say blossom too many times and you start to wonder if it's a word.

in ,



Last night my friend Justine took me to Blossom, an organic vegan restaurant located on Columbus Avenue between 82nd and 83rd street. Did I mention I'm from Texas and that I love meat? Well...I'd go back again and again because they have the meanest cookie dough milkshake a girl could ever hope to have. And it's made from soy. So you feel healthy even when you finish and you're barely breathing because you didn't come up--not even once--for air. 

Justine attracts men like it's her job. I have another friend like this, Victoria. It's hard to go out with either of these girls because when I'm with them, I know the men sure as heck aren't lookin' at me. So last night every waiter in the restaurant nuzzled up close to our table. After one got a bit too close (yes girls, you're right close talkers are right up there with heavy breathers and noisy eaters) she looked at me and quietly said, he's odd. Yeah, he's odd, I agreed. Later in the evening she made some comment about how he was kind of attractive. I cocked my head and gave her my best look of bewilderment. 

Why did you say he was hot, then? she asked. 

What, I didn't say he was hot. 

Yes you did. Earlier, you said he was hot.

Replay in my mind. Stop tape. Brain clicks in.

I said he was odd.

Oh, I thought you said he was hot. 

And I thought you said he was odd.

There you have it. She said hot. I said odd. And we both heard what we wanted to.

I laughed and laughed. 

Maybe that's why she's dating like three guys and I'm...

not.

do it on the front stoop.

in

do it on the front stoop



I have two recurring fantasies.

The first involves wood floors, clean white socks, and the song Isn't she lovely. He's wearing boxer briefs and I'm swimming in his oversized Hanes t-shirt, a relic from his college days that's about one wash away from complete disintegration. We both have the white socks on. Ankle socks to be exact.

He sings along to the stereo and we dance--slipping and sliding, unleashing the inner eight-year-olds who know how to turn any wood floor into a veritable slip-and-slide wonderland.


The second is this.

I want to find him on the doorstep. Unexpected. I want to turn the corner after a long day, a long month, a long year and find him half-smiling with a bouquet of flowers. He'll be sitting there. And when he sees me, he'll stand. At first I won't understand. Who is this man I knew a million lifetimes ago? I'll climb the steps and he'll step aside. I'll put the key in the door and pause. I'll feel his breath on my neck. And his silence will fill me, satiate me. I'll push the door open and he'll follow in step. And we'll begin our life together, as we've always known we would.

That's what I want. To find the man I dream of sitting on my front stoop. Waiting.


So my dearest, darling-est, dreamiest husband-to-be, know this...

don't take me to the opera. or the rainbow room. don't make it a carriage ride through central park or a weekend getaway. i'm not even sure i need you to get on one knee. but do it on the door step. on the front stoop. sitting next to me. on the same level. turn to me and ask me to be your best friend, your lover, your absolute equal. so that then we can go inside and begin our life together, as we've always known we should.




That being said, you sure as hell better ask my father first. I believe in chivalry. And I was raised in the South.





The quest for the perfect top to wear in my headshot. OR...an outlet in which to place all my neurotic, unfortunate, uncomfortable, ridiculous thought

in ,
s. Thougts, that is. The title of this post got so long that google blogger wouldn't let me finish it. I like that. Maybe all my post titles should be that long. A little act of rebellion on my blog's part.




Okay, so I've been going a little batty. When I first signed with my agent (or rather, just before) he ooohed and ahhhed over my headshots taken by the oh-so-lovely-and-talented Joseph Moran (did you see the New York Magazine cover with Caroline Kennedy {it was a month or so back just after she pulled out of the race}? He did that). 



The following picture is one that Joseph took in January of 2008. For some reason it's the only one I have on my computer. He had fashion photoshopped it--meaning it was high gloss, high glamour--not what one would use for a headshot, and sent it to me just for fun. I then put it through the poladroid program. {Just for fun.} And wha-la...


It is highly, highly edited, but you get the idea. Last go round I had about three tops to choose from--basic Ann Taylor knits. One in a reddish color, one in blue, and then just a simple, basic black t-shirt. Turns out I photograph really well in black. Agents don't really like this. They like color. The like pop--they like you to look as "commercial" as possible (please don't ask me what that means, I'm still figuring it out for myself).  


This is all to say that many moons ago my agent asked me to get new headshots. Not so serious. More fun. A little lighter, he said. And no helmet hair. 

Ouch.

I've been putting it off. Standing in limbo. 

No more. Action is being taken. I'm getting my headshots done again. Tomorrow. By Joseph, because I love him and would trust him to do anything with that camera of his. 

So, about a week and a half ago I began the search for the perfect top. I worried. I fretted. All other cares fell at the feet of this grand pillar of importance. East, West, North, South...I searched high and low and came up with these...


{purple top from Anthropologie}

{a pinkish/orange top from the Gap. simple. i love that}

{a mermaid green BCBG dress. i fell desperately in love with the color}

{a very fancy maroon dress from Theory}

{and finally, a navy top from Urban Outfitters that I wouldn't ever wear in real life but might just photograph beautifully. or hideously...we'll see...}


I did my best with the tops. But then of course there is the issue of my adult onset rosacea which is marring my once near perfect skin. I've used my metrogel. I've stuck to the course of antibiotics. It disappeared there for a time. But it's come back. I know, I know it can be photoshopped out. I know. But it's about how you feel...you know?




It's silly to worry about a photo. It's just a photo. I think what I'm really worried about is that in the time between when I first got my headshots taken and now...what have I really accomplished? What do I have to show for myself? The camera can't capture the changes that have taken place inside me. But perhaps Joseph can...

Here's to hoping! Happy Monday.