tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91523539389606108502024-03-13T04:59:15.514-04:00Diva in DistressA confused diva's guide to livingVictoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.comBlogger362125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-60213502525246770602012-02-02T16:13:00.000-05:002012-02-02T16:13:26.836-05:00Stop pushing happiness over the cognitive horizon......and change the way your brain processes the world and see what your brain is actually capable of. Sound fun right? Throw out impossible-to-maintain-resolutions and start here.<br />
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Want a recipe for more happiness? 21- days to a better outlook. Try these 5-steps and in 21-days you can have a better outlook. See what happens and report back to me here.<br />
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5-steps:<br />
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3-gratitudes - 3 new things you are grateful for for 21-days in the row. 3 new things each day.<br />
Journaling - 1 positive experience you've had over the past 24-hrs.<br />
Exercise - teaches your brain that your behavior matters.<br />
Meditation - allows your brain to get over the cultural ADHD that we have been creating by multi-tasking.<br />
Random acts of kindness - daily.<br />
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Oh and don't forget to smile.<br />
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Listen to Shawn Anchor's TED talk for more information or inspiration.<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="331" scrolling="no" src="http://tedxtalks.ted.com/video/TEDxBloomington-Shawn-Achor-The/player?layout=&read_more=1" width="420"></iframe><br />
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Start the revolution! Do it now! Create ripples of happiness.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-83341454067888220992012-01-31T10:49:00.003-05:002012-02-01T09:20:34.515-05:00Seen and be seenNow you see me, now you don't. It's like magic the way I disappear and reappear. Or maybe it's not. <br />
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Life has been changing before my very eyes and it is nothing short of exciting. I'm having a love affair with change. Please don't be jealous it is entirely scary too. <br />
<br />
I love this short story by Joan Didion as it reminds me of my old self, all the doing for the sake of doing. Today I only do for the absolute pleasure of doing. <br />
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Later I'll tell you why I've retired<br />
my passport (for now).<br />
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Last note: To Mister DID, you will love this story, read it. <br />
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Ta-ta. <br />
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GOODBYE TO ALL THAT by Joan Didion<br />
<br />
How many miles to Babylon?<br />
Three score miles and and ten—<br />
Can I get there by candlelight?<br />
Yes, and back again—<br />
If your feet are nimble and light<br />
You can get there by candlelight.<br />
<br />
It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a clarity that makes the nerves in the back of my neck constrict, when New York began for me, but I cannot lay my finger upon the moment it ended, can never cut through the ambiguities and second starts and broken resolves to the exact place on the page where the heroine is no longer as optimistic as she once was. When I first saw New York I was twenty, and it was summertime, and I got off a DC-7 at the old Idlewild temporary terminal in a new dress which had seemed very smart in Sacramento but seemed less smart already, even in the old Idlewild temporary terminal, and the warm air smelled of mildew and some instinct, programmed by all the movies I had ever seen and all the songs I had ever read about New York, informed me that it would never be quite the same again. In fact it never was. Some time later there was a song in the jukeboxes on the Upper East Side that went “but where is the schoolgirl who used to be me,” and if it was late enough at night I used to wonder that. I know now that almost everyone wonders something like that, sooner or later and no matter what he or she is doing, but one of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened to anyone before.<br />
<br />
Of course it might have been some other city, had circumstances been different and the time been different and had I been different, might have been Paris or Chicago or even San Francisco, but because I am talking about myself I am talking here about New York. That first night I opened my window on the bus into town and watched for the skyline, but all I could see were the wastes of Queens and big signs that said MIDTOWN TUNNEL THIS LANE and then a flood of summer rain (even that seemed remarkable and exotic, for I had come out of the West where there was no summer rain), and for the next three days I sat wrapped in blankets in a hotel room air conditioned to 35 degrees and tried to get over a cold and a high fever. It did not occur to me to call a doctor, because I knew none, and although it did occur to me to call the desk and ask that the air conditioner be turned off, I never called, because I did not know how much to tip whoever might come—was anyone ever so young? I am here to tell you that someone was. All I could do during those years was talk long-distance to the boy I already knew I would never marry in the spring. I would stay in New York, I told him, just six months, and I could see the Brooklyn Bridge from my window. As it turned out the bridge was the Triborough, and I stayed eight years.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>In retrospect it seems to me that those days before I knew the names of all the bridges were happier than the ones that came later, but perhaps you will see that as we go along. Part of what I want to tell you is what it is like to be young in New York, how six months can become eight years with the deceptive ease of a film dissolve, for that is how those years appear to me now, in a long sequence of sentimental dissolves and old-fashioned trick shots—the Seagram Building fountains dissolve into snowflakes, I enter a revolving door at twenty and come out a good deal older, and on a different street. But most particularly I want to explain to you, and in the process perhaps to myself, why I no longer live in New York. It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city only for the very young.<br />
<br />
I remember once, one cold bright December evening in New York, suggesting a friend who complained of having been around too long that he come with me to a party where there would be, I assured him with the bright resourcefulness of twenty-three, “new faces.” He laughed literally until he choked, and I had to roll down the taxi window and hit him on the back. “New faces,” he said finally, “don’t tell me about new faces.” It seemed that the last time he had gone to a party where he had been promised “new faces,” there had been fifteen people in the room, and he had already spelt with five of the women and owed money to all but two of the men. I laughed with him, but the first snow had just begun to fall and the big Christmas trees glittered yellow and white as far as I could see up Park Avenue and I had a new dress and it would be a long while before I would come to understand the particular moral of the story.<br />
<br />
