Wednesday, March 31, 2010

House Beautiful

I am flat on my back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.  The sun cascades through the westerly facing window.  The blue of the walls tints  the ceiling in the bright sunlight.  It appears as though I am under an endless summer sky.

Three days ago I dismantled, moved and reassembled my Queen size bed.  I hauled the mattress, box spring, head and foot boards and side rails across the house.  I felt a smug sense of satisfaction when I locked the side rails into the foot and head boards.  Yesterday, I hung the inside mount rattan blinds in my new bathroom.  The frameless glass door to the shower has yet to be installed but I am enchanted with the room and find myself in there frequently.

There is an indelible print upon this home.  The apple green chinoiserie toile wallpaper in the study leading to the robin's egg blue in the bedroom... the blue of the venetian glass chandelier picking up the color in the rug... the metallic silver design in the wallpaper echoed in the mercury glass sconces.  I have picked and chosen from my grandmother's New Orleanian background and made my own home, humble though it is.  Still a 1950s brick rambler, minutes from the Pentagon because this house was made for a DOD worker, undoubtedly.  Yet, there is something here; there is something peeking forth.  No St. Charles Avenue manse but... there are her red toile dishes, her French bisque, Aunt Dot's watercolors... there are subtle signs here of Gran's influence.

I only wish I could channel more.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Finding a path

The color is Forget Me Not and the trim is Ice the Cake.  The bathroom is papered with Thibaut in Julian, brown with metallic.  The sconces are mercuried glass with crystal accents.  The vanities are mirrored with marble tops.  For the shower, I chose a marble tile with silver and copper accented glass tiles.  The floors are hardwood.

I spent a lot of time designing our bathroom.   I wanted an exquisite jewel box.  Warm rich colors and cool striking accents.

I am not a designer.  Do I wish to be?

My mother has an inherent gift.  She can decorate for anyone... any palette, any taste, any budget.  I?  I only know what I like.  Decorating to me is like wine, I only know a personal preference... I cannot feign any knowledge.

Marymount has an excellent design program.  I have entertained the idea of getting a degree in design.  Then I took the GMAT.  Perhaps I am not good at testing... maybe I had an off day... my scores were lackluster and I was not admitted to the program.

What does that mean to me?  Am I disappointed?  Thwarted?  Challenged?  I am unsure.  There is no crossroads for me... I am not at a pivotal point... and yet.  I am undecided about my future and also certain that I am meant to have one out of my home.

I still love to decorate.  I still love to write.  I still love to write about decorating.

Madeline Albright didn't attend law school until she was in her fifties.  Maybe there is yet room for me to discover what I should do.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Passing it down

He is still a small boy despite the fact that he is 3/4 my size.  Tall yet slight.  Athletic but lean.  I watch as he stands in front of the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes.  He uses a step stool which makes him slightly higher than he needs to be so he stoops to rinse the suds.

Teddy is honey colored with dirty blonde hair and long thick black lashes framing his slate blue eyes.  You are struck by his beauty until he smiles and you see his large adult teeth, crooked, in his small child mouth. His limbs are long and sinewy.  He is pushing through a size 3 shoe.

He is at once endearing and confounding.  He questions everything, defies authority and yet longs to be cuddled.

People, namely close family members, relish telling me that Teddy is "just like" me.  God, I hope not.  Not for my sake but for his.  What if he is Bi Polar?

No one thinks Annelise is my carbon copy... or anybody's for that matter.  Annelise is 100% original.  Her round little face and eyes, her fair skin, her propensity for hoarding.

What is it that we give our children?  Love, patience, knowledge, kindness... boundaries, rules, regulations... DNA.... what else?  A quick temper?  Apathy?  Intelligence?

I am quick to recognize Tim's traits in our children.... Teddy's love of sports and math, Annelise's analytical skills and gentle demeanor.

Harder to to identify are good traits I might have imparted.

I should compile a list... skepticism, tolerance, humility, a passion for cooking, wanderlust, devotion, generosity, the appreciation of a good cocktail, the ability to pull something together out of nothing, strong familial ties....

