Sunday, August 8, 2010

A Summer at the Spa

Bon Sunday, mon amis, my dear, sweet dumplings. I'm sure you've been lost without Lady B's daily directives about gracious living---fumbling around trying to artistically drape your cowhides and organize your white ironstone without my words of wisdom and pretty (pretty enough to have published in the finest decor magazines!) pictures. I'm also sure my dear lady blogger friends have also been deeply concerned about my health and safety, as well as the Angel Baby and BooBear (I'm sure it's some technical glitch with my e-mail provider *note--call the Geek Squad* that has left my in-box as barren as Jennifer Aniston--I know my readers must have been desperately trying to reach me over the past few weeks). Never fear, darlings, the powers that be decided that Lady B was overwhelmed and "strung out" from her crushing schedule of daily Pilates, weekly mani-pedis, monthly client meeting (the BoHo condo may only be 650 sq. feet, but it won't decorate itself!), not to mention curating her carefully chosen and extensive vintage tea towel, cake stand, and ironstone collections. There's only so much a lady blogger can fit into one day! Sure Lady B is blessed with the occasional helping hand, but it's not like I can trust the nanny, the maid, the after school tutor, or BooBear with selecting just the right Circa lighting pendant for my polyvore mood board. Just because the client is imaginary, doesn't mean they don't deserve the best!!!

Anyhoo, Lady B has spent the summer recharging at a resort, one mentioned in the pages of Living magazine, and one in which Martha has been rumored to have personally visited. True the cuisine, accommodations, and routine were a touch spartan, but I really feel cleansed and reconnected with my fellow women in a totally new way. And, I learned a couple of fabulous new crafting techniques, I can't wait to share with Lady Blah Blah's fans. Viva le spa!!!!!

Now, off for some cuddle time with BooBear. Kisses, sweeties.

August 8, 2010,

Dear Diary,

Just been paroled; waiting for that asshat, BooBear to pick me up. Ironically, today is probably the first day that ignoramous will remember to bring the carton of cigarettes I've been requesting.

True, when I blew the guy from the Geek Squad to trace the i.p. address of that anon troll that keeps hounding me (how could anyone object to yet another post on seagrass and ironstone? how? why? I just don't understand some people.) to her home address, I only planned to send her a personal note, tactfully asking her to "Shut the Fuck UP!!, but when she referred to my Belgian linen (the best!) slip covered George Smith sofa ( and I can't even begin to tell you the sex show I had to put on for BooBear to convince him to allow that purchase) as "shabby shit," i knew it was time for the bitch to be taught a lesson Lady Blah Blah style, especially since I discovered she lived in Atlanta. Well, I may have had to serve a little time in the big house, but it was worth it: it's awfully hard for an internet troll to type anon comments with 10 broken fingers.

Actually, it wasn't that bad. I lost a little weight, reconnected with some hobbies from college (I'll miss you Big Bertha), and learned to make a shiv out of a bar of soap, a paper clip, and a gum wrapper. Luckily, I only had to shank one bitch, but she made a play for Bertha, and I had to teach her to respect my authority. No, the only thing I regret is the prison tattoo, but I was drunk on homemade hootch (a slight adaptation of one of Martha's own recipes), and it seemed like a good idea at the time. If only I hadn't gotten it on my neck. Oh well, at the next Junior League meeting I'll cover it up with some chunky beads alal Mrs. Blandings until I can get in to see my dermatologist.

I just saw the Hummer pull, i gotta go make BooBear my bitch.

Peace out >, bitches

Monday, July 12, 2010

WWKWD: What Would Kelly Wearstler Do?

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Bon Monday, dear readers, and so lovely you could drop by. And speaking of lovely, gracious J____ B____ of P_____of C______stopped by for tea and textile talk. As much as Lady B. loves blogging, sometimes she feels a need for human interaction, and she decided to issue an invitation for P____of C____ to enjoy a tradition that was once a daily necessity, but is, now, alas only an anachronism---a lovely, lonely echo of gracious days gone by.

We settled in for a professional pow-wow over lovely toast points piped in luscious buttery pate, crisp cucumber sandwiches, Earl Grey (purchased at Harrod's during my last jaunt to Jolly Ole London), and perhaps just a naughty splash of Maker's Mark (from my newest bar set up on a lovely python tray), all served on my hotel silver platter, accented with vintage tea towels (ironed with lavender water made with lavender from my own estate), and hydrangeas from my own cutting garden in a portion of my white iron stone collection. Before talk turned to the latest decor headlines, P____ of C_____ was kind enough to notice my newest design accent, a custom slipcover in a hand-painted graffiti pattern on linen (Belgian, of course). "That's really something," she said. "I've never see anything like that."