It would be a long while because, quite simply, I was in love with New York. I do not mean “love” in any colloquial way, I mean that I was in love with the city, the way you love the first person who ever touches you and you never love anyone quite that way again. I remember walking across Sixty-second Street one twilight that first spring, or the second spring, they were all alike for a while. I was late to meet someone but I stopped at Lexington Avenue and bought a peach and stood on the corner eating it and knew that I had come out out of the West and reached the mirage. I could taste the peach and feel the soft air blowing from a subway grating on my legs and I could smell lilac and garbage and expensive perfume and I knew that it would cost something sooner or later—because I did not belong there, did not come from there—but when you are twenty-two or twenty-three, you figure that later you will have a high emotional balance, and be able to pay whatever it costs. I still believed in possibilities then, still had the sense, so peculiar to New York, that something extraordinary would happen any minute, any day, any month. I was making only $65 or $70 then a week then (“Put yourself in Hattie Carnegie’s hands,” I was advised without the slightest trace of irony by an editor of the magazine for which I worked), so little money that some weeks I had to charge food at Bloomingdale’s gourmet shop in order to eat, a fact which went unmentioned in the letters I wrote to California. I never told my father that I needed money because then he would have sent it, and I would never know if I could do it by myself. At that time making a living seemed a game to me, with arbitrary but quite inflexible rules. And except on a certain kind of winter evening—six-thirty in the Seventies, say, already dark and bitter with a wind off the river, when I would be walking very fast toward a bus and would look in the bright windows of brownstones and see cooks working in clean kitchens and and imagine women lighting candles on the floor above and beautiful children being bathed on the floor above that—except on nights like those, I never felt poor; I had the feeling that if I needed money I could always get it. I could write a syndicated column for teenagers under the name “Debbi Lynn” or I could smuggle gold into India or I could become a $100 call girl, and none of would matter.<br />
<br />
Nothing was irrevocable; everything was within reach. Just around every corner lay something curious and interesting, something I had never before seen or done or known about. I could go to a party and meet someone who called himself Mr. Emotional Appeal and ran The Emotional Appeal Institute or Tina Onassis Blandford or a Florida cracker who was then a regular on what the called “the Big C,” the Southampton-El Morocco circuit (“I’m well connected on the Big C, honey,” he would tell me over collard greens on his vast borrowed terrace), or the widow of the celery king of the Harlem market or a piano salesman from Bonne Terre, Missouri, or someone who had already made and list two fortunes in Midland, Texas. I could make promises to myself and to other people and there would be all the time in the world to keep them. I could stay up all night and make mistakes, and none of them would count.<br />
<br />
You see I was in a curious position in New York: it never occurred to me that I was living a real life there. In my imagination I was always there for just another few months, just until Christmas or Easter or the first warm day in May. For that reason I was most comfortable with the company of Southerners. They seemed to be in New York as I was, on some indefinitely extended leave from wherever they belonged, disciplined to consider the future, temporary exiles who always knew when the flights left for New Orleans or Memphis or Richmond or, in my case, California. Someone who lives with a plane schedule in the drawer lives on a slightly different calendar. Christmas, for example, was a difficult season. Other people could take it in stride, going to Stowe or going abroad or going for the day to their mothers’ places in Connecticut; those of us who believed that we lived somewhere else would spend it making and canceling airline reservations, waiting for weatherbound flights as if for the last plane out of Lisbon in 1940, and finally comforting one another, those of us who were left, with oranges and mementos and smoked-oyster stuffings of childhood, gathering close, colonials in a far country.<br />
<br />
Which is precisely what we were. I am not sure that it is possible for anyone brought up in the East to appreciate entirely what New York, the idea of New York, means to those of us who came out of the West and the South. To an Eastern child, particularly a child who has always has an uncle on Wall Street and who has spent several hundred Saturdays first at F.A.O. Schwarz and being fitted for shoes at Best’s and then waiting under the Biltmore clock and dancing to Lester Lanin, New York is just a city, albeit the city, a plausible place for people to live, But to those of us who came from places where no one had heard of Lester Lanin and Grand Central Station was a Saturday radio program, where Wall Street and Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue were not places at all but abstractions (“Money,” and “High Fashion,” and “The Hucksters”), New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself. To think of “living” there was to reduce the miraculous to the mundane; one does not “live” at Xanadu.<br />
<br />
In fact it was difficult in the extreme for me to understand those young women for whom New York was not simply an ephemeral Estoril but a real place, girls who bought toasters and installed new cabinets in their apartments and committed themselves to some reasonable furniture. I never bought any furniture in New York. For a year or so I lived in other people’s apartments; after that I lived in the Nineties in an apartment furnished entirely with things taken from storage by a friend whose wife had moved away. And when I left the apartment in the Nineties (that was when I was leaving everything, when it was all breaking up) I left everything in it, even my winter clothes and the map of Sacramento County I had hung on the bedroom wall to remind me who I was, and I moved into a monastic four-room floor-through on Seventy-fifth Street. “Monastic” is perhaps misleading here, implying some chic severity; until after I was married and my husband moved some furniture in, there was nothing at all in those four rooms except a cheap double mattress and box springs, ordered by telephone the day I decided to move, and two French garden chairs lent me by a friend who imported them. (It strikes me now that the people I knew in New York all had curious and self-defeating sidelines. They imported garden chairs which did not sell very well at Hammacher Schlemmer or they tried to market hair staighteners in Harlem or they ghosted exposés of Murder Incorporated for Sunday supplements. I think that perhaps none of us was very serious, engagé only about our most private lives.)<br />
<br />
All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eight, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
That is what it was all about, wasn’t it? Promises? Now when New York comes back to me it comes in hallucinatory flashes, so clinically detailed that I sometimes wish that memory would effect the distortion with which it is commonly credited. For a lot of the time I was in New York I used a perfume called Fleurs de Rocaille, and then L’Air du Temps, and now the slightest trace of either can short-circuit my connections for the rest of the day. Nor can I smell Henri Bendel jasmine soap without falling back into the past, or the particular mixture of spices used for boiling crabs. There were barrels of crab boil in a Czech place in the Eighties where I once shopped. Smells, of course, are notorious memory stimuli, but there are other things which affect me the same way. Blue-and-white striped sheets. Vermouth cassis. Some faded nightgowns which were new in 1959 or 1960, and some chiffon scarves I bought about the same time.<br />
<br />
I suppose that a lot of us who have been very young in New York have the same scenes in our home screens. I remember sitting in a lot of apartments with a slight headache about five o’clock in the morning. I had a friend who could not sleep, and he knew a few other people who had the same trouble, and we would watch the sky lighten and have a last drink with no ice and then go home in the early morning, when the streets were clean and wet (had it rained in the night? we never knew) and the few cruising taxis still had their headlights on and the only color was the red and green of traffic signals. The White Rose bars opened very early in the morning; I recall waiting in one of them to watch an astronaut go into space, waiting so long that at the moment it actually happened I had my eyes not on the television screen but on a cockroach on the tile floor. I liked the bleak branches above Washington Square at dawn, and the monochromatic flatness of Second Avenue, the fire escapes and the grilled storefronts peculiar and empty in their perspective.<br />
<br />