And of course love.  Abiding and true.  The kind that leaves you breathless and then consistently, daily, fills your lungs.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Fallen of the Clothes Horse

I am at war.  This insidious enemy is devious and destructive so I must be wary.  Actually, this enemy is unavoidable as I am battling myself.... embroiled in the Battle of the Bulge.

For six short weeks I adopted a Lassiez-faire attitude and indulged in food and drink.  I ignored the gym, eschewed any form of exercise.  After all, I thought, you should accrue a fit body from working out and that should ensure that you are immune to getting pudgy.  Andouille sausage, butter and olive foccacia, Dulce Tres Leche cake, a Sonoma wine tour, creme brulee, foie gras, pheasant slowly roasted in a butter sage sauce.  I didn't miss the burpees or the squats... until that fateful 42nd day.  As if overnight, I had added another inch to my frame and couldn't coax the zipper of my jeans past my hips.  A lifetime dedicated to diet and exercise eradicated in six weeks.

As I moved my clothes from my old closet to new yesterday, I stared wistfully at the size 2 Oscar de la Renta suit and the size 4 Diane von Furstenburg dresses.  The red satin crop pants, the strapless Tracey Reese cocktail dress I wore to the first Derby party, the horde of Citizens, Joe's and 7 for all Mankind jeans.  I care about the fate of the world, health care, the next election, Darfur and homeless animals... I do. However, I am also a slave to fashion.  God, I love clothes.  It is so painful to relegate these beautiful pieces, many acquired quite stealthily from Goodwill, to the Basement of Shame, where all my out of season and suddenly too small clothes go.

Was that 30 seconds of creme brulee worth a St. John one shouldered frock?  The pheasant for the Max Mara wool sheath?  I have returned to the gym, wearing fleece and sweats.  In quiet moments at the house, I will bust out 50 squats or 25 sit ups.  I also bought jeans a size larger, at Old Navy.  I had sorbet for dessert last night instead of the chocolate ganache torte.  I'm prepared to give up beer.  I have to get back down to my fighting weight, if for no other reason than because I cannot afford to replace my wardrobe.  Plus, I just downright love my clothes... I love telling my incredulous friends that I actually did find those Rock and Republic jeans at Goodwill and that I scored that Prada dress for 85% off at Neiman's Last Call.  I have put time, effort and yes, sometimes even money into my wardrobe.  I'm proud of it.

And maybe that is my problem... Pride goeth before the fall.

Ah, yes but there will always be shoes....

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Outfitting for life

The carpenters have adjusted the last few rods in the closet.  A few more coats of paint on the shoe cubby and the closet will be done.  So tonight, I purged my clothing.

Hidden amongst the plentiful Ann Taylor shirts and Goodwill finds, was the jacket that Sassie, my paternal grandmother, aka the Princess of Darkness, was married in.

It is brown velvet with an ermine trim.  Her grandfather bought the suit and had it custom tailored at Bergdorf Goodman.  Sassie was married in City Hall in New York City.

I have a plenitude of Sassie's clothing.... I have cashmere twin sets and tailored silk sheaths.  I have cocktail dresses made in Hong Kong and an ensemble of woven straw from Florence.

Sassie lived large.  Maybe that was her problem... a spoiled young rich woman from the vast Texas oil country... maybe she assumed that my grandfather was landed Virginia gentry, he a small town commonwealth attorney.

No matter.  Though his pay might have been paltry, Sassie's mother had money, money to lavish upon the child she had abandoned.  She had, of course, abandoned all of her children, but in her old age, only Sassie survived.  Natalie.  She had run away with the horse trainer.  Sassie, known then as Sally, was shipped to a private New England boarding school.

She grew up mean.  She hated the world and threw money at it hoping that it would turn her way.

I have no clothing of Gran's... nothing to don and remember her by except a gold charm bracelet, given to me on my 18th birthday.  She dressed beautifully through the decades but never thought to save her clothing.  When Sassie died, as we delved among her things, I discovered a cache of gold charms and added them to my bracelet.

