This Would Never Happen to Jen O'Brien

As previously mentioned, last weekend was spent celebrating my friend Jen's 30th birthday party in the magical swamp called Washington D.C.  It was a trip which, much like John McCain's presidential campaign, began with such hope and promise but quickly deteriorated into a comedy of errors.  Only with people whose arms work.

Ang and I were instructed to take the Bolt Bus.  "It's soooo cheap," people cooed, "It's the easiest way to get here."  My first mistake was to ever believe anyone that riding a bus was a good idea.  In 1999 I had a run-in with a Greyhound bound for Scranton and some IV drug users - I've been skittish about buses ever since.

But that was a different decade, I convinced myself.  We showed up at the bus stop and the bus pulled up promptly at 8pm.  After showing the driver our tickets and finding our seats, we settled in for the ride.  Ninety minutes later we pulled into Philadelphia. All the passengers, minus Ang and me, exited the bus.  Excited we had the coach to ourselves, we spread out and kicked back.  After a few minutes, we decided something was definitely wrong.  The driver informed us it was the final stop when we found him smoking a butt on the curb.

Say what? But, he had checked our tickets and allowed us to board the bus!  Where had we gone wrong?  After telling us there was nothing to do and advising us to write an e-mail to Bolt Bus complete with "lots of asterisks and exclamation points" so we could "get some free trips," he pointed us in the direction of 30th Street Station. Luckily, there was a train bound for DC leaving 5 minutes later.  We got to Jen's Georgetown apartment ("Just look for the building that looks like a fraternity house.")at 12:45 am, a grand total of 4 hours and 45 minutes later.  We housed some pizza and turned in for the night.  

That would have been enough adventure for the entire weekend but, alas, we had no idea what other shenanigans life would throw our way.

After brunch, shopping and drinks on the waterfront, four of us began getting ready for the big, bad birthday bash.  I was pretty pumped for this as showering and prepping at Jen's place is akin to spending a weekend at Canyon Ranch.  Allow me to name a few of the brands in her medicine cabinet:  La Mer, Thomas Roth, Frederic Fekkai, Dr. Brandt and Claudalie.  You get the picture.

Inevitably, we ran late and had to move the dinner reservation.  In an attempt to save time, Ang unearthed her own hairdryer and began drying her hair at the same time I was using Jen's Twin Turbo, attempting to beat the kink.  As you may have already guessed, we blew a circuit.  Except, Jen's apartment had a fuse box.  Jen, on the other hand, had no fuses.  Clearly, we spent the rest of the time getting ready in the semi-dark and made do with damp hair.  

Except, there was also a Birthday Girl wardrobe malfunction.  As Jen went to put on her new dress, a simple, "Oh, I think some of the fabric is caught in the zipper," turned into an, "Oh, $hit, the zipper on my dress is broken."  Although we fixed it, it finally gave way as soon as Jen sat down in the cab.  A new outfit had to be delivered, via her friend Julia, to the restaurant, the very restaurant that served me a meal with a hair baked into it.  

Instead of ordering a new meal, I was swayed to hold out for the three-tiered cake, baked by a friend, that awaited us at Poste.  The problem is, upon arriving at Poste, I was informed there would be no eating the cake, as the bar wanted to charge a $9 cutting fee.  Let me clarify, this was $9...PER PIECE.  

I was screwed.  And, even worse, hungry.  Luckily, vodka is made from potatoes, I reasoned, which is why I had some extra glasses.  After a party in Georgetown, where I was felt up by the host not once, not twice but three times while his girlfriend was in the next room, I decided to call it a night.  

The next afternoon, we rolled up to the Bolt Bus stop at 2:15, early for our 2:45 bus.  The problem is, there is no 2:45 bus.  But there is a 2:30 bus, which was clearly denoted on my ticket.  We hurried for the bus and collapsed into our seats, praying we'd end up in New York.

I did a crazy, hybrid walk-run back to my apartment, unable to bring myself to use the bus restroom and also unable to keep myself from downing a large volume of liquids.  I unpacked and gave thanks for making it home in one piece.  

If I do get those free trips on Bolt Bus, I will make damn sure I end up in the right city this time.  As for the electrical problems, busted zippers and dodgy food? Better luck next time.

Happy Birthday, Jen!  The year can only get better after this weekend!!

