Friday, October 26, 2012


I am lately obsessed with vintage chairs.  I'm on the hunt for vintage dining room chairs to replace the sad IKEA ones I've been resignedly using for the past four years.  I hit up the yard sale of a stager this past weekend and was all kinds of inspired.  Beyond some great bargains, I left with a few tips, one of which is using Etsy as a resource for vintage finds, much cleaner and more streamlined than fleamarkets, Craig's List, or secondhand furniture shops.  The idea that I can get four chairs for $140, already repainted and upholstered with a vibrant pattern, is infinitely more appealing than saving up to get four vanilla ones from West Elm.  I just have to ask the important questions now: how modern do I want to go?  Mid-mod like Saarinen or sleek contemporary like Starck?  And remind myself, avoid shabby chic at all costs.  Not as easy as you think; the attractive French countryside and American farmhouse looks, all so "heritage" (as Carolyn likes to say) is maybe one whitewash away from coming out of Rachel Ashwell's warehouse in China.

The weekend ahead is, per usual, part social, part family.  Girls' night out at The Grove to watch Pitch Perfect and eat at the Farmers Market.  I made sure to have some kind of Halloween plans on Saturday, if only to relish the last years of being able to dress like a skanky [insert occupation, superhero, animal, or popular character here].  This year I'm down in Hermosa Beach, not a traditionally fecund place for meeting people of my age group.  Sunday is going home to meet some cousin in from China.  (Will she have that funny accent?)

I'm aware today that one of our support center staff is peeved with me.  I'm making him turn like 2,000 e-mails into PDFs for a document production.  I gave him one of those fake, inadequate smiles of "thank you..." blended with the teardrop eyes of "I'm sorry..." but he just took the jump drive and left.  These kinds of office dynamics amuse me.  I mean, we both know it has to get done, but we actually entertained that polite conspiracy of "is there any other way to do it?" on the slim chance that maybe he wouldn't have to.  I'm convinced that all life is a comedy of manners.

And here is Elizabeth Taylor, that wondrous child-woman of ethereal, perfect beauty.  Richard Burton was so madly in love with her, though they were self-medicated for most of their years together.  It cracks me up that, in his diary, he wrote about a fight they had where he heckled her about being fascinated by Warren Beatty's penchant for older women.  "I like to gossip," she told him, and Dick had nothing to worry about.  "Christ if you can marry Eddie Fisher you can marry anybody!" he snarled.  I think the jealousy is kind of cute.  (And high five to Debbie Reynolds!)

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