Both of my grandmothers were stylish.  One had money to indulge her wishes, the other was probably outfitted in debt.

It is an unusually warm November day.  It is the day before I am to be married.  The air is crisp but the sun is warm.  We, my bridal party and family, sit in a sunlit room at the country club.  I have worn a brown suit with an autumnal silk scarf.  Gran comments upon its beauty; Sassie criticizes its quality.

I chose very carefully for Gran's service.  I wore a Max Mara dress made of jersey with crepe sleeves and bodice.  I wore Gran's pearls, the ones Grandaddy gave her on their wedding day.

I cannot remember what I wore to Sassie's service.

Yet I remember Sassie every time I wear that fantastic straw dress from Florence or that simple silk sheath from Hong Kong.  Gran gave me unconditional love; Sassie gave me what she could.

I appreciate both.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Growth

The glint of the sun is still steely... not yet soft and ripe.  And the naked trees stand in stark contrast to the pastel blue sky.  Beneath my boots, I trod upon tufts of green grass bisecting the worn brown from autumn, newly uncovered of snow.  Somehow, magically, Spring has appeared.

There is a hum in the air.  Birds wake early, trilling into the still dark morning.  Jackets are needed to head off to school but carelessly stuffed in backpacks when coming home.  The atmosphere is electric.  Parties and trips and auctions loom in the near future.  We are abuzz with what to wear, how to look, who to see.

The earth has unfolded her long forgotten skirts and the colors which roll out are dazzling.  The deep purple of the crocus, the bloody magenta of the oak tree buds, the vibrant yellow of daffodils.  My son is a foot taller this spring.  His dirty blonde hair is cropped short and his teeth seem too large for his delicate mouth.  Gone is the baby fat from his face and high cheekbones are emerging.  His eyes are still a slate blue.  He is yet a beautiful child but he flops along, all feet and long limbs, an ambling puppy of the largest breed.

Her cheeks are still full but otherwise, Annelise has lengthened out of her baby body.  Her mouse brown hair easily grows lank if not trimmed but she has cerulean eyes and long thick black lashes.  Her beauty is at once petulant and innocent.  Her eyes are round, where Teddy's are almond, and give the appearance of incredulity.  Her mouth is a cherubic bow.  He is perpetually sun kissed whereas she has the pallor of fresh snow.

This spring in, as the outdoors erupts, I am particularly conscious of the growth of my children.  At seven and half and five, they seem worldly when I was sheltered.  Teddy has still never encountered a soul he couldn't charm and Annelise is still more apt to talk to adults than abide a playmate of the same age... but the softness, the roundness.... it is dissipating.

God, those days when I thought I couldn't stand another moment... what would I give to have those back?  Or would I?  Is it enough to have the beautiful photos from the stellar moments or do I wish to relive it all again?

And in the instant that we believe we cannot abide another moment, when we blink, it has changed.  What now do you wish for?

Monday, March 15, 2010

The Horror

Night yawns out before me, an eternity to grapple with as I twist sheets and stare at the ceiling.  I snap at my children like some feral dog and the sight of my husband's well toned torso is enough to drive me mad.

Yup.  Its bathing-suit-buying time.  That time of year when we peel off the layers of wool and uncover long neglected areas of the body.  Time to take inventory of what has changed over the last year and worse what needs to change in the next 6 weeks.

Blech.  I actually used to relish this time of year.  Before.  Before children, before 30, before I quit the gym for 6 weeks... I hate before.  I remember longing to shed my clothes and don a little bikini.  I recall the lightness I felt in the dressing room, the giddiness knowing that in a mere month or two I would feel the sunlight on my skin.  Ah, sunbathing.  Kissed by the rays, sitting by the pool.

Now, donning a suit is a mission in what I can hide while wearing very little.... the varicose  and spider veins trekking my legs, the bruises from unknown injuries, the cellulite rippling down the back of my thighs, the sad slow pull of gravity waging its war on my middle aged skin.