It is relatively hard to fight at six-thirty or seven in the morning, without any sleep, which was perhaps one reason why we stayed up all night, and it seemed to me a pleasant time of day. The windows were shuttered in that apartment in the Nineties and I could sleep for a few hours and then go to work. I could work the on two or three hours’ sleep and a container of coffee from Chock Full O’ Nuts. I liked going to work, liked the soothing and satisfactory rhythm of getting out a magazine, liked the orderly progression of four-color closings and two-color closings and black-and-white closings and then The Product, no abstraction but something which looked effortlessly glossy and could be picked up on a newsstand and weighed in the hand. I liked all the minutiae of proofs and layouts, liked working late on the nights the magazines went to press, sitting and reading Variety and waiting for the copy desk to call. From my office, I could look across town to the weather signal on the Mutual of New York Building and the lights that alternately spelled TIME and LIFE above Rockeffeler Plaza; that pleased me obscurely, and so did walking uptown in the mauve eight o’clocks of early summer evenings and looking at things, Lowestoft tureens in Fifty-seventh Street windows, people in evening clothes trying to get taxis, the trees just coming into full leaf, the lambent air, all the sweet promises of money and summer.<br />
<br />
Some years passed, but I still did not lose that sense of wonder about New York. I began to cherish the loneliness of it, the sense that at any given time no one need know where I was or what I was doing. I liked walking, from the East River over to the Hudson and back on brisk days, down around the Village on warm days. A friend would leave me the key to her apartment in the West Village when she was out of town, and sometimes I would just move down there, because by that time the telephone was beginning to bother me (the canker, you see, was already in the rose) and not many people had that number. I remember one day when someone who did have the West Village number came to pick me up for lunch there, and we both had hangovers, and I cut my finger opening him a beer and burst into tears, and we walked to a Spanish restaurant and drank bloody Marys and gazpacho until we felt better. I was not then guilt-ridden about spending afternoons that way, because I still had all the afternoons in the world.<br />
<br />
And even that late in the game I still liked going to parties, all parties, bad parties, Saturday-afternoon parties given by recently married couples who lived in Stuyvesant Town, West Side parties given by unpublished or failed writers who served cheap red wine and talked about going to Guatalajara, Village parties where all the guests worked for advertising agencies and voted for Reform Democrats, press parties at Sardi’s, the worst kind of parties. You will have perceived by now that I was not one to profit by the experience of others, that it was a very long time indeed before I stopped believing in new faces and began to understand the lesson in that story, which was that it is distinctly possible to stay too long at the Fair.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I could not tell you when I began to understand that. All I know is that it was very bad when I was twenty-eight. Everything that was said to me I seemed to have heard before, and I could no longer listen. I could no longer sit in little bars near Grand Central and listen to someone complaining of his wife’s inability to cope with the help while he missed another train to Connecticut. I no longer had any interest in hearing about the advances other people had received from their publishers, about plays which were having second-act trouble in Philadelphia, or about people I would like very much if only I would come out and meet them. I had already met them, always. There were certain parts of the city which I had to avoid. I could not bear upper Madison Avenue on weekday mornings (this was a particularly inconvenient aversion, since I then lived just fifty or sixty feet east of Madison), because I would see women walking Yorkshire terriers and shopping at Gristede’s, and some Veblenesque gorge would rise in my throat. I could not go to Times Square in the afternoon, or to the New York Public Library for any reason whatsoever. One day I could not go into a Schrafft’s; the next it would be the Bonwit Teller.<br />
<br />
I hurt the people I cared about, and insulted those I did not. I cut myself off from the one person who was closer to me than any other. I cried until I was not even aware when I was crying and when I was not, I cried in elevators and in taxis and in Chinese laundries, and when I went to the doctor, he said only that I seemed to be depressed, and that I should see a “specialist.” He wrote down a psychiatrist’s name and address for me, but I did not go.<br />
<br />
Instead I got married, which as it turned out was a very good thing to do but badly timed, since I still could not walk on upper Madison Avenue in the mornings and still could not talk to people and still cried in Chinese laundries. I had never before understood what “despair” meant, and I am not sure that I understand now, but I understood that year. Of course I could not work. I could not even get dinner with any degree of certainty, and I would sit in the apartment on Seventy-fifth Street paralyzed until my husband would call from his office and say gently that I did not have to get dinner, that I could meet him at Michael’s Pub or at Toots Shor’s or at Sardi’s East. And then one morning in April (we had been married in January) he called and told me that he wanted to get out of New York for a while, that he would take a six-month leave of absence, that we would go somewhere.<br />
<br />
It was three years ago he told me that, and we have lived in Los Angeles since. Many of the people we knew in New York think this a curious aberration, and in fact tell us so. There is no possible, no adequate answer to that, and so we give certain stock answers, the answers everyone gives. I talk about how difficult it would be for us to “afford” to live in New York right now, about how much “space” we need, All I mean is that I was very young in New York, and that at some point the golden rhythm was broken, and I am not that young anymore. The last time I was in New York was in a cold January, and everyone was ill and tired. Many of the people I used to know there had moved to Dallas or had gone on Antabuse or had bought a farm in New Hampshire. We stayed ten days, and then we took an afternoon flight back to Los Angeles, and on the way home from the airport that night I could see the moon on the Pacific and smell jasmine all around and we both knew that there was no longer any point in keeping the apartment we still kept in New York. There were years when I called Los Angeles “the Coast,” but they seem a long time ago.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-47465346330993112482011-12-15T12:49:00.000-05:002011-12-15T12:49:21.523-05:00Excuses are for losers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPJX2BmzNRLKaZyYTEasZXWelvWcEES7lSWBMu8ctymD09su8O3GfDE5Gjbp2rv9CPjQ6T8BvH-gLQ67A9CWGwxuy2txFSbbD8jwOnpJjGWsY_oHuur5FswTpjj7NVrPHCTkTrdO-lHo/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVPJX2BmzNRLKaZyYTEasZXWelvWcEES7lSWBMu8ctymD09su8O3GfDE5Gjbp2rv9CPjQ6T8BvH-gLQ67A9CWGwxuy2txFSbbD8jwOnpJjGWsY_oHuur5FswTpjj7NVrPHCTkTrdO-lHo/s320/photo.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><br />
<br />
This is a piece of paper that I've had for over ten years. An English Teacher at my high school had this posted on his door. I'm not sure how I obtained it, I may have taken it or asked him for it, but I've had it ever since. Whenever I feel uninspired, lazy, or like I need to improve on a skill -- I dig it out and read it. I remind myself of the person I once was and, hopefully, continue to be.<br />
<br />
I'm not writing this to encourage you to find your spirit. I've done that before. I like the memory and I want to share it with you. If you are inspired as a result then that's good too.<br />
<br />
If I were rewriting these words to myself, today, I would say following:<br />
<br />
