Don't Wear Yellow

I keep electronic and paper folders of images I like, use for inspiration and ideas I want to steal.  One image I've had for awhile is this one and I really don't know why.  I'm not a big fan of yellow.  It's just hard to look good in yellow.  Years ago I had a Tommy Hilfiger mustard shirt and for some odd reason I deeply LOVED it.  I usually wore it with black slacks or dark jeans.  I looked like a bee.  One evening my staff took me out for drinks to celebrate a recent promotion.  After a few cocktails their heart felt advice to me on how to move forward in the corporate world was to 'never wear that ugly yellow shirt again.  It makes you look green!" They were a harsh group.  But for some reason I've always liked this image.  Maybe it's due to my sunny disposition!  But, I think it's because I like the pieces, the contrast and the graphic quality and it has nothing to do with the color.  I basically have that same table only larger in my dining room.  I like the bench against the wall and of course I like the mix of these traditional pieces against the over-sized contemporary art.  This room is from Daryl Carter and I believe I snagged it from Elle Decor. 

Yesterday I had an hour or so to kill between meetings so I dashed by a few of my favorite haunts on Atlanta's Westside and I found this in a consignment shop.  It was priced at $1,600.  Only because I was in a less-than-my-normal-angry mood I actually engage Shop Boy and mentioned I had seen a similar piece in a Daryl Carter room.  Shop Boy told me Daryl Carter "is in often and they've sold him quite a few things in the past"...hmmmm...DC designer...ATL Westside...I don't know....

A Rose is a Rose

Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday.  In fact, I didn’t remember it was Valentine’s Day until I heard it mentioned by a local morning news anchor.  I was sitting in the next room writing what was to be today’s post. 

Generally V Day is not acknowledged in our house.  First of all I think it’s a tacky holiday.  And secondly, I screwed it up years ago.  On our first Valentine’s Day I came home from work and found a dozen long stem red roses sitting on the living room table. 

I don’t remember if I realized it was Valentine’s Day, but if I did my response to the flowers went something like this. 

“Where did those come from,” I questioned.

“They’re for you,” C answered.

“For what?”

“Valentine’s Day,” he said calmly.

My reaction from that moment on was less than stellar.  “You wasted God knows how much money to buy a bunch of roses that will be dead in a few days”. 

And to make it worse, knowing me, I’m sure I didn’t leave it at just that one statement but went on for awhile about how poor we were. 

I know, I know.  It was a terrible response to a very sweet gesture.  There was no excuse, but understand that I was young, living from paycheck to paycheck at the time and completely broke.  So every penny mattered. And, I never claimed to be a romantic. 

C promptly informed me that I would never receive even a @*&$%#& single flower from him again and probably nothing else ever for Valentine’s Day.  That holiday was dead to him!

And for years we just ignored it.  But, time does heal all wounds.  Some years back he actually bought me another dozen roses.  This time it was a little different and I got the whole rose bush, twelve of them to plant here on the farm. 

We’ve never had a complete master plan for our landscaping projects.  So, all too often months after we’ve planted something we treat it like furniture and decide it needs to be moved to the other side of the house, yard or garden. Due to this bad practice and because I don’t know how to care for roses a few of the plants did not make it.  It doesn’t help when you move them once or twice year after year.  However, several of them made there way to the vegetable garden and in spite of me have managed to survive. These photos are from two of those plants. 

Morale of the story:  If someone gives you flowers accept them graciously, even if it means you can’t make your car payment that month!

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Difficult Situation

When you find yourself in a difficult situation...



Don't curl up and freak out...



And especially don't try to avoid and hide...

Decide on a change of course...

But just don't go further out on a limb...

That will only make it worse...

Looking around for help may not be the answer
(especially if those you think could help are laughing their
asses off due to your situation)...

Get your footing back...

Formulate a plan...

Go for it...

Even if you look stupid!

Do Not Hang Out With Large Animals

We have new horses living across the street in our rental house.  Actually, new people live in the house.  The horses are theirs and live in the pasture.  But, you could have probably figured that out on your own.  Anyway, once again we have horses across the street.  I like having the horses in the pasture.  It’s very idyllic.