Another Week Gone

Thanks to summer Fridays, I am heading to lunch tomorrow with Erin (and Lily Grace) before heading to D.C. for the weekend.  Ang and I are hitting the road at ~6pm.  Why would I head there, you ask? For Jenny O's 30th birthday bash at Poste.  Jen and Ang were at my 30th birthday bash at Freeman's and now, it's Jen's turn to enter the new decade. 

As I've mentioned before, the three of us go way back to 1997, when we worked at J.Crew together.  I've said it before:  back then my eyebrows were skinny and I, was not. These girls can tell you all about it.  Together, we put up with a whole lot of shenanigans while toiling under the Gods of Barn Coats and Rollnecks but we lived to tell the tale.   While I still haven't gotten over Jen's recent exit from this fair city, I'm trying to be a good sport about it.  The truth is, I've lost my movie buddy and I am not at all happy about it.

This weekend, while the main objective is to celebrate, I have a subversive agenda to get Jen back.  I never lose. 

Hoot, Hoot

Aaaaah - the Seventies, The Me Decade.  What a time; Leisure Suits and men in platforms, gold lame and nights at Studio 54 not remembered until undergoing Electroshock Therapy 20 years later.  A time when avocado green and harvest gold color kitchen appliances were perfectly reasonable and so was Fleetwood Mac's incessant partner swapping.  Saturday Night Fever, M*A*S*H, disco, the death of Elvis..you get it and I fear I am helping Billy Joel write his newest song so I will stop now.  You remember the time just fine.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the J.Crew on Prince Street to find a ginormous seventies relic staring me down - the dreaded macrame owl.  Every respectable seventies split level home had one in it somewhere.  In fact, I believe Bernice may have made her own, one which was proudly displayed at 326 Fairway Lane long after its star had peaked.  

For those of you who are not familiar with the layout of this store location,let me be of assistance.  This owl is almost two stories tall (use the woman on the staircase as a guide).  That's some serious bird poop, my friends.  We know how I feel about bird poop.  

And no one else seemed bothered by this gargantuan roped creature and its beady eyes. I, on the other hand, could not shop in peace.  It was as if I was suffering a major bout of paranoia from a little too much of the disco dust the night before.  I tried to stare the thing down but it was fruitless.  I've resigned myself to the fact that I can no longer shop here unless that damn thing comes down off the wall.  It's just plain freaky, no?

I Die A Little More Inside.

The Lady and her clothes....

I Die.

Thank the lord above because today, the premiere date of the second season of The Rachel Zoe Project on Bravo was announced.  If there is any question of where I will be on August 25th, you will find me firmly planted on my couch, enthralled by the escapades of Rachel, Tay-Tay and Brad.  

Rachel is out of control.  I love her and envy her all at once; the reckless shopping sprees through the vintage shops of New York, the bottomless Venti cup of Starbucks Tazo Awake tea, the fur, the vintage Hermes bags, the cutie-pie husband who pays her AMEX bill with only a hint of annoyance.  And, she actually answers her Twitter fans' questions!  Between you, me and the wall, I almost dry-humped her last summer when I saw her strutting down Broome Street in full 70s denim flares, a "drug rug" shawl and bug-eyed Tom Ford sunglasses.

  

It was love squared.  

I also kind of heart this tee shirt.  I am firmly Team Rach on most things but if anyone should have copyrighted the phrase "Bananas," shouldn't it have been Gwen Stefani?  I hope that doesn't hurt my chances of being Rachel's newest bff.  Now there's a reality show I'd audition for.

Happy Father's Day, Dad

Thank you for everything. I love you. 

Below is a clip from The Cosby Show I think my dad will love (and remember).



{Clip via Jezebel.com}

And It's Contagious

Regina Spektor - US
Uploaded by reginaspektor. - Explore more music videos.

I get in these moods and I just listen to the same song on repeat for days on end. This weekend it was an oldie but goodie...Regina Spektor's Us.  I've said before: if I could choose to have anyone's voice it would be Joni Mitchell or Patti Griffin and now, you can add Regina to that list.  

If You Didn't Already Know It, Meghan McCain is Not-So-Smart

Before I begin, let me say there is one thing I do have in common with Meghan McCain: we both share an extreme dislike for Ann Coulter.  But, really, who in their right mind doesn't think Ann Coulter is a delusional, raging, maniacal, angry, irrational, word-twisting moron.