It was a recent addition to my serene and gracious living room. Recently, as I was taking stock of the room's white linen (Belgian linen, if I haven't mentioned it) slips, custom cut sea grass layered with zebra hides, gleaming lucite trunks, gallery wall of lady portraits (thrifted if you can believe that), as well as extensive collection of "Keep Calm and Carry On" prints, I thought perhaps it had become TOO serene and gracious. Perhaps I needed that bit of tension that I and my colleague, Kelly Wearstler, often use in client projects. "Voila," I thought, thinking of K.W.'s latest home (photographed) in Vogue---nothing says tension like graffiti.

Unfortunately, P____of C____ had to dash off soon after arrival (Design Emergencies are much more common than non-professionals realize), but it was a lovely interlude, none the less. Until next time, gracious readers, all my love.

Monday, July 12, 4:30 pm

Dear Diary,

Today has been day of horrors. Woke with vicious headache from too many Lonny Iced Teas (made with equal parts Tangueray, Maker's Mark, and Pimms, with a splash of Perrier). Cheered up slightly when remembered P________of C________was coming for tea. I think it's so important for lady bloggers to cross pollinate each others blogs, but P____of C____ has been dodging my e-mails for months. However, she certainly responded quickly to my last one when I asked her if she minded if I did a fan post on her, and if she further minded if I used a vintage photo of hers in it. From Sept. 1997, in fact. From Playboy's Co-eds of the South edition. That got a response. Guess she decided that no one would take design advice from a lady blogger whose carpet didn't match her curtains.

Spent long exahustive hours creaming store bought pate, piping the creamed onto toast points, ironing tea towels, and artfully arranging hydrangea in white iron stone. Angel Baby was constant nuisance. Finally sent him into living room to brush zebra rugs (I think it's so important for one's cowhides to be well-groomed), where brat promptly tripped over Ikea sheepskin artfully layered on top of zebra artfully arranged over custom cut sea grass (4" from wall) and impaled himself on zinc finished final from Wisteria (discontinued, so I tell readers I bought it at Paris flea market). Thank God, no real damage--I think the zinc finish is fine. Bundled the brat off to the emergency room with Consuela---incredibly annoying for me to be without maid just then, since in throes of final tea party prep, but I certainly couldn't go myself. Then discovered true horror--blood splattered all over white linen (I did mention it was Belgian linen, right?) slipcover with only hours before guest scheduled to arrive. Oh God....what to do?

Started to hyperventilate, then asked self, "What would Kelly Wearstler do?" Decided to put on evening gown, climb step ladder and rearrange kitchen shelves to calm nerves. Then it hit me---disguise blood splatters with red hand painted graffiti just like Kelly Wearstler's new custom papered entrance hall:

Luckily had red paint left over (Farrow & Ball, of course) from painting side board in dining room. Glossy sideboard turned out fabulous, even if bitch mother-in-law gripes every time she comes over, muttering about "family heirlooms," "flame mahogany veneer," "eighteenth century patina," and "destroyed half its value." Considered taking time to remove evening dress, but thought again, "What would Kelly Wearstler do?" and decided to keep it on, painting swirling graffiti with reckless abandon.

Finished hiding paint can right as P____of C_____ arrived. Awkward silence followed by her exclamation of "Good God, it THAT your sofa? That is something. I've never seen any thing like that ever. Jesus." Unfortunately, as she discovered after sitting on it in her white linen pants (I don't they were Belgain linen), she discovered the paint was still wet. She stormed out muttering about blackmail, extortion, and "clueless bitches with no taste."

Curled into fetal position (luckily evening dress had full skirt) and cried like I haven't cried since Domino closed. Remembered extra bottle of Maker's Mark, so was able to drink fifth without disturbing bar set up. Must remember, tomorrow is another day.........
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Saturday, July 10, 2010


Saturday, July 10, 7:28 am

Dear Diary,

Shit. E-bay purchase of Billy Baldwin Remembers just arrived. All the lady bloggers love him---I thought he worked with Stephen Gambrel. When I posted that I interned for him one summer (I once spent a week in August painting a room with brown high gloss paint), I didn't realize he retired in the early 1970s. Now everyone will think that I'm as old as V___ V____. Damn.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Spin Cycle

Friday, July 9:30 am

Dear Diary,

Just finished blog post:

Up at dawn for early meeting with one of my closest clients (we're like sisters!!!), owner of the delight BoHo Condo. Over a working gal breakfast of delicious, raspberry friut filled pastries from one of America's oldest bakeries and frothy cafe au lait, helped my BoHo bachelorette de-clutterize (i just coined that one---and copyrighted it, so please don't repost that word without e-mailing and asking for permission-thanks), prioritze, and organize. A dedicated designer's work is never done!!! Pics of the condo, and all of my other projects to follow, one day, I promise, just as soon as I learn how to work this pesky camera. Until then, let's enjoy this previously published room. Isn't it perfection?"
That sounds much better than the actual events (thank God for digital living):
Awakened at crack of dawn by frantic phone call from sister who just returned a day early to fleabitten ghetto studio apartment ("it's all I can afford---I work for a charity.") from some bullshit humanitarian aid trip to the current 3rd world hellhole dujour--if she has to throw her prime earning years away on working for non-profits, why can't it be one that hosts fabulous benefits---and I keep telling her, "Look at Angelina---just because you care about the poor, doesn't mean you can't wear St. Johns knits and a little lip gloss, for God's sake." Just enough time to grab some pop-tarts and a little (shudder) instant coffee, luckily, though, I still had enough incredibly expensive organic virgin cold-pressed almond milk left to make it bearable.
Her crisis du jour (I love tossing in French phrases---it makes me fell so Continental and insouiciant---and my readers love it---so cute): Her live-in boyfriend wasn't there at the apartment; however, some unidentifed female underthings and a new crack pipes and rocks were (Thanks to Sonya from Real Housewives of New York, I now know that's why he always smelled like cat piss). Finally talked some sense in her (I may have slapped her a couple of times, too, but isn't that how you calm down hysterical people?), helped her throw the bum's shit on the street (looked through it for anything worth keeping, but you know how these hipster artists are--everything thrifted and reeking of patchouli, nicotine, and pretension), and called the locksmith. Just enough time to rush home, pick up Angel Baby, and drop him at his day long Vegan Toddler Raw Foods workshop (Mommy needs some alone time--now that pre-school is on summer schedule, he's home 4 days a week, and I'm far too busy to handle that---I mean polyvore mood boards don't make themselves).
God, I needed that drink---I know, I'll post that I had "a light brunch of vegetables (celery, pickled green beans, and olive) in a delightfully tangy Russian tomato sauce." The readers don't need to know that it was actually a couple of Bloody Marys.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Remembering the Birth of an Angel

Dear Diary,

Friday, July 9, 2010, 12:22 am

Holy Shit! Woke up in cold sweat. I've forgotten that the Angel Baby's birthday is coming up, August 1. True, I've still got a couple of weeks, but it's a lot of work. Party decor is lady blogging gold, and children's parties are platinum. I need to mine that shit. Only wedding decor makes a lady blogger wetter....Hmmm...maybe I need to renew vows...that should worth a couple of posts, and it'd be nice to pick out dress without having to worry whether that bitch mother of his can detect a baby bump.
Oh well, back to angel baby's b-day. I've got to have more Martha Stewart pom poms than P___ S____H___ did at her last party, and I don't care what Martha says, those things are a bitch to put together and I need to get to it. Maybe if her ass had to assemble them it instead of some petrified bridge and tunnel intern making minimum wage, it wouldn't be such a pain. Note: contact local community college interior design department to see if design intern available, non paid position of course-I'm only a part-time design professional

Why is it so hard to remember when the brat was born. It happened right as I replaced my Madeline Weinreib rug with custom cut seagrass (4" from wall). Boobear kept asking, "what's wrong with the rug? You kept hounding me to let you buy this rug. It cost a fortune and it's practically brand new." Jesus, like I should have to explain to him that I couldn't have a rug that Pottery Barn had knocked of. What if one of my readers thought that I had bought the knockoff. Dear Lord in Heaven, Lady Blah Blah with a catalogue rug (Except for Wisteria, of course. Wisteria cares the lady blogger seal of approval.)

All I can remember thinking on the the way to the hospital is "Why did it have to happen now? God knows I can't trust that asshat Boobear to watch the installers---and I want it 4" from the wall, not 3 3/4" or 4 1/8"." And of course, he had to rush to the hospital instead of supervising the installers, and now my custom cut seagrass is 3 5/8" from the fucking wall.

Tray Shopping in the South of France?