The last tenant who rented the house also had horses.    His horses were a rag tag group.  There was a rejected Clydesdale, a gangly pony or two and even a miniature horse.  Those are the strangest of all.  This guy worked at a restaurant in a nearby town.  He would put the miniature horse in the back seat of his pick up truck and park it in front of the restaurant.  He called it good advertising.  I called it stupid!  As you can probably tell he was crazy and after putting up with him for way too long, we decided it was time for him and his horses to move on.  After he left I realized I missed looking out my kitchen window and seeing the horses.  So, I was happy to learn that the couple who just rented the house was bringing along three horses.  They also have two cows, a dog, a cat and some chickens, but I’m not as excited about the rest of their little animal menagerie.  The only ones I can ‘experience’ from my house are the horses, well and the cows, but generally cows are a dime a dozen around here and are pretty boring creatures.  It’s the horses I like.  Let me re-phrase that; it’s the horses I like to look at.

It took a lot for me to get close enough to take these photographs, because generally I do not care for animals that are larger that I am.  It’s just one of my basic rules.  If an animal is bigger than you are, I think it should be avoided.  That’s not to stay I don’t respect them or in some cases even admire them.  I just do not want to get near them. 

Case in point - Our rental property backs up to a hundred acre cattle ranch.  Some years back the man who owned it called and asked if we would keep an eye on the place while he and his wife visited their kids in Florida.  He explained that we would not have to do anything except once a day walk over to the pastures and look to see that everything seemed normal. 

Of course as luck would have it, as soon as they left we had a massive storm one evening and woke to find a tree had crashed down on a section of fence.  There was a hole large enough for any cow to walk through.  We called Florida and our neighbor instructed us to first count the number of cows and make sure all were accounted for.  Counting cows in itself is quite a task!  Although they don’t move fast, they do move around and it’s very difficult to get an acurate reading.  Eventually we determined that none of the cow’s had made a break for it and headed for greener pastures. 

He then told us to open the gate, go inside the pasture and ‘herd’ the cows into an adjacent fenced enclosure.  He explained that cows are ‘followers’ and all we had to do were to get one of them to go along with the idea and the others would follow suit.  Now C is suspect of large animals just as much as I am, if not more so.  There was no way either of us was going to stroll into that pasture with forty Black Angus and try and persuade them to relocate themselves.  Instead we devised an alternative plan.  We would drive into the pasture, pick a cow that seemed to be a likely ‘leader’ and somehow convince him that the grass was greener on the other side of the fence. 

Thank God we had a jeep pick up at the time; otherwise I’m sure we’ve been in my Mercedes.  C would back the Jeep up to the cows and I would stand in the rear of the truck and using my superior power of persuasion convince a cow to follow us.  Obviously the others would follow.

It didn’t work.  Instead the cows just gathered around the Jeep and stared at me.  After what seemed like hours it was determined that these cows were not in any hurry to move.  We decided C would drive the Jeep into the next pasture and that I would have to take more aggressive action.  I was not happy about this, but I could not stand in back of a truck all day hoping the cows would accidentally wonder into the next pasture.  Once I got on the ground and the jeep moved away the cows surround me like a SWAT team on a drug mule.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified.  They did start following me.  However the faster I walked, the faster they walked.  If I slowed down it just meant they got closer.  I was afraid of a stampede.  Eventually we made our way through the open gate and I was able to jump to safety in back of the jeep. 

I think all this goes back to my childhood.  Growing up we would go to my paternal grandparents and have lunch every Sunday.  My grandparents had a dozen or so acres and a barn surrounding their house.  The barn contained three things, hay for their cows, mice and a herd of cats.  As little kids, my brothers and I would spend the afternoon chasing farel kittens.  We never did catch them.  We tried everything from ‘the cardboard box propped open with a stick’ to ‘the sneak up, surround, and surprise attack’ but nothing ever worked.  We were not allowed to go in the barn and we had no intentions of venturing into the pasture if those cows were around.  Instead, we would lure the kittens beyond the pasture fence to the spot were my grandmother would toss left over scraps from lunch.  Even then I knew to avoid the cows. 

At one point my grandfather got a horse.  It was a beautiful chestnut color similar to one of the horses that just moved in across the street.  Once, I remember being in the pasture as my grandfather saddled up the horse.  I was probably about eight years old and my brothers around five and six.  Of course I was leery of being around the horse, much less the cows, but my grandfather seemed to have things under control.  Then all of a sudden the horse reared up on its hind legs and yelled.  I guess it’s a yell, I don’t know what you call that horse noise.  But, anyway it was standing on its back legs towering over the three of us.  All I remember seeing is front hoofs, a giant horse belly and an enormous dangling horse penis.  We screamed and ran like those farel kittens.  My youngest brother peed in his pants. 

White Orchids

I send white orchids.  It’s just what I do when I need to send flowers.  I must admit I stole the idea from a very chic friend of mine.  White orchids go with any interior and are beautiful and elegant. 