Alas, I cannot bring myself to purchase the Swimdress yet.  I find that I daydream about swimsuits from the early 1900s... cute!  Fashionable!  Emphasis on fashion instead of the figure!  Although I do wonder how many poor women drowned when their bloomers full of water dragged them beneath the waves.

Last summer we went to Palm Beach for a week and Dave Matthews had the cabana next to us.  While Dave is a great musician, male model will not be a fall back career.  He is though a doting husband and father and when I wasn't totally obsessed with sucking in my gut or positioning the legs in the most flattering pose, I noticed his lovely wife was... well, lovely but absolutely and completely average.  She was not too fat nor too thin.  She had brown hair.  I think she might have had cellulite.  Regardless, she was lovely and he treated her as such.  I wondered to myself how much thought she had put into her bathing suit and parading it out on the beach... she, the wife of a celebrity, sure to be photographed frolicking  on the shore... what must her angst be like during bathing-suit-buying time?

I guess if Dave Matthews' lovely regular wife can sport a bathing suit, I can too.  I mean it's not like the photogs will be out hunting me down on the beach!

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Why I blog

So I read today in The New York Times about a Mommy blogger who garners 36,000 hits a day.  And I've read about the bloggers who get major endorsements and make a cottage industry out of blogging.

Where do I want this blog to take me?  Do I need validation?  Do I need an expanded readership?  I'm not sure.

When I started this blog, I wrote mainly to vent demons.  My brothers are still mortified that I air so many family secrets via my blog.  I wrote about Sandy and dysfunctional relationships, suicide and love.  Sometimes I wrote about the difficulties I experience with raising children... and then I wrote about Gran.

I write because I can no longer contain what is within me.  I write because I can't turn to the lady in the frozen food section of Harris Teeter and ask her if her children drive her to drink.  I write because sometimes I cannot even see what is directly in front of me unless it is put into the written word.

Ahead of me lie a 40th birthday party, First Holy Communion, Derby, the addition to the house, the end of school, Nevis, 12 years of marriage... I cannot fathom living these experiences and not writing about them.

For instance, today.  Today I am not in dreary, drizzly Virginia.  I am hundreds of miles away, dreaming in California.  I cannot shake the grip the state took upon me last month.  I traveled to Sonoma with my mother and I have been conjuring up schemes to move there ever since.  I dream of soil and grapes, sun and wine.  I want to own a vineyard.  I want to work the land.  I can still feel the dappled sunshine upon my skin when we visited Jordan.  I see the mustard winding through the pruned vines, yellowing the fields.  I can taste the velvet smoke of Lynmar Estates pinot noir.  It was a heady experience.  The food, the wine, the lush vegetation.  I felt a draw that I struggle to describe.  But here, in this venue, I can.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

After Date Night...

He is extraordinary.  He carries himself with dignity and grace.  A little over 6 foot 4 inches tall, he is a commanding presence, yet he is humble and it is reflected in his stature; he stands tall, but not proud.  His eyes are a murky hazel and his hair has long since receeded.  It is his voice, deep and resonant, that commands attention.

I met Tim under the most absurd of circumstances.  A friend of a friend was hosting a 4th of July party in an un-airconditioned apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of D.C.  I had just relished my friends with my latest diatribe about dedicating myself to work and swearing off men, when we entered the sweltering party.  A swirl of vapid recent college graduate girls flocked around a group of balding, pudgy, elitest aging prepsters.  I hoofed it to the kitchen to stow away my beer.  He stood with his back to the only window.  He looked disconsolate.  I asked him if the party sucked as bad as it looked.  That was all it took.

Tim is a Republican... and a catholic.  I'm agnostic and lean towards the left.  I am proud to be southern.  Tim has no geographical identity.  I'm gregarious... Tim not so much.  I'm a disciplinarian... Tim is a soft touch.

He asked me to marry him on the steps of the Capitol on my grandparents 55 anniversary.

