No, I’m not pregnant. But yesterday was pregnant with shopping possibilities at the Roberta Freymann sample sale. I was feeling queasy because I hadn’t been paid in a while and even though my mad-money check would probably arrive while I was at the sale, I’m trying to be more serious and honest with myself about what I really need and when. I knew that if I did  go there was no way I wasn’t going to spend, I mean pillow cases were $20! Dresses $30! Necklaces $75!

I also knew that if I didn’t go I’d feel also be sick with the anger only a freelancer can feel when she can’t go to a sample sale. So I took a Tagment and drove in to the city. I was in there by 10:42, it opened at 11. I was one of the first 50 allowed in, I think I was like 38 in line. Doors opened and I made a beeline for the jewelry table and that’s when I really wanted to throw up.

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There were so many!  These necklaces were there, but honestly they weren’t the best ones. Then I found the necklace I had seen in her Southampton store. It felt like bumping into an crush. I almost blushed when I saw and asked the woman to bag it for me.

I was also going to buy a chunky rhinestone and tourlamine lilac necklace that’s very similar to the rhinestone and turquoise necklace I bought last year. It’s so gorgeous that when I wear it women stare at me, honestly sometimes I think they see it and get angry. That’s how spectacular it is. But my friend, Erin, who was there with me said, “You don’t want to be the crazy necklace lady and you already have one just like that.” She of course was right, but I held on to them both until I was at the cash register.  I chose the more modern, less glitzy necklace. Other women on line agreed it was a better pick.

Which leads me to another special thing about the this sale. As sample sales go, Roberta Freymann’s is always the friendliest and most supportive. Don’t get me wrong, it’s crowded, your arms ache you from carrying 30 kurtas. You bang into people, one woman brought her dog, which caused a lot of eye rolling and “How does she know I’m not allergic!” comments—but that was as bitchy as it got.  Other women brought their kids, which just made everyone else feel relieved their lives were slightly more pulled together. But overall women really root for each other at this sale.

Case in point: I helped at least three women pick necklaces, necklaces that I also wanted but knew looked better on them than me.

I stood next to a woman in handbags, we were both admiring an African printed purses with double pockets that had a weird barrel shape and she turned to me and said, “These bags are dumb right, we’re never going to find anything in them, and they are hard to close.” She read my mind! The bag may have been glam but it was a fast track to feeling frustrated over never being able to find metro cards, keys, etc. We both left them on the table and thanked each other for saving $50.

Maybe it’s the colors that make everyone happy. Maybe it’s that you really can’t lose at this sale. But I also think it’s because her clothes tend to be really unflattering. They are the most irresistible prints—truly, colorful mazes of summer and exotic destinations that you just want to wrap yourself up in. But the cuts rarely work for a real woman’s body, so when you find something that is flattering, it’s a victory—and everyone, slim, short, amazon, curvy—we all feel this way. The comradery is odd and wonderful upshot of what’s essentially poor design.

A group of women were trying stuff  while waiting in line, one was curvy and she kept trying on different dresses that made her look shapeless and dowdy. It was a string of rejected crazy caftans and peasant tops and shirred sundresses that are tight in the arms and too full in the skirt. And we were all laughing at how pretty something can look on the hanger and how awful it can look on a typical size 8.

In fact that’s how I scored this dress. It was a castoff of a woman on line. Erin tried it on, but it didn’t work, granted she was wearing a turtleneck, so I tried it on and it fit. When I got home I realized it’s too short for me so I may not ever really wear it but it felt like a prize at the time and it was only $30.

Tomorrow is the last day, it’s open to 3. And if you see a lilac rhinestone necklace, please get it and I’ll send you the check because I actually got paid today!

Blind item: Speaking of imaginative shopping, which Montclair mom is going to a sample sale in NYC even though she knows her kid has a rash that that is itchy and if he scratches it, which he will, can be painful.

Celebrity gossip: Asta is looking so matted and crazy, I’m thinking of renaming her Phyllis Diller. Then we can rename Chewie, Fang, which may be even more fitting because the other morning I woke up to find one of his teeth on my pillow.