Photo Credit: how the Hell do I know, I'd knocked back a bottle of Pinot Grigio by the time I found this

Dear Diary,

July 8, 2010, 8:00 am

Tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. No, it wasn't the vajazzling (though that is the last time I take beauty advice from a magazine with that white trash Brittney on the cover, and if there is a next time, I definitely won't use hot glue).

No, I'm trying to decide on vacation plans. God, I hate summer--that Angel baby brat is home all of the fucking time (except those brief 8 hours of peaceful bliss a day when he's at art camp--that reminds, me I need to have another little chat with him about his palette--if he wants his stupid drawing to be allowed on the fridge, especially in blog photos, I need tasteful neutrals, dammit--i've told him over and over again, "Mommy likes robin's egg blue, beige, a nice dark, but not too dark, taupe and a slight hint of pink----cultivating a taste for pink is so useful for doing the occasional "j'adore pink" post---if the brat insists on using primary colors, his stuff is hanging on the fridge in the garage--at least until I revamp that for a "Doesn't My SUV Deserve a Pretty Room, Too?" post) and because of this fucking humidity I have to stop and flat iron my hair before every "candid" outdoor living photo---that reminds me, I need to send a check to my photographer. If that stupid Boobear would just let me order the new Nikon I want-sure it's $600 dollars, but what's that really? a pair of toss pillows--I could take my own photos and stop using the Olan Mills moonlighter.

My real problem---where do we go for a vacay? Unfortunately, I need to take Boobear and Angel Baby--god, I remember the good ole days of single gal blogging when all I had to do was sucker the boyfriend du jour into taking my photo in hideously expensive clothing---note, need to change number to unlisted, so that fucking VISA will stop calling...and not have to worry about co-ordinating the outfits of three people and their surroundings---God, Anna Wintour, no one else knows how we suffer.

Back to the vacation plans? I need somewhere expensive enough to impress, but not so expensive that it alienates the "little people" readers, scenic, but neutral enough to go with my existing wardrobe--that asshat boobear says that I already have enough summer tunics and caftan coverups_---and I really need to go somewhere I can do some major tray shopping. I've run out of trays to artfully arrange with random clutter, and I'd like to get a start on the garage post---(wouldn't it be clever to arrange python trays with wrenches? or would wrenches do better with lucite?)--the south of France, maybe---I hear the French have great trays..

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Guest Blogging on the D-List

July 7, 2010

Dear Diary,

Dammit, I'm pissed. I've been crawling on my hands and knees through Lady Blogger land trying to land a guest posting gig, tossing "j'adores" and "so pretty" comments left and right---guest posting means you've made it to the inner circle . It's like going to concerts in collage--do the groupie--get close to the band. It's an important step to being besties. And who do I finally land--girl world (here). Jesus, if I had to stoop to snark, why couldn't it be somebody big like Decorno.

Decorno, gone like Domino----oh God, I promised myself I'd stop crying, but dammit---just the least when Daddy passed, I had time to prepare.......

Whew, I needed that drink...must remember to replace bottle of Tanguray before Lonny shoot....

Dammit, why didn't J____ let me guest post my kitchen? I copied the copy of the modified Something's Got to Give Kitchen, but with the white marble counters. I knew that I should have looked harder for a whiter marble for the kitchen reno. and I only considered white subway tile, slightly not as white subway tile, beveled white subway tile, vintage white subway tile, hand formed white subway tile, and white marble subway tile--there had to be more white subway tile options. And I used five shades of white paint, not to mention the three coats of primer it took to cover the black (so edgy, but SO last issue of Lonny)---White Dove walls, Dove White ceiling, Not Dove White or White Dove But It All Still Looks the Same White on the cabinets, Arizona Republican White trim, and Completely Uncleanable and Impractical White Porch paint on the floors (it looks so clean and fresh--or would if those two assholes I live with would remember Mommy's "take your goddamn shoes off before you walk on my white floor" rule, but mopping twice a day is worth it for the look, besides Consuela needs the cardio-- note to self-buy her next uniform one size larger). But it's still not inoffensive enough....still TOO much personality, even if that asshat, Boobear says eating breakfast in there is like eating in an operating room....operating room...note to self, need to schedule Boobear's vasectemy. It's time to stop "discussing our options" and take some action.

Maybe if I add another apron front sink and a couple of more bridge faucets, I'll finally make the cut....

Gotta go, I think I hear the brat in the kitchen, and if that little pissant gets red Kool-aid on my white marble countertop again, the angels of glory won't be enough to save his sorry ass