The orchid solution became a best practice for me, especially during my New York years.  It was one of the first things a new secretary had to learn when they started in my office.  Until then, I always struggled with Mother’s Day presents.  I never liked to send basic cut flowers or some other expected gift.  Not only does the orchid last for months, but it’s especially a good thing for my Mother since she’s a plant person.  Also, she has an incredibility bright kitchen where she was already growing African Violets and the like. 

But here’s my advice when ordering. 

The first year I sent the white orchid it was a huge hit.  I was lucky.  I stopped by a local NYC florist pointed to the type I wanted, paid my $100, and a couple of days later a two stemmed bud loaded plant showed up on the Mom’s front steps.  Success! 

The next Mother’s Day I called a local florist in South Carolina where my Mother lives and placed an order for a white orchid to be delivered.  I was very specific that it had to be completely white with large blooms, none of those little one inch things.  It was shockingly inexpensive compared to the previous year, but I wrote that off to paying a NYC premium price the year before.

On the afternoon of Mother’s Day I called my Mom, and the conversation went something like this.

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Well thank you,” she said.

“Did the flowers get there in time? I was a little late in ordering.”

“Oh yes, it was delivered on Saturday morning,” says mom.

“Is it white?” I inquired.  “I told them I wanted solid white.  And big blooms.”

“Yes, it’s white.  Completely,” she answered.  “And the blooms are at least three inches across. They’re huge.”

“Great.  You never know what you may get when ordering sight unseen.”  I was relieved. 

“Oh it is really beautiful,” she added.  “All the ladies at church this morning commented how gorgeous it was.  I told them you had sent it for Mother’s Day.”

There was a long, very long pause on my end of the conversation.  First, let me say that my mother is a very young sixty-something.  Think Sally Field in Steel Magnolias.  She runs, goes to the gym and works-out couple of times a week.  She regularly plays golf.  She’s current and a snappy dresser.  So, quickly blazed in my mind, was an image of my mother walking into church in one of her fashionable suits carrying a huge potted plant.  I knew she very much respects my design aesthetic, but this was going too far.

“What do you mean, ‘the church ladies loved it”?  I asked.  “Why would you take the orchid to church.”

“Well what else was I supposed to do with it, baby.  It’s Mother’s Day.”

“Well I thought you’d put it on the kitchen counter.”

“For what?”

“To look at.”

“But, it would just die. And I wasn’t going anywhere else today, except church.”  She stated.  “I guess I could wear it to work tomorrow, but that might be a bit much.”

“Wear?” I asked.  Then another long pause.  “Wait a minute.  Are we talking about the same thing?  Is this orchid in a pot?”

“Of course not,” she answered.  “Why would I carry a potted plant to church?  It’s a corsage.”

After ten minutes of me ranting and apologizing she did finally admit that she was a little surprised I would send her a corsage. 

She did not wear it to work the next day.

Room design and photo credit (in order of post):
Life and Work:  Malene Birger Life in Pictures
Australia Vogue Living John Hay
Kelly Hoppen Design
Pheobe Howard Design
Ron Marvin
Brown Designs
Thomas Pheasant

Avoid things with no shoulders!

My general rule is to avoid any animal that does not have shoulders.  Think about it.  Name one shoulderless animal that is completely harmless.

See you can’t do it can you.  Snakes, Sharks, Emus, Jelly Fish, Flies - I could go on and on - don’t have shoulders and they could all harass a person unnecessarily.  But, birds are the worst.   I believe my distrust of birds started at a very early age.  I blame my father!

As a youngster, I remember we had a pair of parakeets.  The male was named Pete.  His wife was named Petey. 

No one ever accused my family of having very original pet names - Tiger, Bear, and Coco to name a few.  Although at one point my youngest brother had a dog he named Ezekiel, but everyone else just called him Steve and that was the name Ezekiel began recognizing.  Eventually my brother broke down in tears and my mother demanded we only refer to the dog by its proper ‘given’ name.

My mother told us Pete and Petey were a married ‘love bird’ couple because they would sit in their cage and peck ‘kiss’ each other.  But looking back on it, I doubt she knew for a fact that one was male and one was female.  I hardly identify my mother as an animal expert and I do not remember her ever having verified their sex.  For all she knew those birds could have been lesbians.  Often, my father would let them out of their cages and they would fly around the house.  I was terrified.  They were fast and I couldn’t always see them speeding in my direction.  One day while my mother was cleaning their cage, Pete escaped and flew away.  Several days later Petey died.  My mother said it was from a broken heart.  Looks like she may have been right about that.  But, Pete and Petey were gone and I was OK that the bird situation was resolved. 