In Media: The redesign of Ladies Home Journal looked pretty enough for me to actually buy it. Either they did a good job or the 40ish part of my life is really happening to me.

When I showed him the package he  insisted he hadn’t broken our austerity vow and then he said, “Oh my god it came!” He turned around handed me the package and said, “This, darling wife, is a very late Christmas gift for you.”

Inside was a book titled Haunted Air, a collection of anonymous Halloween photographs taken in America between 1875-1955. The photographs are eerie and charming and uncomfortable all the same time. You can’t stop looking at them. The book is irresistible.

It’s probably one of the most romantic gifts David could have ever given me, except for last year’s book, the Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death, a book of photographs of actual murder scenes recreated in dollhouses that were created by the first woman forensic scientist.

David knows that despite appearances I can be creepy on the inside. I love Halloween. I’d say it’s my favorite holiday, even though I feel obligated to love Christmas more. But I love Christmas the way you love your parents, it’s constant, sometimes disappointing and sometimes surprising and eventually you learn to take the good and forget the rest. Halloween is an infatuation. It’s all lust and fantasy—the candy, costumes, and wishing and waiting that you will really be scared. And judging from the photos in Haunted Air that’s all it’s always been that way.

Woman Falls Down

Photos of dogs in water by Seth Casteel via Laughing Squid via cute overload.

These crazy miniature houses via my modern met

J.Crew’s announcement that they are partnering with Manolo Blanik:

“Trade title WWD announced the news today via its Twitter feed. It read: ‘J. Crew is doing a Manolo collaboration for fall, to be sold online.”

via Femail

And The Fug sisters report about Joe Jonas getting mobbed at the Jermey Scott fashion show and the highlight of Scott’s collection:

“For his part, Joe handled it like a pro—we suppose he has loads of practice dealing with crazy people wanting a taste of his business—answering questions left and right without ever breaking a sweat. “It’s so nice to meet someone so nice in fashion,” we heard him say of Scott, before noting that he previewed the collection backstage and thought it was really “exciting.”  (This is true, especially if you are a fan of Bart Simpson. That is not some kind of sarcastic remark; there really were dudes wearing sweaters with Bart Simpson on them. Insert “cowabunga” joke here.)”

The Cut

It’s Valentine’s day and after helping the boys craft 60+ valentines for their classmates I’ve been thinking about obsessions. For instance, this weekend I was obsessed with getting those valentines done (see image far left). The boys however were not. They were obsessed with playing video games, namely Minecraft, Skylanders, and occasionally watching David play the not scary parts of Skrym (sp?). When screen time is up they are obsessed with making battle stations for their Go-Go Crazy Bones out of unit blocks, Nerf guns and Ninjago. David lately is obsessed with gaming and tech podcasts, his 3-d printer and Philip K Dick. Honestly, his obsessions are far more interesting and exacting than that but I tend to not get too close.

Lately I’ve noticed that I’m a lot less obsessive about my obsessions and what I am obsessed about is not so remarkable. For a while I was obsessed with the snowlessness, but that is depressing. As a freelancer I can become obsessed with getting a full-time job. Or when I’m working on a juicy story I’ll become obsessed with the topic like my story for Martha Stewart Living on botulism toxin injections and dermal fillers, its coming out in April. (Don’t worry if you’ve sat next to me at dinner party you’ve heard all the details and I won’t go off on the topic now). I was so obsessed with Downton Abbey that I made David and I stay up practically all night to watch all of season 1 before the premier of season 2. But now that we are dutifully watching the show week by week instead of the guilty-late night recklessless of watching  9 episodes in a row its hard to keep that passion alive. Tonight I was temporarily obsessed with Malachy the pekingese winning the Westminster Dog Show, so much so I texted friends who don’t even care about dogs at 11:15 pm: “Holy Fuck! It’s the Pekingnese!”

But I have to admit I miss being obsessed. I miss not knowing the time because I am so preoccupied with whatever I’m doing or whoever I was doing it with. 20 years ago I met david and I was obsessed with him, so totally sick to my stomach in love with being with him that I confused the days of the week and missed a day of work at my job as an assitant at an art gallery in San Francisco.