Listen, I've never been a fan and this video makes it even easier to realize how dumb she truly is. Columbia-educated, Daily Beast columnist, blah, blah, blah. The fact of the matter is, if you're going to put yourself out there as the new generation of the Republican Party, it may behoove you to know about United States politics and history pre-1985.

Throughout college, if I there was an answer on my history and political science exams specifying D.) I was not yet born therefore I am not accountable for this information I would have emerged with a perfect 4.0 GPA. Unfortunately, that isn't how the world or Paul Begala works.

Even more alarming, is the comment that comes directly from McCain's mouth when unable to answer a retort from Begala, "Well, you know everything. I'm just the blonde at the table."

Really? Really?  Meghan McCain, you should be ashamed of yourself.  Even if I was a Republican, I would be damned if I let you be the face of my vote.  I would much prefer a woman who can articulate the party's ideologies and platform.  

Hey, at least your makeup and hair looked somewhat meh...maybe a career in cosmetology might better suit you, my dear?  Hey - you brought that comment on yourself.

{More on Jezebel}

I Miss Him So Much

Pictured above is my childhood dog, Abercrombie.  He was an English Cocker Spaniel - a hunting dog - hence he was named after the old hunting store, Abercrombie & Fitch, which opened in 1892.  We got him before Limited Brands ever bought the name and turned the store into the denim, tank top and nasty cologne chain store it is today.  

Abercrombie, or Ab for short, was the best.  dog.  ever.  Hands down.  Bar none.  

I'll take you back to that summer day we picked him up from the breeder in Troy, NY. There were only two puppies left, Ab and his brother.  As soon as I walked into the breeder's living room both puppies raced towards us but Abercrombie made it to me first.  He put his puppy paws on my thighs and began licking my face.  I was immediately convinced he was the one even though my mom preferred his brother because he had a "storybook face," whatever the hell that means.

In the end, my brother and I won the battle and Abercrombie came home with us.  A patient puppy was he.  Every time he yawned on the ride home, I reached in to touch his velvety tongue.  It annoyed him thoroughly but I was 7 years old and curious. When I wasn't touching his tongue I was rubbing his wet nose.  Obviously, his affection for me waned in those early moments.  

I loved him with all my heart.  Every morning, he waited at the bottom of the stairs for me to come down and have breakfast.  You'd think he hadn't seen me in 10 years if you saw the way he wagged his tail and jumped with pure glee.  No one has been that happy to see me.  Ever.

Abercrombie passed away while I was away on a school trip to Europe.  When I came home, my parents were away.   I eventually noticed his food and water bowls were gone.  When I asked where he was, I was handed a long "Dear John" letter my mom had left for me.  I believe he had cancer and was bleeding internally.  He had passed away on the operating table.    

Hysterically crying I called my best friend Liz screaming, "My dog died!!!!"

"What?  YOUR DAD DIED?" she asked. 

"No!  MY DOG.  MY DOG IS DEAD!!!!!!!!"  I screamed, as if Liz was the dumbest human being on the planet (Liz is a genius, by the way. Really, an honest-to-goodness, certified, genius).

I moped for days and days and days.  Life just wasn't the same at 31 Fernwood Lane.  

A few days later, while talking to my friend Erika, a bat-shit crazy, born-again Christian, I rationalized the death by saying, "At least he's in heaven now."

"Dogs don't go to heaven!!!"  she replied.

"That's not true.  My dog is in Heaven."

"Dogs don't have souls.  Only humans have souls and can go to Heaven," Erika retorted.  I branded her a very, very mean liar and stomped off.  Abercrombie was in Heaven and that was final.  She could go back to her tent-revival as far as I was concerned because Ab was eating Alpo in the sky.  

That was 15 years ago this summer.  Every now and again, I think of him and smile.  I came across this picture tonight and thought I'd share it with you. I am not embarrassed to admit my heart aches just a little bit.... 

Duly Noted

I've received some blog feedback, as of late, I want to address.  I will first address the content. 

Someone called me complaining the blog has become, "too girly." I am sorry to report I do have breasts (although they aren't anything to write home about) so that may happen from time to time.  And besides that one period in my life I suspected I may have been born a hermaphrodite, I am now fully convinced my feminine side reigns supreme.  