FACE IT. No one owes you a healthy body. Eating cookies for breakfast is directly related to how you feel later today. Oooooppps.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-5573544101917762382011-12-01T10:50:00.000-05:002011-12-01T10:50:46.442-05:00"Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art."-Eleanor RooseveltVictoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-76326893227441063572011-11-30T09:25:00.000-05:002011-11-30T09:25:05.154-05:00The House-TopRead <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/melville/565/">this poem</a>, Melville wrote it from the rooftop of his apartment during the 1863 NYC draft riots, as he watched most of Manhattan burn.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, Arial, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">A Night Piece.</div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, Arial, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">(July, 1863.)</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, Arial, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: verdana, Arial, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><pre>No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air
And binds the brain--a dense oppression, such
As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,
Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.
Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads
Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.
Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf
Of muffled sound, the Atheist roar of riot.
Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought,
Balefully glares red Arson--there-and there.
The Town is taken by its rats--ship-rats.
And rats of the wharves. All civil charms
And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe--
Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway
Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve,
And man rebounds whole æons back in nature.*
Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead,
And ponderous drag that shakes the wall.
Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll
Of black artillery; he comes, though late;
In code corroborating Calvin's creed
And cynic tyrannies of honest kings;
He comes, nor parlies; and the Town redeemed,
Give thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds
The grimy slur on the Republic's faith implied,
Which holds that Man is naturally good,
And--more--is Nature's Roman, never to be scourged.
</pre><div><br />
</div></span>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-23008072952806804892011-11-28T09:13:00.001-05:002011-11-28T09:13:44.832-05:00DiscoveriesFirst, I'd like to apologize for my long hiatus. I hope I haven't lost my spatter of readers, at least not entirely. I haven't posted in a long, long time, because I have had some recent events that made me think, "Do I really want to do this anymore?"<br />
<br />
The first is I discovered the website <a href="http://getoffmyinternets.net/">get off my internets</a> (GOMI), where I discovered that the majority of popular blogs are all doing it for money/perks. I've always know that people blog for so many reasons beyond venting and ranting, but I guess I never quite realized the contrived nature of blogging. Think of this as a light bulb moment for me. I know, I know, I know, I was naive! And this discovery should not change that I enjoy sharing parts of my life with all of you, but it did make me reconsider my goals for the blog and my approach. <br />
<br />
Following my GOMI discovery, I bumped in to (saw from a very safe distance at a Mexican airport) yet another popular blogger, someone who is written up on GOMI. This is the fourth time that this has happened to me (one blogger happens to live in my neighborhood). Run-ins with people who style and design their lives ruins the mystique (for me). You can't help but think that these people are ordinary people and that, really if you think about it, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Everyone-Poops-My-Body-Science/dp/0916291456">everyone poops</a>, (i.e. does ordinary, everyday things) We don't all spend our days posing for photos on well-selected street corners. Or do we...grab the camera Ethel!<br />
<br />
So all of that caused me to take this time out. In addition, the original idea for blog was to find my life's calling and I think maybe I found it. I'm not exactly ready to share, but you will see. For now, I'll continue to post, because, well...I like you. I'll try to keep my posts honest, relevant, and informative. <br />
<br />
Some other amazing discoveries during my hiatus include:<br />
<br />
A French Designer, <a href="http://www.roseanna.fr/">Roseanna</a>, I'm obsessed. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xTTxoHZJDRFUvPGgaoWaPF_z0BGEYkb3JP_vtbaXWPNHMguzyT7hRnEkCxzfkgDU4LDtggBXvaPbckCU7lrmCWD-9Tvwt2kbTFNhvvCv6sbo1Lk5botoc_N-74_tEWz6GKzEMRYuY30/s1600/roseanna_look1_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xTTxoHZJDRFUvPGgaoWaPF_z0BGEYkb3JP_vtbaXWPNHMguzyT7hRnEkCxzfkgDU4LDtggBXvaPbckCU7lrmCWD-9Tvwt2kbTFNhvvCv6sbo1Lk5botoc_N-74_tEWz6GKzEMRYuY30/s320/roseanna_look1_4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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An amazing <a href="http://www.indianlink.com.au/headline/nariyals-on-the-beach/">sculpture festival in Australia</a>. Featuring upcoming artist Nariyals. <br />
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A funny (I mean hysterical) <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/blackberry/p.html?id=1108282">Q&A between Jadakiss and Siri</a>.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-11746604520435049752011-11-11T13:08:00.002-05:002011-11-28T09:16:45.109-05:00Post-boomer ideology<a href="http://m.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/">All the single ladies</a><br />
<br />
Interesting <a href="http://m.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/">article</a> from the Atlantic.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-41945875574166431872011-11-09T12:31:00.002-05:002011-11-09T12:31:20.720-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoKuUr45YNxFg-9fGVJoLAzQbyYShYLSmxukWD3-YR0HAMpjaan9V1KTHq_sLt8Si0WS3wRVgNssnt00rdgmXvVevKOV7GMtBSA4LNqjA1QYSuAjvjNKmH2rbe4V0sttyaQ0IGAgRQOA/s1600/friends-champagne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyoKuUr45YNxFg-9fGVJoLAzQbyYShYLSmxukWD3-YR0HAMpjaan9V1KTHq_sLt8Si0WS3wRVgNssnt00rdgmXvVevKOV7GMtBSA4LNqjA1QYSuAjvjNKmH2rbe4V0sttyaQ0IGAgRQOA/s1600/friends-champagne.jpg" /></a></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-29475030629082345682011-11-05T11:42:00.000-04:002011-11-05T11:42:31.717-04:00Saturday song of the week: Wanna be by Dizzee Rascal<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/g-FXSPov2Ho" width="420"></iframe>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-74915054902174814132011-11-03T18:52:00.000-04:002011-11-03T18:52:58.694-04:00I got five on it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfGWrspCzr94nNFb4656zotk-XqUWMuLwOtgRJg1HubwautNbAGaxnAzh-OmYBi1nfJ0fARR7ChKGphKFIw2STIhI-dKd7hyphenhyphenbKoKnUtXYQQvEAiy7nzBfgq84A1TnZv7qYhhV70Wc6bs/s1600/22038_300004746337_547141337_3988766_6753014_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfGWrspCzr94nNFb4656zotk-XqUWMuLwOtgRJg1HubwautNbAGaxnAzh-OmYBi1nfJ0fARR7ChKGphKFIw2STIhI-dKd7hyphenhyphenbKoKnUtXYQQvEAiy7nzBfgq84A1TnZv7qYhhV70Wc6bs/s400/22038_300004746337_547141337_3988766_6753014_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Do you know the words to this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6tqn7uhYKk">song</a>? I do! This is hysterical to me. Hysterical! In fact, I may have even considered this song for one of my wedding playlists. Now let me make something perfectly clear - I like to think of myself a relatively sophisticated person (I wear matching bra and panties, damn it! That's sophistication, isn't it?), but there are some truly random (and child like) things that make me laugh. As I write this I wonder if admitting these things to cyberspace is dangerous. Will you be offended cyberspace? Will you? Ok... I'll take the risk. <br />
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1. The fact that I know the words to Luniz's cult classic, I've got five on it.<br />
2. Nicknames. My brother calls me Babs and for whatever reason - I always laugh. I don't mind taking on unflattering nicknames either. For example, I recently told a friend that she can call me Big Juicy. I really hope it sticks.<br />