But after 20 years of being together, I don’t think I’m hurting David’s feelings by admitting, I’m no longer obsessed with him in that way, frankly he’s probably relieved. When you’ve been with one (super amazing wonderful person, love ya honey!) for that long remembering what it was like to be that preoccupied with the comings and goings of one person feels like something I used to do, like smoke at a party.

What bugs me is that I feel  like I’m on the sidelines of happiness without an obsession to call my own. I wonder if I should start to hunt for obsessions or maybe that’s too desperate and I’m just supposed to chill out and wait to stumble on one?  Is this what middle age is, being okay with everything in moderation? Or maybe its just a side affect of my thyroid medications? Or perhaps its just winter and my enthusiasm needs to hibernate? I guess I’ll just have to research the topic, call a few experts and really immerse myself to find out.

1. Portlandia’s spoof on its title song,”The dream of the 90s is alive in Portland” rerecorded as “The Dream of the 1890s is alive in Portland” points out that Portland in 2012 is a lot more like 1890s than 1990s and has lyrics like “We cure our own meats.”

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A laughing squid post on how to make your home-smoked brief jerky underpants.

2. Georgetown Cupcake’s press release announcing that you can celebrate V-day by popping the question with an 8 carat engagement ring a top a red velvet cupcake.

“There’s no sweeter way to pop the question to your significant other than with a dreamy cupcake with a diamond engagement ring sitting on top,” said Maki Garcia-Evans, owner and executive pastry chef at Cupcakes Gourmet. “A diamond is worth a thousand words, but with a cupcake, it’s worth more. It suits our store’s slogan, ‘Love Tastes Like This.’”

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The Washington Post investigates why cupcakes are still popular and asks psychotherapists for clues, one offers this analysis: “Through cupcakes, seemingly innocent little ‘treats,’ we can project fantasies of who and what we desire to be. Instead of connecting us to others, however, cupcakes keep us separate and add to our sense of isolation.” [WaPo via Eater DC]

3. Fashion’s latest bodily obessions

Cory Doctorow posted these leggings on BoingBoing from Blackmilk.

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Rusty Blazenhoff’s post on Laughing Squid about jewelry designed to look like organs.

“They die so I don’t like them. The drama is I had two I really liked and after they died I don’t want another one. That’s too depressing.”

The cut

Garrison Keillor remembering Sinclair Lewis on Lewis’s Birthday, February 7th

“….Lewis walked up to Mencken and Nathan, put his arms around their shoulders and tightly around their necks, and began yelling at the top of his voice that he was the best writer in the country and that he’d just written the best book in the country, to be published in a week — and being critics, the two of them should duly take note of this. He went on like this at high volume for about half an hour, and when Mencken and Nathan finally escaped, they went to a pub to decompress and concluded that he was an idiot. But Mencken read the book anyway, and was bowled over by it.

The book was Main Street (1920), about a fictional small town in Minnesota called Gopher Prairie, a place inhabited by “a savorless people, gulping tasteless food, and sitting afterward, coatless and thoughtless, in rocking-chairs prickly with inane decorations, listening to mechanical music, saying mechanical things about the excellence of Ford automobiles, and viewing themselves as the greatest race in the world.”

The writers almanac

Diane von Furstenberg at the CFDA’s Health and Wellness panel on the modeling industry encouraging young girls to be models in the first place:

“Not everybody can be a model. It doesn’t matter how skinny you are,” she said. “I think [agents] should be honest and say, ‘You are beautiful and everything, but you will never be a model.’ You know? And it’s okay. You can be something else rather than,  ‘If you starve you’ll become a model.’”

the cut

and on a personal note..My dear friend Jill talking me down after a bruising day with the Conrad

“You know what that asshole-ness means? That you are such a good mom that he feels so secure and so loved he can be a total dick to you.”

For the record, it smells like roses.

They are sold out in Joss & Main where they are on sale for $19, but you can still get them at the Petit Coterie site for $35. Yankee swappers, take note.