I admit it, I love shoes and clothes and interior decorating and romantic things and ruffles and lace.  If that turns you off to the blog, I do not apologize for it.  I only hope you'll hang with me because I promise, soon enough, something asinine will occur, and I will write about it and the story - the awkwardness of it, the embarrassment of it - will not disappoint.  

Now, addressing feedback I've received on the word Faboosh....  Let's put it out there, the word does have a secondary meaning, "the sound made when you accidently poop your pants."  There is irony in the usage of this term while talking about peeing my pants whilst wearing a jumper but I assure you, I meant to use the word as an homage to Perez Hilton.  There was no double entendre meant.  I thank Jen, though, for looking out for me and trying to save me from potential embarrassment. Friendship means never having to e-soil your pants.  

There has been positive comments as well.  Erin, I am glad you like the usage of "The IKEA dance floor of love."  If you weren't married, I'd make sure you'd have a whirl on it, as well.  

Lastly, about the font of the blog.  I don't know how may readers out there view aaaaaaaaaawsnap on a Mac but, if you do, it looks much better than on a PC.  If you view this on a PC (as I do while I am at work, so I am well-aware of the crapiness of the design), there's nothing to do but buy a Mac.  They're much cooler, anyway, haven't you seen the commercials??!!

Whew got that off my chest.  Keep the feedback coming.  To (kind of) borrow from Steel Magnolias, "The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to criticize."  (Clairee actually said accessorize not criticize but it's my blog and I will write what I want to.)

 

Pure Fakery...

If I hear one more girl coo, "I love LC's hair," I will break.  I promise you, this. I most certainly love her hairstyle but believe me, those are pelts, not her real hair.  I could use Mane & Tail for years and not grow a head of hair that shiny and thick and wavy.  Only approximately one percent of the population is blessed with that kind of hair and I am so sick of women aspiring to have the same.  Take it from a girl who markets hair products, it's not possible, so move on.  

I am angered by the fakery and trickery.  One day LC sports a chic, pin-straight, shoulder-length do and the next, she's all Veronica Lake-ed out.  Inevitably I begin a doomed-from-the-start mission to grow my hair.  Nine months later, I am left with a triangle-shaped wedge of frizz and split ends so irreversibly damaged that Hunter must come along and cut it off.  It is deflating.  

Now, in the spirit of full-disclosure, I am an LC fan.  In fact, if you talk to the right friend of mine, she will tell you how I may or may not have yelled out "Team Lauren," in the middle of Henri Bendel's (this was during her Laguna days, natch), when LC was spotted shopping with her parents.  And, I would certainly trade lives with her any day, of any week, of any year.  Unfortunately, I am left yearning for her hair and clothes and, to be honest, it's futile.  

I think I will take a nap now.  

A New Week Begins

I said it last Sunday night but didn't really keep my promise, so I'm saying it again this Sunday night:  Monday, prepare to be rocked. 

I refuse to let you break me.

Don't Drink Water While Wearing

I am an old pro at jumpers and, take it from me, avoid consuming excessive amounts of liquids at all costs while wearing. Unless you don't mind spending approximately 10 minutes undressing prior to relieving yourself, which is quite daring if you have a few drinks in you.  And, it's never a good idea to spend too much time in the bathroom at work.  That's how rumors are started.  Not that I drink at work.  In fact, I don't drink at all so the only time I play Beat The Clock is at work after drinking a few too many seltzers.  Below, is the newest addition to my Jumper Family. Isn't it faboosh?

Short and Sweet

Sometimes, when words escape me, I borrow them for a day or so.  Most of these images are from ffffound.com and a blog, I Can Read.  

Just Because Roxette's Back Together Doesn't Mean We Ever Will Be

As some of you may know, I am pretty well-versed in the Swedish culture, having been whirled around the IKEA Dance Floor of Love once or twice (or maybe thrice).  At the ripe age of 30 I must tell you, and I never say never, but I am saying there will never be another Johan or Hans or Marcus or Klaas or Andreas in my life, again (yeah, names have been changed). 

I adore the culture.  The people are friendly (and probably the hottest on this beautiful planet).  I've had the pleasure.  Thank you but no thank you.  There isn't a Volvo's chance in Compton that I will ever, ever, ever, ever date a Swede again.

So, be a dear and remind me of this the next time I become nostalgic of a certain Nordic land and it's people (er - it's men).  It's like eating a doughnut.  While looking at one, it seems so sweet and irresistible but once you give in, you are left feeling empty and weak (and hungrier than before).