We have weathered fierce storms and enjoyed lifes' most tranquil moments.

He is my first thought in the morning and the last before I sleep.

I am in love with my husband.


I have never put to words my feelings about Tim... and after over a year of blogging I still feel inadequate in expressing what he means to me.  A savior?  A lover?  A confidante?  All of these?  I do not possess the words to express the worth of my husband...beyond all of my dreams and wishes, I have landed somehow where I always wanted to be... with Tim.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Occupied residence

The cauliflower in the back of the fridge has turned and the smell is rancid.  I shut the door quickly, hoping that the odor has not escaped because I don't know how to say "Rancid Cauliflower" in spanish and I don't want the tile man to think that the stench is emanating from me.

Last week, I emerged from the shower and realized that I did not have a towel at my grasp.  I dried off dabbing myself with toilet paper.

I run downstairs to use the bathroom so no one will hear anything.

My house has been occupied!  Small men, large men, men without teeth, men who do not know english, men allergic to cats...  I am adding on to my house and therefore have silently invited a whole host of men into my midst.

I rise early, earlier, and dress... sometimes I shower but most times I wash my hair in the kitchen sink.  I would rather be caught dead than have a house full of men see me with dirty hair.

If the dog farts, which he usually does, I audibly cry out so that no one will think it was me.

I am mortified if one of the children has not flushed the toilet, even though I know the workers use the port-o-potty sitting atop my driveway.

I am careful not to swear, especially on the phone when I am talking to Candice.  I pay these men... I don't want them to hear me using foul language.

Did I mention I dried off with toilet paper?

Today though, they installed the light tubes in the kitchen.  And finished tiling the shower.  Tomorrow yet another man arrives, the wallpaper hanger.  And then the floor finishers.  And weeks from now the movers.

I haven't been surrounded by this many men since I spent a year at Washington & Lee University.

Here are some interesting things about men... they can pass by a mirror without stopping to touch their hair, they don't wet their lips, going to the bathroom is precisely that, they love dogs, lunch hour is more like lunch quarter hour, they can wear the same sweatshirt everyday and not worry about it, their jeans always look good, they kind of like killing bugs and don't mind being asked to do stuff that isn't in the contract.

Flip side?  They scratch themselves.  A lot.  They smoke and burp and emit god knows what other sounds, smells and just general nastiness.  They don't care if it is pretty or not, they are following the plans.  They like country music (yes, mostly all of them) and enjoy playing it pretty loud.

So here's to men....at least the ones working on my house. Sleep well, you've earned it.  Live hard, at least as hard as you work... play, laugh, love.  Understand that what you do is appreciated and admired and actually used.  It's been a pleasure, Gentlemen... our time is winding down.  Each of you has given me magnificent gifts, each of you will be remembered.  And when you wonder what you have done with your life... knock on my door.  We are all here enjoying the fruits of your labor.  Salud.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Fufillment

I am standing in the unadorned husk of my new room.  The freshly painted walls still smell faintly.  The unfinished floors look naked and innocent beneath my feet.  The unfiltered sunshine cascades through the new windows.  It is perfect.

Soon, the floors will be finished.  The rug will laid down and the drapes will adorn the three windows.  The rattan blinds will shade the bathroom and the shelves in the closet will be stocked.

For now, the room is is light and therefore luxurious.  Space.  It comes at such a premium.  Stretch out your arms... how much is that costing you?

I grew up in a sleepy southern town.  Our sidewalks, though crooked and bricked, were wide.  Our playgrounds yawned before us.  The local college campuses seemed to meander through the town.

I live now in a house roughly half the size of my mother's.  My husband uses the coat closet in the hall to shelter his things.

How much do I need?  What do I need?  Why do I need it?

Was it a deprived childhood?  Did I run barefooted?  Were my things kept in shoeboxes?  Why do I feel the need to expand?