3. Old Lady names<br />
4. Punching Eric in the arm and saying, "look a ginger" whenever I see a redhead. (disclaimer: I love redheads they are amazing and unusual, which is why I point them out.)<br />
5. Making fun of other Americans while abroad. This is a tough one, but come on... the loud American in white-tube socks and a fanny pack deserves a little chuckle. A little snobby of me? Perhaps. Ok, I'll own it.<br />
6. Sending random pictures texts of my husband to my sister's way too generous boyfriend. I do this on a pretty regular basis. That reminds me, I like taking random photos of my husband for my amusement. <br />
7. Reminiscing with my cousin about growing up. We thought that drunk people spoke in a British accent and said, "more to drink, more to drink."My British accent was so much more refined back then.<br />
8. The fact that when I first met Mr. DID he really liked Jack Johnson. A LOT.<br />
9. Listening to songs like <a href="http://youtu.be/kdSNyYxPAd4">this</a> on my ipod, loudly, in the elevator. Well you got a, you got a way that your making me, feel I can, feel I can, do anything for you baby.<br />
10. Posting romantic<a href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/c/celine+dion/the+power+of+love_20028639.html"> Celine Dion song lyrics</a> on various friend's facebook page. <br />
11. Cards that say Congratulations on your divorce.<br />
12. Suggesting someone bathe in butter. Don't do it! It's a terrible idea!<br />
13. Putting on DVD of Mariah Carey in concert when we have house guests.<br />
14. Tiny Fey's book, Bossypants. This is not actually ironic or random. It's hysterical.<br />
15. The names of the clothing in the jcrew catalogue. I'll take one cambridge cable chunky turtleneck sweater in heather aloe or a hacking jacket in double-serge wool in cool pine, please.<br />
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(Photo of me laughing. I forgot to mention touristy photos with law enforcement also make me laugh)Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-13402185415450284822011-10-29T12:23:00.000-04:002011-10-29T12:23:15.197-04:00Saturday song of the week: The xx - Crystalised<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Pib8eYDSFEI" width="560"></iframe>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-7550344129304747212011-10-28T13:08:00.004-04:002011-10-31T16:11:13.345-04:00The Little Book of Hindu Deities: From the Goddess of Wealth to the Sacred Crow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRrRavp_pL58KpFFcYO9xC4vuWwQgU6PIgg2Pkp2kb8hg2nngohgpUSjGnFIyTTx9x08VU1Zw3n6nt510Cy1M7TbB564ikL_CPN1A_dK1JV-FiRIyb7Hj2prYu2h9kKheUTYbf4-VT8o/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNRrRavp_pL58KpFFcYO9xC4vuWwQgU6PIgg2Pkp2kb8hg2nngohgpUSjGnFIyTTx9x08VU1Zw3n6nt510Cy1M7TbB564ikL_CPN1A_dK1JV-FiRIyb7Hj2prYu2h9kKheUTYbf4-VT8o/" width="298" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2011/10/27/the-little-book-of-hindu-deities-sanjay-patel/">The Little Book of Hindu Deities</a><br />
<br />
Super cool look to this book of art that's based on Indian mythology. Stunning, charming, and clever are a few other words that come to mind. Created by one of the top animators at pixar, Sanjay Patel.<br />
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What a lovely way to learn about Indian mythology and, as Maria Popova puts it, the spectrum of human experience (petty quarrels, epic battles, love and betrayal, happiness and loss). <br />
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It's settled. Next year for Halloween I'm dressing as Lakshmi - the Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity. She is the embodiment of beauty, grace, and courage.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzbdhgeEJObHbQt6x-stuljv7kCOmQf1e1zS-m9UCpQRDFRtM18v9UCU89fW_2Zrlc7GjbJB2V-736VeoV6sVCCwsFSDVw9GDWKmuzcBMtJwyZQQtDGyhzzvIcSmXF_V8YySMNJUbQ7Y/s1600/photo-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzbdhgeEJObHbQt6x-stuljv7kCOmQf1e1zS-m9UCpQRDFRtM18v9UCU89fW_2Zrlc7GjbJB2V-736VeoV6sVCCwsFSDVw9GDWKmuzcBMtJwyZQQtDGyhzzvIcSmXF_V8YySMNJUbQ7Y/s320/photo-13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-5217430117544076212011-10-28T11:16:00.002-04:002011-10-28T14:38:58.786-04:00Masquerade!<img height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1i7gXwar1zsjgh0s0fEMpl8wLTswbwhD70DzoitQYBpmuy0e4YUL0qpCyJCQmf9HVvxEWjEDTA0dHrRbpC5ZkIJDVTVnQHE198nEL6GWwtpLb5ZTFHelXI2SO7yDCdEUf6EXbdgNzHoA/" width="318" />Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-28159515521950434312011-10-26T12:35:00.002-04:002011-10-26T12:38:12.037-04:00Sol LeWitt’s Advice to Eva Hesse: Don’t Worry About Cool, Make Your Own Uncool<div>Click <a href="http://www.gwarlingo.com/2011/sol-lewitts-advice-to-eva-hesse/">here</a> for a beautiful and moving story of love, guidance, camaraderie, and so much more that it is hard to put into words. I couldn't help but share. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I hope that you find this just as inspiring as do. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Below is a copy of Sol LeWitt's compelling letter to Eva Hesse. This is the handwritten version (borrowed from <a href="http://www.gwarlingo.com/">gwarlingo</a>). The full text is below the break.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLW84TFg-jqTrJWlA0kZRhcC4gGcWcJS2-BVIoKsJw2fofhmlcWgwYab8jlCKJM_C8P1Ua2OWm6VRzeys3CeD2KJpwoefgFWO7kOcyO1IMnJjEU6KCho2GypYTQ0JoWwe3RP1fB_uDdq4/s1600/photo-24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLW84TFg-jqTrJWlA0kZRhcC4gGcWcJS2-BVIoKsJw2fofhmlcWgwYab8jlCKJM_C8P1Ua2OWm6VRzeys3CeD2KJpwoefgFWO7kOcyO1IMnJjEU6KCho2GypYTQ0JoWwe3RP1fB_uDdq4/s400/photo-24.jpg" width="345" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGXM7VhWWct9wu7Kpm0CYSV13zRkh9pXKzOPutkvPkycMctFDW6rhX0aEowDG7KgivoiiGFe4NP2vW_fEHudE3N-AdNLlDYGDhJdlqbUXi7KljRFnV53CpKl9707nmDZq8BFlN4ZY3hI/s1600/photo-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGXM7VhWWct9wu7Kpm0CYSV13zRkh9pXKzOPutkvPkycMctFDW6rhX0aEowDG7KgivoiiGFe4NP2vW_fEHudE3N-AdNLlDYGDhJdlqbUXi7KljRFnV53CpKl9707nmDZq8BFlN4ZY3hI/s400/photo-25.jpg" width="343" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0Sy3ARspnaDpT6eu9kFnilzCI9NloAmgcdsBfjiU33hwsNwcBFQmKYmSxr3WOjeRqjtuubhXM8XNZXPX2XvbIy8CgcBYcpqkBfWU_kZUlQ2Ru2SkWZCpZ43UPGCzegojMZX66Bl57kg/s1600/photo-26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0Sy3ARspnaDpT6eu9kFnilzCI9NloAmgcdsBfjiU33hwsNwcBFQmKYmSxr3WOjeRqjtuubhXM8XNZXPX2XvbIy8CgcBYcpqkBfWU_kZUlQ2Ru2SkWZCpZ43UPGCzegojMZX66Bl57kg/s400/photo-26.jpg" width="307" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXVBo8jqcfHCARAEght7ccRuCqN6go68uQaI1VAoDI7XcL3Gd9N7xUZB4XDDMlVdi5IrKD7E0lDILZusUEVpdXutmXWkWjTUhhg2aV6wiq8TaUgQrBNWhgEK7ZoieyzJT3lFQMeLkupc/s1600/photo-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXVBo8jqcfHCARAEght7ccRuCqN6go68uQaI1VAoDI7XcL3Gd9N7xUZB4XDDMlVdi5IrKD7E0lDILZusUEVpdXutmXWkWjTUhhg2aV6wiq8TaUgQrBNWhgEK7ZoieyzJT3lFQMeLkupc/s400/photo-27.jpg" width="305" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>A big thanks to my dear friend, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/08/who-says-adults-cant-play.html">D</a>, for sharing and for marching to the beat of her own drum (is that how the saying goes?).</div><div><br />
