless possibilities. The cost per wear should whittle down to nothing. 

What I could find on Etsy. I'd love any of these -- but how dumb would it be to have to dry clean your robe, which I assume is necessary for silk? The one on the right is jersey and hooded.... mama like.

Airport friends

I was 21 when I went on my very first plane ride. It was Syracuse to Seattle via Jet Blue. As a kid with lots of siblings and an entire extended family living in one state, flying was completely out of the question. Vacations meant piling in the bench-front American-made car and heading to the beach. I always had a window seat in the back and was the resident pillow for my sleepy siblings. Someone had to stay awake and TALK TO YOUR FATHER SO HE DOESN'T DRIVE OFF THE ROAD AND KILL US ALL!!

Once, just once, my brother flew on a vacation sponsored by his friend's parents. They went to the Grand Canyon. The rest of us were so amazed, like he was turning into a unicorn in front of our eyes.

Fast forward 2 decades and now I don't just fly, I have flight routines. I park in the same places. I use the same queues. I eat the same organic tofu burritos (PHL) and sandwiches/tortas (MDW/ORD). I know where the filtered water bottle fillers are. I have favorite bathroom stalls.

Going along with being a kid who never flew is being a kid who learned that pinching pennies is the only way of life. Can I start you off with anything to drink? No thank you. Water is fine.

For my adult, employed, childless self, water is not fine.

Behold my airport best friends:

Malbec, Spicy Tanqueray Bloody Mary, and House Margarita (on the rocks with salt).

I imagine my (future) adult, employed, child-toting self will just order double.