Years later when I was a teenager, my father decided to get another parakeet.  He named it Petey. 

The family living space in our house was situated so that Petey could fly unimpeded in a giant loop through the connecting rooms.  When my father would let Petey out of his cage, he would buzz around his flight path and after a few loops would land gently on my fathers shoulder where he peck ‘kissed’ my dad’s 70’s porn ‘stash.  When he wasn’t making bird love to my father, he would just zoom around like some feathered WWII dive bomber.  No one in my family seemed to mind this, except me.  Whenever that bird was out of his cage I was on a constant state of alert.  I believe animals are aware of how you feel about them and I think Petey knew when it came to me; he was only an open door away from meeting the neighbor’s cat.  It was bad enough when I knew Petey was out of his cage and freely terrorizing the house, but it was horrifying to come home and find him bearing down at full speed towards my face un-expectantly.  Petey lived with us for about a year.  It was a year in which I developed spontaneous ducking reflexes and the urge to randomly sling my arms around my head.  To the innocent bystander, I’m sure I appeared to have tourrette’s or some type of rude uncontrollable spasms.  Occasionally I would man up and try to befriend Petey.  After all my two younger brothers seemed to have a very pleasant relationship with Petey and considered him a loving member of the family.  I would try to extend goodwill to Petey by putting my finger in his cage so he could peck ‘kiss’ or perch on it like he would do to my siblings.  Instead the bitch would just draw blood!  On rare occasions when Petey would light on my shoulder, he usually only stayed a moment, but it was long enough to leave a present! 

I don’t remember what happened to Petey.  I’m sure he dashed out an open window or fell over dead in his cage.  Either way, he was gone and that was all that mattered to me. 

Years later, while living in New York I would sometimes be reminded of Petey.  Think about what would happen if all the pigeons decided to revolt and make a move against humanity like in the movie ‘The Birds’.  Those NYC pigeons are not afraid of people, so if they wanted they could really wreak havoc.  Remember what those birds did to Tippi Hedren’s French twist!  I’ll never forget.

I started writing this entry because I had a couple of photos from last week’s visit to the coast that I had not included in previous posts.  Upon a second look I realized that seagulls were in most of the photos and I was reminded of my bird issues.  I’m not sure if you can tell but those are seagulls swarming that shrimp boat.  If I were on that boat, I would have to be sedated.  One afternoon I was taking photos of the marsh and encountered these two gulls on the pier.  The photos were taken at very close range.  See how sinister they look.  That’s the same look that Petey had! 

                                                  

Learn to dress appropriately!

I need a wardrobe makeover.

OK, so that statements seems strange coming from me.  Especially coming from the person who has given out much styling advice (whether solicited or not) over the years.  But, here is my dilemma.  In my past NYC corporate life, I generally stayed true to ‘a’ look – navy or gray suits with open collar French cuffed shirts in the summer and gray wool suits or black wool trousers and cashmere sweaters for the winter.  It was not the splashy point of view, but for the conservative retail organization in which I was a part of it was practical. 

After sporting that for years, I now find myself with a closet full of dark suits, dress shirts and sweaters which do me little good down here on the farm.  Outside of my blog time, I’m in my office alone, working on my other business which is consulting.  So, between all the hedges and gates and the fact that unless I’m traveling or have a scheduled appointment no one sees me. (except my partner and for some strange reason he seems un-phased or either slightly amused by most of my wardrobe choices). 

My office (which is in a constant state of design morphing) is in a snazzy little second floor apartment at the back of our farm.  It’s so removed from the road and the main house and has its own driveway, even the UPS guy can’t seem to find it.  If I wanted to I could get up every morning, throw on a pair of boxers and a wife beater and head out the door and no one would even know (and you know I have done just that on more than one occasion).  However, I’m trying to do better.  This is a lifestyle blog I’m writing, and I don’t expect you to picture me typing away in front of a roaring fire in a smoking jacket, but you do deserve a better image than the one I’m currently working. 

Part of the problem was last year when I left the corporate world I realized that other than a few pair of jeans and some weekend ‘garden’ tee shirts, I did not have the appropriate clothes to wear for ‘work at home’.  And since I did not know what path my future career life would take (and still don’t for that matter) I saw no need in running out and spending cash on new country attire.  So, I decided to do as Tim Gunn would say “make it work” with what I have. 