</div><div><a name='more'></a></div><div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dear Eva,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It will be almost a month since you wrote to me and you have possibly forgotten your state of mind (I doubt it though). You seem the same as always, and being you, hate every minute of it. Don’t! Learn to say “F*** You” to the world once in a while. You have every right to. Just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, grasping, confusing, itchin, scratching, mumbling, bumbling, grumbling, humbling, stumbling, numbling, rumbling, gambling, tumbling, scumbling, scrambling, hitching, hatching, bitching, moaning, groaning, honing, boning, horse-shitting, hair-splitting, nit-picking, piss-trickling, nose sticking, ass-gouging, eyeball-poking, finger-pointing, alleyway-sneaking, long waiting, small stepping, evil-eyeing, back-scratching, searching, perching, besmirching, grinding, grinding, grinding away at yourself. Stop it and just DO!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From your description, and from what I know of your previous work and you [sic] ability; the work you are doing sounds very good “Drawing-clean-clear but crazy like machines, larger and bolder… real nonsense.” That sounds fine, wonderful – real nonsense. Do more. More nonsensical, more crazy, more machines, more breasts, penises, cu***, whatever – make them abound with nonsense. Try and tickle something inside you, your “weird humor.” You belong in the most secret part of you. Don’t worry about cool, make your own uncool. Make your own, your own world. If you fear, make it work for you – draw & paint your fear and anxiety. And stop worrying about big, deep things such as “to decide on a purpose and way of life, a consistant [sic] approach to even some impossible end or even an imagined end” You must practice being stupid, dumb, unthinking, empty. Then you will be able to DO!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It seems I do understand your attitude somewhat, anyway, because I go through a similar process every so often. I have an “Agonizing Reappraisal” of my work and change everything as much as possible = and hate everything I’ve done, and try to do something entirely different and better. Maybe that kind of process is necessary to me, pushing me on and on. The feeling that I can do better than that sh** I just did. Maybe you need your agony to accomplish what you do. And maybe it goads you on to do better. But it is very painful I know. It would be better if you had the confidence just to do the stuff and not even think about it. Can’t you leave the “world” and “ART” alone and also quit fondling your ego. I know that you (or anyone) can only work so much and the rest of the time you are left with your thoughts. But when you work or before your work you have to empty you [sic] mind and concentrate on what you are doing. After you do something it is done and that’s that. After a while you can see some are better than others but also you can see what direction you are going. I’m sure you know all that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You also must know that you don’t have to justify your work – not even to yourself. Well, you know I admire your work greatly and can’t understand why you are so bothered by it. But you can see the next ones and I can’t. You also must believe in your ability. I think you do. So try the most outrageous things you can – shock yourself. You have at your power the ability to do anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would like to see your work and will have to be content to wait until Aug or Sept. I have seen photos of some of Tom’s new things at Lucy’s. They are impressive – especially the ones with the more rigorous form: the simpler ones. I guess he’ll send some more later on. Let me know how the shows are going and that kind of stuff.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My work had changed since you left and it is much better. I will be having a show May 4 -9 at the Daniels Gallery 17 E 64th St (where Emmerich was), I wish you could be there.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Much love to you both.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sol</div></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-28271058603600038282011-10-24T13:22:00.000-04:002011-10-24T13:22:44.311-04:00Before I die...I discovered an interesting project in Brooklyn Heights this morning. I was there picking up <a href="http://bodhi-the-dog.tumblr.com/">this guy</a>, when I stumbled upon this giant chalkboard of self promises. Love it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfsN56YVkkzW9CXdARTUe427nxzkBBq1q6fHO5MVkXArk3vZre4A_2lujLTamYJbsSmdpbd9eRbiB9tFxfiYa8XJxCd6uClepxaX-a7IS825beFj4ji10m8j65Jy-oIjUOolS70YM2o8/s1600/photo-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfsN56YVkkzW9CXdARTUe427nxzkBBq1q6fHO5MVkXArk3vZre4A_2lujLTamYJbsSmdpbd9eRbiB9tFxfiYa8XJxCd6uClepxaX-a7IS825beFj4ji10m8j65Jy-oIjUOolS70YM2o8/s320/photo-6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Have you seen this before? Is this old news? As we walked by I chuckled to myself, because I was reminded of my friend <a href="http://birdcagecards.blogspot.com/">Kate</a>. Kate has told me many times about her bucket list and each time I've responded with the same thing, "You're too young for a bucket list."<br />
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Well, I stand corrected. Perhaps we are never to young to think about the things we wish to achieve.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cK62V2gwry7LS3ZJgBsbjmNJNDDHYMVIoTZtirawitK-h4p8ouPgOFkpOjeSMt-kfJs1yOqApkIE4Jt5uNrbF8xNps2Q9A7HGZkRqALHNBMsVbfDAI_H0ln3i0ac4zhgt7M2VxbimLE/s1600/photo-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cK62V2gwry7LS3ZJgBsbjmNJNDDHYMVIoTZtirawitK-h4p8ouPgOFkpOjeSMt-kfJs1yOqApkIE4Jt5uNrbF8xNps2Q9A7HGZkRqALHNBMsVbfDAI_H0ln3i0ac4zhgt7M2VxbimLE/s320/photo-7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I was a bit flustered as I had my hands full, but I was able to jot down my wish. I wrote, "Learn more."And, well, I meant it.<br />
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Everybody stopped, stood, and observed. Some participated.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZNsjTmzGSanC5ue7jiGOXEiXliUA8HiSHyhdZZS-N-KOmxTWGD9AhicvTeky8Mm1ZCGt3Dn5iRLYmQIV8vrWG0S8BvSZX9hwkYu-xkthVmrtbjb0C_UgckrzBOZaewGy_cTny9pC9wQ/s1600/photo-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZNsjTmzGSanC5ue7jiGOXEiXliUA8HiSHyhdZZS-N-KOmxTWGD9AhicvTeky8Mm1ZCGt3Dn5iRLYmQIV8vrWG0S8BvSZX9hwkYu-xkthVmrtbjb0C_UgckrzBOZaewGy_cTny9pC9wQ/s320/photo-9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-61165586587085724382011-10-18T10:48:00.001-04:002011-10-18T10:49:27.435-04:00Buffalo love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUKrrAR-sj-7S-7u8qCCZQi9cfNxti_CdxMvOIGlzIV2a6WRxJnoANsFA7ZxunGCuMaZ2gc7EGwYaf82CyVcP1L2DCMwsFTD1SjI-ICNp9N_YM7Jtw4NfHowfLXl8jFbRdKTrkedEGFE/s1600/IMG_4034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmUKrrAR-sj-7S-7u8qCCZQi9cfNxti_CdxMvOIGlzIV2a6WRxJnoANsFA7ZxunGCuMaZ2gc7EGwYaf82CyVcP1L2DCMwsFTD1SjI-ICNp9N_YM7Jtw4NfHowfLXl8jFbRdKTrkedEGFE/s320/IMG_4034.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In a land far, far, far away (really only 500 miles or so) from New York City I was born. And in this land the people celebrated their lives with an abundance of snow, chicken wings, and American Football. <br />
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So this year for my annual celebration of self (birthday). I celebrated in true Diva fashion and had friends over to watch the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wide_Right_(Buffalo_Bills)">Buffalo Bills</a> in action. Food was served and although most people cheered the opposing team, the New York Giants, I was grateful for the company and the ease in which another year passed. One text from a close friend said, "I challenge you to top last year's birthday." Impossible I replied! Last year at this time I was in Guatemala soaking up the last bits of sun (and freedom) before<a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2010/11/we-tied-knot.html"> our wedding</a>. Way too much excitement.<br />
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Anyway, this reminds me of a conversation Mr. DID had with his business partner (or BP for short).<br />
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Mr. DID: Hey, I won't be in on Friday. Vic and I are going to the motherland.<br />
BP: Oh yeah - where is that? Buffalo?<br />
Mr. DID: No, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/06/currently-reading.html">Puerto Rico</a>. <br />
BP: I don't understand.<br />
Mr. DID: Neither do I. Trust me, neither do I.<br />
