Richard Gere, I Like Your House

I know, I know. I've said it before. Richard Gere and I don't really get along. I don't get him. His appeal makes minimal sense. I have learned to accept his sex-symbol status as one of the great mysteries of the world.

I would, however, buy his renovated farmhouse in the Hamptons had I an extra $8.8 million kicking around.


It's borderline residential perfection. See the entire slideshow here. And drool a little.

If I come into a massive fortune in the next little while and then suddenly disappear, you can assume I'm sitting on that porch, scribbling away at a novel. Maybe sipping tea. If it's after this coming Sunday,* that tea might be coffee. If I'm not there, I'm hanging out in the artist's studio, creating something amazing and top-secret.

*I'm assuming it will be. Or else I'll be indoors. New York isn't the tropics. The porch will have to wait until I'm warm.

To those who've scoffed at my dreams of farmhouse living, I hope you're happy living in your sterile characterless condos.

The rest of you are welcome to crash at my new place. I'll make you omelets for breakfast.

(The only deal-breaker would be a lack of laundry room. I'm assuming there is one, but it's not listed. My dream house has laundry. Non-negotiable.)

What "On Her Toes" Looks Like

This is my blog in a single photo.
From boopsiedaisy's Etsy shop.
This photo is a close second.

Past Lives

I can't explain it. This just resonates with me.
Maybe it's my love of the derelict. And of untold stories.

Gorgeous photography available at Etsy. And here.
Irene Suchocki - isphotography

Adolescent Nostalgia

Legislated Nostalgia:
To force a body of people to have memories they do not
actually possess: "How can I be a part of the 1960s generation when I
don't even remember any of it?"
-- Douglas Coupland, Generation X

My grandmother recently found cards from my mom's 16th birthday. Inside one were the most hilarious prose I've ever read. Because you know that they were written in all seriousness. Maybe times have changed after all. I don't remember envying 17-year-olds' "smoothness."

This is what it said. Capitalization for emphasis is not mine. It's all in the card.

WHAT IS SIXTEEN?

It's a time for looking young, feeling grown-up and being yourself. You can fuss with your hair for hours, spend endless moments over your choice of lipstick, and then go for a long walk in the rain bareheaded simply because you feel like it. You can like record collections, long telephone conversations and BOYS as intensely as you dislike clean sneakers, hanging up and your clothes and bring different from the rest of the crowd.

It's a time for wisdom of a very special kind. For learning the latest slang, the newest dance steps and how to read in the most uncomfortable-looking position.

It's a time for storing memories, the kind that the wilted corsage and the crumpled dance program will always help you to recall. You might have trouble remembering history dates, but you won't forget the date with the cute boy in your history class. You'll be reminded of how your head was in the clouds when he asked you, and how your heart was in your throat before he arrived. But afterwards it will be another happy memory added and another dream begun.

For SIXTEEN is a time for dream; that's part of its special sweetness. There'll be dreams of being famous, of writing a lovely poem, painting a gorgeous sunset, holding a theater audience spellbound. You might envy SEVENTEEN her poise and dream of having her smoothness, but don't forget that SIXTEEN is a magic age that is meant to be lived with eagerness and to be remembered with delight.

I also found this online. It's a reproduction of my mom's paper dolls I used to play with. I'm going to buy this one day. Maybe turn it into an art project of some sort. Retro movie-star cut-out fashions on my wall could be über-chic. And nostalgic.

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And there's this photo. A friend and I are each going to order one. I owned that dress. My last girlie vintage retrospective of the day:

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