Men, I may not know but food?  Bish, please.     

Daily Dose: Victoria Traina

Victoria Traina needs to get out more because I find it increasingly difficult to find good pictures of her.  In fact, these are my last.  So, Vicky, do me and the blog a favor and head out this weekend.  Preferably somewhere Patrick McMullan will be, camera in hand, ready to snap you in all your style and glory.  

Kram och Puss.  

I Want It and I Want it Now!

As you know, I've been on the hunt for the perfect chandelier for my apartment.  The one that serves as my inspiration is the one I pass everyday - hanging in Patyka.  As of now, I have not been able to find it, yet, low and behold, I stumbled upon a similiar version while on Citified today (see pictures below). I thought I would finally find out where to track this beauty down, but, alas, there was no mention of the manufacturer.  Foiled again.  If you see any similiar models, send them my way.

Special Delivery

It figures I work in the beauty industry because when I look at this bouquet, all I see are lipstick, blush, eye shadow and eye liner palettes.  Really.  I want a blush the color of the ranucula bud  on the top right.  Tomorrow, I scour the closet.   I will emerge victorious.  

Quintessentially New York

One afternoon, last summer, stuffed from brunch at Clinton Street Bakery, I stumbled upon this graffiti.  A picture was certainly in order.  Fast-forward nearly a year later and I had long-forgotten about the picture until I re-discovered it on my work laptop.  I fell in love with it all over again and am considering framing it for my apartment.  One last time for the cheap seats in the back...I love this place.  

Such an Awkward, Awkward Stage, We Need a New Name For Awkward Stage

I can empathize with an awkward stage, having gone through one from 1989 through 2007. During a span of time a child could be born, learn to drive and legally vote, I possessed a face only a mother (and father) could love.  

That being said, seeing the picture above rocketed me right back to my 7th grade class picture, in which I donned a maroon Esprit shirt and two zits that had grown a super-power resistance to Oxy 10 and Sea Breeze.  At this point in my personal timeline, I had also not yet learned how to a) properly blow out my curly hair or b) style my curly hair so it did not look like I had a Pigpen-esque cloud of frizz around my head.  I was neither fish nor foul.

With that introduction, I command you to scroll down and see the chunky, awkward, brace-face above matured into the piece of man-meat below.  While I am not personally into Ryan Seacrest, empirically speaking, he makes many women swoon.  Therefore, I believe he gives hope to the shiny, pizza-faced, roley-poley, painfully shy teenagers everywhere.  

You may be down but you're not out.  

A Sunday Makeover

I awoke with so much ambition this morning.  I tried talking myself into staying in bed until at least 7am but twenty minutes before that deadline I could no longer stand it.  Throwing off the covers and pouring myself a bowl of cardboard cereal, I took my temperature to find I am cold, once again.  Hooray!  With my body temperature back down to 96.3 degrees, I finally kicked Sickness' ass.  

I showered and began downloading music and podcasts for my day in the sun, thanks to the discovery of a long-forgotten iTunes giftcard I had found while home sick and bored.    Alas, my day was not destined to be that perfect.  Turns out, my management company decided it was time to lock the roof door and, just to be safe, place an alarm on it.  Where had the Super been all winter long, when it was freezing in the building and the door was left cracked open?  Now, when it finally warms up, he decided to take away the only exposure I have to the sun?  To quote my grandfather, for crying out loud!  

Dejected but not defeated, I returned to my apartment and decided to mess with the blog a bit before heading to the gym.  Two hours later I've fixed what I messed up (note to self:  don't mess with HTML code if you don't know how to edit/write code in the first place) and I've also added a picture to the header, one taken with my fisheye camera on the corner of my street.   For all of the readers outside of New York, you now have a visual of where I lay my head when writing my directionless posts.  And, no, it's not on the park bench (I knew someone would make that Uncle Yuk Yuk joke - you know who you are).  It's down the street from the church. Just look for Grey Dog Cafe and you're almost there!  

That's a long post aimed simply to tell you:  I'm back!  Thanks for the well-wishes and offers of company, soup, medicine and magazine dropoffs!  Enjoy your day.

xoxo

A Criminal in Cute Shoes

There are some good things that come from being sick.  For instance, today I had the pleasure of being treated like a meth addict while trying to buy sinus medicine at CVS.  After standing in line, sweating profusely from my ongoing fever, behind a woman trying to decide between a Skor or Snickers bar, I nicely asked the clerk for the Aleve Sinus medicine.  