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Well readers, My Mom's clan is from the much-celebrated-in-my-house-island of Puerto Rico. And although the Latin blood runs through my veins, the real, TRUE, motherland is my dear old Buffalo. BP was right.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwf2vs-d0umBtZZ5TxJvAwbVNHAlU0A0pfQsHXTIIvWfd-PeLVpjUJyHHBlb4ZMN8c9o1eFMh_3YD58VUL8fSxDNm69w33jDxDl1BrlOACAgXulMO23GgN8_4mD_9WVFSHVMPNnI1U-w/s1600/IMG_4037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilwf2vs-d0umBtZZ5TxJvAwbVNHAlU0A0pfQsHXTIIvWfd-PeLVpjUJyHHBlb4ZMN8c9o1eFMh_3YD58VUL8fSxDNm69w33jDxDl1BrlOACAgXulMO23GgN8_4mD_9WVFSHVMPNnI1U-w/s320/IMG_4037.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I'd like to give a shout out to all my friends who played along on Sunday and weren't in the least bit shocked by my infinite silliness. It really doesn't get old for me. Someday my future mini-DID's will say to me, "Mom! Stop dancing! You're embarrassing me." And all will be right in the world.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-49386077571632140932011-10-15T09:57:00.000-04:002011-10-15T09:57:59.510-04:00Saturday song of week: Ian Pooley<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oGRVS1JowwU" width="420"></iframe>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-36823447809865313822011-10-13T09:56:00.000-04:002011-10-13T09:56:21.654-04:00Pendleton: The Portland Collection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33N7Jd6X2m4VyxmJafd_ADEGk1YIk8VoGVJHlC9N03ZLHmEoYTUKvocyq008aYEd4cYfMLTRfvyw42hMieQNip2c4569S1E_Xr35K-OeoUf55GgJyTMnDB2x3Gx-SdvexZSQwSwVA0Qg/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_look_13_28_1396f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33N7Jd6X2m4VyxmJafd_ADEGk1YIk8VoGVJHlC9N03ZLHmEoYTUKvocyq008aYEd4cYfMLTRfvyw42hMieQNip2c4569S1E_Xr35K-OeoUf55GgJyTMnDB2x3Gx-SdvexZSQwSwVA0Qg/s320/10_1220_pendleton_look_13_28_1396f.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
If you look past the general momsy exterior of the Pendleton brand you will find some iconic and amazing pieces. Particularly if you are a first-time viewer and are looking at the new young and hip Portland Collection.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_Qd3gXp7BYc6NibUzx6C5Bkxy7plcOMEV7iA89hOZvJ6kXyzyo1NCbV-fopmo6JfNDvumoYHqlnsbCBz959RcSQknihyiP8hJoM4oCWcnW1HBf41mnop3yEHq4K_rEJPdFyc8sRQ0qw/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_look_19_29_0630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC_Qd3gXp7BYc6NibUzx6C5Bkxy7plcOMEV7iA89hOZvJ6kXyzyo1NCbV-fopmo6JfNDvumoYHqlnsbCBz959RcSQknihyiP8hJoM4oCWcnW1HBf41mnop3yEHq4K_rEJPdFyc8sRQ0qw/s320/10_1220_pendleton_look_19_29_0630.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
I discovered Pendleton wool goods at a recent trip to Buffalo and this stuff is bonkers. If your look incorporates elements of Native American style this stuff is for you - plus it is legit gorgeous. I bought <a href="http://www.pendleton-usa.com/product/Women/Accessories/BAGS/DOPP-BAG-WITH-STRAP/166298/sc/1725/c/1819/pc/1815.uts">this</a> as a small present for my sister. Did I mention I love buying her presents?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02BifnF0mVeyJhuJ8WLSFdPMb0vhALicvYsi6BViAThWwbWRbrr79zC3lsfRrdMJjoh0twdRMNZMXNVy6N_MK9QeGwwVroattd8uILrg_p2KygoVHTcH6sgSXs5GlWLVYsCsLmsyJyYc/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_2_1701f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi02BifnF0mVeyJhuJ8WLSFdPMb0vhALicvYsi6BViAThWwbWRbrr79zC3lsfRrdMJjoh0twdRMNZMXNVy6N_MK9QeGwwVroattd8uILrg_p2KygoVHTcH6sgSXs5GlWLVYsCsLmsyJyYc/s320/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_2_1701f.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Take a tour of The Portland Collection's <a href="http://portlandcollection.net/look-book/">lookbook here</a>. Sort through and imagine yourself on a ski trip decked out in one of these getups. I also really like these <a href="http://www.pendleton-usa.com/product/Men/WOVEN-SHIRTS/WOVEN-SHIRTS/VINTAGE-FIT-DOUBLE-FACE-STREET-SHIRT/168702/sc/1752/c/1752/pc/1814.uts">vintage men's flannel shirts</a> as well - worn as a shirt with some leather or belted as a dress. Or what about <a href="http://www.pendleton-usa.com/product/Women/FOOTWEAR/BOOTS/LUCINDA-LACED-BOOTS/168993/sc/1943/c/1731/pc/1815.uts">these boots</a>? Who wouldn't wear these apres ski?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzBPtZK1JhWfwiyY-5qazMswk6jeTlVMlTCt8tXW_JH8xJEaIcC5XVkGBlMvnr4W3KB6wRDrfC_naOGJc-hZtbFrZOfoK58dOtPmvIfQrK-4qlFlXGzuByg7Jd64Eh0e_uQ7duW9BoAg/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_1_1673f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzBPtZK1JhWfwiyY-5qazMswk6jeTlVMlTCt8tXW_JH8xJEaIcC5XVkGBlMvnr4W3KB6wRDrfC_naOGJc-hZtbFrZOfoK58dOtPmvIfQrK-4qlFlXGzuByg7Jd64Eh0e_uQ7duW9BoAg/s320/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_1_1673f.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Having seen this stuff in person, I can attest that it is high quality and suitable for the indie chick in all of us. I can certainly see <a href="http://www.corksandcaftans.com/">this lady</a> wearing some of the looks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAtSEvqMc_CYHoeqJJYcGpniHYgrAHD_TLbOsUjVHD12B728JTwV_EGzAFDEN-UH634S07A8gM_gpvBVK7WCUoDh4qrV9EhpqBb_UltgxzoqT_Bvg4P2-8jT0Gx8XKqEBiItl1IqbLo8/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_3_2820-1f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjAtSEvqMc_CYHoeqJJYcGpniHYgrAHD_TLbOsUjVHD12B728JTwV_EGzAFDEN-UH634S07A8gM_gpvBVK7WCUoDh4qrV9EhpqBb_UltgxzoqT_Bvg4P2-8jT0Gx8XKqEBiItl1IqbLo8/s320/10_1220_pendleton_lifestyle_3_2820-1f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My favorite item from the collection is the over-sized sweater shown below. I can think of 5 different ways to wear and enjoy it. I'm certainly a bit more classic, but I'd pull it off. I could definitely see <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/07/beautiful-country-wedding.html">this recent bride</a> wearing it on a fall day up north. I'd style her with some black jeans, knee-high boots, and whatever else suits her mood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib90ZaEPsHc32Q7iLs3k9e-gIaLVjdFcl-e3ralATBVUaOZsxydQ6J7Tw1TBgysueTmgeBq7UVTzbEPcQEep5u9Z2HeMHr3AB_hiJ_I97UOcUd2CqPvHlO9cnOpt3aq5tz9EEBsWKjcxY/s1600/10_1220_pendleton_look_12_1182f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib90ZaEPsHc32Q7iLs3k9e-gIaLVjdFcl-e3ralATBVUaOZsxydQ6J7Tw1TBgysueTmgeBq7UVTzbEPcQEep5u9Z2HeMHr3AB_hiJ_I97UOcUd2CqPvHlO9cnOpt3aq5tz9EEBsWKjcxY/s320/10_1220_pendleton_look_12_1182f.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><br />
The designers: Nathaniel Crissman, Rachel Turk, and John Blasioli bring a <a href="http://portlandcollection.net/about/">"strong love of independent fashion as well as the spirit of Pendleton,"</a> and make me want to sing <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/08/addicting.html">this song</a>.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-3752677997057517842011-10-12T15:51:00.001-04:002011-10-12T16:00:58.644-04:00Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKVqZI6YqaBFTlX_w8MP13Qrg6UB_iMIVYKqLN7bjoYJdIAut-EI7EoS_CMKDzM0ovNzcgZzA8e2qeyf446z-aE7HT3o_ZSCy1puuBymDgSYY-YEV4o3nqioOz1lkD3rTZm5IIdGN9XE/s1600/309282_10150294894542507_692937506_7943527_1756483193_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKVqZI6YqaBFTlX_w8MP13Qrg6UB_iMIVYKqLN7bjoYJdIAut-EI7EoS_CMKDzM0ovNzcgZzA8e2qeyf446z-aE7HT3o_ZSCy1puuBymDgSYY-YEV4o3nqioOz1lkD3rTZm5IIdGN9XE/s320/309282_10150294894542507_692937506_7943527_1756483193_n.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"You might look inside yourself and think you know yourself, but over many decades you can change in ways you won’t see ahead of time. Don’t assume you know who you will become. This applies all the more to folks around you. You may know who they are now, but not who they will become."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Click here for more <a href="http://www.overcomingbias.com/2011/09/aged-wisdom.html">WISDOM</a>.</div>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-32033217519196240402011-10-04T10:14:00.000-04:002011-10-04T10:14:21.236-04:00Tickle the senses or don't<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-k5QwKhuTn4-Az17xtA5PDf2iUnKBLWZE9OLWcpvy4rp6inM7o9lQCFIsnsVp2R6aXK8t_RjP4Tw7Ywg8ukfUeCQtTk6h59Bj3o7HbgNKanRwJte-cN9Gya8h0kAUymrEXX0xBJIOb7Y/s1600/photo-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-k5QwKhuTn4-Az17xtA5PDf2iUnKBLWZE9OLWcpvy4rp6inM7o9lQCFIsnsVp2R6aXK8t_RjP4Tw7Ywg8ukfUeCQtTk6h59Bj3o7HbgNKanRwJte-cN9Gya8h0kAUymrEXX0xBJIOb7Y/s320/photo-23.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This weekend I learned about sensory deprivation tanks as a tool for relaxation or mediation. Subjects float in complete silence and darkness in an enclosed tank of salt water that is the same temperature as their bodies - cutting off all stimuli. Think the dead sea meets the womb. The idea is to create a state of purity and see where the minds goes. Perhaps to sleep? Perhaps to a dream? Or to complete emptiness. <br />