I bought mirrored vanities for the bathroom.  Mirrored.  Yes.  How very Tallulah Bankhead of me.  the wallpaper is latticed in silver.  The sconces are mirrored with crystal drops.  I have a dressing table.  When did I feel the need to fill my life, my space with such things?  Why?

I was fifteen.  The aspirin had probably not yet burned through the lining of my stomach but the tintinabulation was unrelenting.    I didnt yearn to be famous.  I wasn't flummoxed by society or pressured by peers.  I lay on my mother's bedroom floor and watched the digital clock flash minute by minute.   The ringing in my ears was incessant and I began to worry that my mother would step on my cold body in the morning.  I tapped her awake.  I have swallowed a bottle of aspirin, I told her.

Maybe then.  Perhaps I began to need to fulfill some dreams then.  Lying in the ICU, conjuring up good lies to tell my friends about the bruises from the IV... yes.  I started to want.

It started with a boyfriend.  Then pretty skin.  A great bikini.  A good college.  A respectable job.  An engagement ring.  A handsome husband.  Healthy children.

Can I stop?  Will I ever be fulfilled?

Lately, I fill the void with food.  Rosemary bread spread with butter.  Cambazola.  Almonds, toasted and salted.  Chocolate covered pretzels.  Candied ginger.

And sensuous delights.  Champagne.  Silk pajamas.  Wolford pantyhose.  Chanel #5.

Of course, of course, the truth is.... I am lonely without Gran.  The silk pajamas are cold, the champagne gives me a headache, pantyhose are just pantyhose , Cambazola makes me fat and chocolate covered pretzels make me break out.

As I was lonely at fifteen, missing my father, at 39 I miss Gran.

Yet, now, on the cusp of 40, I know I am not alone.  Missing Gran sucks.  Gone though is the angst that stemmed from thinking that I was going through "this" all alone.  39 is OK.  39 is solid.  I can do this.  I can do 39.

Monday, March 1, 2010

in winter's fold

It is a taciturn night.  The piss yellow of the sun's last rays have sunk beneath the bitter sky.  Water boils over.  Pot roasts burn.  Milk turns sour and crocus,newly emerged from frozen ground lie trampled under bootprints.  It is March.

I hate Spring and its fickle facade.  Inevitably, the japanese magnolias will bloom too early and a curt frost will strike down the budding blossoms.    Rose bushes pushing forth their shoots will be stymied.  And my house, upon which this great extension has been bestowed, will sit and wait for the next thaw so that we might begin with the plumbing.

I am irritable.  Surely, it has to do with the constant shuffle of furniture, the fine mist of sanded spackle, the smell of wet paint.  Yet, no.  I recognize these things as signs of progress.  We are building, moving forward.  The electricians will be here tomorrow.  We plod along.

It is the weather.  This damn nuisance of snow and melt.  It is the outrageous heating bill.  It is the 20 extra pounds I have packed on.  It's the snow days, its the dog, the cats, the children, the dry cleaning bill, the weather report... anything, everything, but... me.

I have become a taciturn woman.  Sugar will not melt in my mouth.  I remember the care free summer days, sun kissed hair grazing my shoulders, the peel of tanned skin around my collar bone, the laze of days unscripted.  How long ago?

If Spring is youth,and Winter old age, then Summer is the blessed knowledge we all long for.  Bring forth the sun, the heat... let me feel the sting across my skin.  I wish to taste the salt upon my upper lip, embrace the summer constellations, dive into deep pools, testing my merit.

I feel nothing for the cold.  I want none of the snows or ice or blizzards. Let me be in a smooth sand, dotted with deserts roses.  I cannot take the pain of cold, the biting fire of freezing.  Let me wilt under the heat of the summer solstice, feel its rays beat upon my brow.


I hate the cold, the snow, the ice, the dark.  There is no romance for me in these things.  Light is joy.  Warmth is happiness.

The air is thin, pierced with the cold.  The dull steel of evening has long past.  The stars a little crisper this time of year... no matter.  I do not need the shine of the stars to know that you love me.  I'm done with winter.  Bring on the spring.