The day I realized I was in trouble was when I found myself standing under the front veranda with a garden hose spraying the nesting mud swallows away from the front columns.  I was wearing a wrinkled Calvin Klein gray and black dress shirt, cut off sweat pants and a pair of brown Gucci suede loafers.  The worst part was that I even had a fleeting ‘little Edie’ moment that this was truly a revolutionary outfit. 

This summer I went through my white or blue dress shirt worn un-tucked over a sarong and flip-flops stage.  It was sort of East meets West.  And I actually have to admit I really like this look.  It is comfortable, but it does require a wardrobe change if I have to go out – say to the local market or the old guy’s hardware store.  I do not think the town folk here in ‘no where’ Georgia would appreciate the thought I had put into the concept!

It’s hot here.  So jeans and such are just not the thing during most of the year.  The only shorts available are for old men or the camouflage Old Navy & Gap uniform that every gay man was wearing and is now the uniform of every man. 

I need to find something else.  I thinking it’s time to bring back seersucker, maybe with white V-neck tees, converse tennis shoes, and striped canvas belts. 

WOW.  There you go I just solved my own problem – at least through October.

While writing this posting, I remembered that a very talented young friend of mine named Lizzy is designing the women’s line for Steven Alan.  I have never paid much attention to the line or their stores before, since casual was really not in my wardrobe vocabulary.  But, recently I looked at the website and their 2010 summer men’s line is pretty much what I described above, plus a lot of great plaid and checks.  It’s hipped up traditional.   I like the look.

I need to see what they are doing for the Fall and Winter months.  I do own a smoking jacket.  A friend of mine purchased a smoking jacket from Neiman Marcus as a Christmas present for her husband.  Unfortunately they divorced before the holiday and I inherited the jacket.  I was 25 and it was not really age appropriate at the time.  However, I’ve held on to it and if for some reason this Steven Alan thing doesn’t work for me, I have the smoking jacket as a fall back plan! 



Images are from the Steven Alan collection and lookbooks.  Visit their site at  http://www.stevenalan.com/



There is little difference between old people and rappers

Friday we took a day trip to Westville, Georgia.

What?  You have never heard of Westville! I cannot imagine why!

Westville is a fictitious town made up of a collection of federal style buildings and houses all dating from around 1850 or earlier. 

OK.  So it was somewhat of a geek thing to do, but we had been talking about it for a long time and wanted to see what is was all about.  Being interested in that period and style of architecture, we though we would give it a shot. 

Our farm is remote, but within 30 minutes I can get to a market that sells arugula or even a Target store when necessary.  However, Westville is far more remote being about an hour and a half south of us.

This collection of buildings was started near Atlanta in the 1950’s to showcase a lost way of life.  At some point the buildings were moved to their current 58 acre tract in rural Georgia.  The collection has been added to over the years and has saved many historic structures from demolition. 

It appears that on certain days the village is fully staffed with people wearing authentic clothing and working in the village as blacksmiths, cooks, shoe makers among other trades.  On the day we were there we spoke to a young girl in 1850 garb.  She told us she was bored.  I will refer to her as the village wench.

The place was completely empty.  For a while we had the village to ourselves and were able to explore each original plantation house, county courthouse and merchant building at our leisure - until the old people showed up!

The village wench had told us they were expecting a tour bus of about 65 ‘seniors’.  She did not seem particularly excited. 

A small farm house in the village has been turned into a restaurant.  It was the only place to get something to eat or drink.  I saw the ‘seniors’ when they entered the village and they made a beeline straight for the restaurant.  It was lunch time and I too was seriously considering food and drink.  However, as we walked toward the farmhouse and heard the ruckus coming from inside we decided that a late lunch would be more judicious! 

I would have starved first. 

After they all cleared out of the farmhouse restaurant we ventured in for lunch.  The place was a wreck and the two women who were working there looked frazzled.  They acknowledged that we were smart to have stayed clear until the ‘Seniors’ were done swarming the place.  The aftermath in the restaurant reminded me of the bar at the W Hotel in Midtown Atlanta after a Rap party.  OK, so I exaggerate a little, but you get the point – they were loud and unruly and left the place in a mess. 

Later, I noticed the ‘Seniors’ were split into 3 groups and officially toured through the village.  The ones with walking canes or hip replacements were loaded into several horse drawn wagons while the others rambled uncontrollably behind.  Once I heard them spontaneously break into song.  It was one of those old people tunes informing Jesus they would be seeing him soon. 

I am concerned.  Will I become like that?  Do we all fall into that type behavior?  Is it just something that happens with age and we get to the point were we no longer care what others think?  Or is it just that we become completely unaware of our surroundings?  Either way I am going to lose sleep over it!