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Contrast that with the beautiful multi-sensory use of material and space done by Ernesto Neto at his sprawling installation titled Crazy Hyperculture in the Vertigo of the World. The maze-like structure is at the new <a href="http://www.wallpaper.com/art/faena-arts-center-buenos-aires/5444">Faena Arts Center</a> in Argentina. Think Charlie and the Chocolate Factory meets a play gym for adults. Or, better yet, a dream world meets movement and feeling. <br />
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Ernesto encourages his "experiencers" to use all of their senses as they ascend deeper into the installation. There are balls in those nets, so you can crawl through and feel the sculpture. I love the use of all the senses. I wonder how the net feels under the feet? Stable? Do you feel the movement of other "experiencers"? Apparently, at the NY version of the sculpture you could smell different scents and smells.<br />
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I don't about all of you, but I am a sensory Diva for sure. I enjoy crisp days with beautiful backdrops, delicious flavors, scents, and people. So I'll take the netted maze over a saline tank any day.<br />
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(pictures by wallpaper magazine)Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-88783508623014460522011-10-01T09:31:00.000-04:002011-10-01T09:31:57.414-04:00Saturday song of the week: This is why I'm hot<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TwyE3WJ4AWo" width="560"></iframe>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-82771858485900486902011-09-29T14:57:00.004-04:002011-09-30T09:21:24.185-04:00Rico Suave<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxeRgAbfts7jdFxz33lBMh7-o4whwa0ojULZGHptxY8U5lKW0SyDaYKaapSJDPc6GgNLCZAqM3UAiPfRpNLVI1UruZ_jG14I0gJBzwSjD21B5GFWJt-E1lLjPCGDeGM-zUmb-KzvKRfk/s1600/salter_1-101311_jpg_275x500_crop_q85.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxeRgAbfts7jdFxz33lBMh7-o4whwa0ojULZGHptxY8U5lKW0SyDaYKaapSJDPc6GgNLCZAqM3UAiPfRpNLVI1UruZ_jG14I0gJBzwSjD21B5GFWJt-E1lLjPCGDeGM-zUmb-KzvKRfk/s320/salter_1-101311_jpg_275x500_crop_q85.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><br />
How awesome is Hemingway? It's crazy.<br />
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And the fact that stuff like this actually happened is just dumbfounding to me:<br />
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"In 1954 he was given the Nobel Prize. Gabriel García Márquez, still a journalist, caught sight of Hemingway and his wife in Paris one day in 1957 walking along the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Hemingway was wearing old jeans and a lumberjack’s shirt. He had long been one of García Márquez’s great heroes, for his myth as well as his writing. The Old Man and the Sea had hit García Márquez “like a stick of dynamite”; he was too timid to approach Hemingway but also too excited not to do something. From the opposite side of the street he called out, “Maestro!” Hemingway raised a hand as he called back “in a slightly puerile voice,” “Adios, amigo!”"<br />
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<a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2011/oct/13/finest-life-you-ever-saw/?pagination=false">Click</a> here for a review of a new book on him, a good read in itself.<br />
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<a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2011/oct/13/finest-life-you-ever-saw/?pagination=false">The Finest Life You Ever Saw.</a>Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-67761638327211682712011-09-27T10:32:00.002-04:002011-09-27T14:17:26.706-04:00Oooooohh...On the DID tip<img height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPb9TJ-9QvxCxMQZ7CKVRDYMD-GwpS0bqzPNcoWaZOVUArrXk4bjF-Jp3sJeuc_OV9J2tYPNbH6S34ayceNi-UWdHXB8xz5CeGsqUsN5I7OF5nFPfoWMYUvIy_a7TiVyreQpNGvA3V8fE/" width="400" /><br />
The Swedish brand Whyred is now at Urban Outfitters. Think luxury meets clean and classic pieces. A closet full of Whyred is one to be desired... Enjoy! Pine! Be inspired! Spend! I don't care, just take a look.<br />
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Whyred's pieces (and brand) appeals to my constant hunt for the unique and original in fashion, friends, and most importantly experiences.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-73199109212727845792011-09-22T12:00:00.001-04:002011-09-22T12:06:46.991-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg960eEEipF1ueCTon_JJS6o7VGE04-aaQIC3lOQC_-mhaYO9T0nxFmSJHxcbH6zIyt9Do8w6S4s6-GMQTEdGarYY4Bk7-aP4ZKmxUJIBn62Uo1hJUYTiNocfQiGgyWNRS8Hig3rz3mNNA/s1600/youaremyfavorite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg960eEEipF1ueCTon_JJS6o7VGE04-aaQIC3lOQC_-mhaYO9T0nxFmSJHxcbH6zIyt9Do8w6S4s6-GMQTEdGarYY4Bk7-aP4ZKmxUJIBn62Uo1hJUYTiNocfQiGgyWNRS8Hig3rz3mNNA/s320/youaremyfavorite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2010/10/ode-to-my-sister.html">You</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2010/11/let-countdowns-begin.html">you</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/03/smiling-faces.html">you</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/06/city-chic.html">you</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/06/currently-reading.html">you</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2010/11/hemingway.html">you</a>, <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2010/11/breakfast-for-dinner.html">you</a>, <a href="http://www.corksandcaftans.com/">you</a>, <a href="http://couldihavethat.blogspot.com/">you</a> and <a href="http://diva-in-distress.blogspot.com/2011/04/crouching-tiger-silent-myra.html">you</a>.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9152353938960610850.post-6410418740249725462011-09-21T15:27:00.003-04:002011-10-03T11:29:43.193-04:00The city's best dance partyI could have danced all night! I could have danced all night! I could have danced, danced, danced all night! Enough of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNaIor5lxN8">that</a>.<br />
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Friday's at <a href="http://nymag.com/listings/bar/home-sweet-home/">Home Sweet Home</a> is the city's best dance party - no doubt!<br />
<a href="http://www.newyorknighttrain.com/">New York Night Train </a><br />
by DJ Jonthan Toubin<br />
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Imagine pulp fiction meets hipster fanatics and all that jazz. I love it. Soul, Rock, and R&B from the 50's, 60's that make you want to shake your bootie until you can't stop. I danced with the magic man shown in these pictures and if he was even remotely as amused by me as I was by him then I can die happy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Is-bBA7XnPxIarKyqJzOjQgmYvsNkfGcwC4cHKtChTLS7DmQgeeLjhER4Y0uXKOopVmeHI5_yU87LjeD3Vwsq3e0MS67XbZSgtNa6t6ATRvPlFeKW5vblfSsfjWqznEEKJb3fwpG25U/s1600/IMG_2373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Is-bBA7XnPxIarKyqJzOjQgmYvsNkfGcwC4cHKtChTLS7DmQgeeLjhER4Y0uXKOopVmeHI5_yU87LjeD3Vwsq3e0MS67XbZSgtNa6t6ATRvPlFeKW5vblfSsfjWqznEEKJb3fwpG25U/s320/IMG_2373.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUm3hhD2MET5iU1Bx-P2-o3vDiYXODHSnVspkmD-LCH0hSQ2wDPpw9aI3m37YMBgbRMLyiNAjQykhkkTON9RtM3E6BunbQn9Zo2L2n5bo3PuzKlGVWVrBdJKYdahjRkDzmDCaXJMfxj2E/s1600/IMG_2371.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUm3hhD2MET5iU1Bx-P2-o3vDiYXODHSnVspkmD-LCH0hSQ2wDPpw9aI3m37YMBgbRMLyiNAjQykhkkTON9RtM3E6BunbQn9Zo2L2n5bo3PuzKlGVWVrBdJKYdahjRkDzmDCaXJMfxj2E/s320/IMG_2371.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Who is a better dancer you ask? I really don't know, but what I do know is that DJ Jonathan Toubin selects the perfect melodies and when I'm there I can't help but move my body (oh and toss my hair). Bourbon in hand or not I'm in bliss. <br />
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I'm sharing this information, because it is pretty safe to say that, this is one of my favorite places to go on the planet. Of course I could dream of places like <a href="http://www.privilegeibiza.com/">this</a>, but there is something about HSH that is very special.Victoriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05524694331752744234noreply@blogger.com1