The woman behind the counter looked me up and down and then, leaning over the counter, up and down again.  Little did I know I was being profiled.   I just thought she liked my shoes.  

After retrieving the medicine, she came back and asked me for identification.  I panicked.  I routinely leave the house without proper ID and have nearly ruined three nights out in the past few months by begging the bouncer to let me in by showing him my crow's feet while wailing, "Would a teenager have wrinkles like these?"  It worked every time, sadly for me.  

Luckily for my sinuses and my sanity, I did have ID on me this fine day.  As I handed it to the clerk she began her weird meth lecture, "You know, you could blow up everything in a two block radius with this stuff."  

Yes.  Yes.  I was one step away from diapers.  That's exactly what I planned to do between wiping up my own snot and keeping liquids from coming up to say hello again.   

"But now we've got your information and you're in our system for good," she continued, as if she had just helped avert disaster by scaring me out of starting up my own meth lab.  I could tell she was almost picturing herself on the cover of the NY Post smiling broadly underneath some ridiculous headline.  Mayor Bloomberg would hand her the key to the city for saving the West Village from a near doomsday situation.  There'd be ticker tape.  The Today Show would call her and beg her for the exclusive.  Of course, she'd agree but only if that hottie Matt Lauer interviewed her - Al Roker wasn't going to cut it.   

I played along with her and acted quite scared I was now in the system.  I even let my hand shake a little bit while handing her my money.  Who am I to ruin her dreams? Standing behind a counter all day, the most action she gets is when someone asks her which Orbit Gum flavor is her favorite.  And, if there's a price check?  Def Com 5.  

I felt her eyes follow me as I walked out.  What she didn't know is I was going home to crawl back into bed and watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 not cook drugs. I actually planned on using the sinus medication to....ease the pain from my sinuses. I had this strange feeling I was letting her down, that she would be disappointed when Lenny Briscoe did not be pay her CVS branch a visit demanding she recall any "persons" purchasing medications containing pseudoephedrine.

Or, maybe she did just like my shoes....

More Clothing Porn

A good friend encouraged me to buy a jumper last year, which I am glad I did because I got a solid season of wear out of it before the look jumped the shark.  That being said, I do love this Paul & Joe Sister jumper.  It's so cute and it's the little bow details and zippers that make it. Plus, I heart this brand, as some of you may have witnessed in  Le Marais last November.  I still don't regret that purchase, FYI :)

On The Bright Side...

After a week of nursing the flu and a sinus infection (i.e. little to no appetite), I could theoretically wear this Herve Leger Estelle Bandage Dress.  Yes, in theory, I could spend $1000 on a dress I'd wear once. In practice?  J.Crew is more my bank account's speed.  

However, in honor of the misery (and hunger) I've endured this week, I am going to post some of my favorites.

My New Favorite Show Come Fall...

...is Glee on Fox (you can watch the pilot on Hulu free of charge).   I was dying.  DYING!  Watch the extended trailer below.  

Random Trip Down Memory Lane

photos:  Derek Purdy

This picture symbolizes the only thing I miss of my hometown (besides my family).  It is Holiday Valley, located in Ellicottville, NY.  My favorite run is still Tannenbaum and although these are hills, not mountains, I still have an affinity for where I learned to ski (and smokey-smoke Djarums).  

Speaking of Macaroons...

I saw this documentary years ago and dug up a clip this morning.  The clip shows the Macaroon handbag Marc Jacobs designed for Louis Vuitton.  I guess there's inspiration in everything....

Holy Polka Dots, Batman!

photo:  Cuche Bikinis via Haute Design via Absolutely Not Martha

When my Pilates and whole food eating pays off, I would love, love,  LOVE to wear this bathing suit.  How freakin' adorable!!!  If you need me, you will find me near the water's edge, pail and shovel in hand, building my very own sand castle.

I Miss Paris

Photos

Top:  My own taken outside LaDuree in St. Germain arrondisement 

Other Photos:  The English Muse

On a daily basis, I have a low-grade longing for Paris.  Today I stumbled upon The English Muse blog, and the everyday ache became an unbearable, stabbing pain.  Oh, Sacre Bleu!