Monthly Archives: December 2008

Sayonara, 2008.


Love ya, Linds.


I think every girl with a broken heart deserves a kick ass pair of new shoes.


These are mine.

(Oh hush, they were on major sale.)



If it weren’t tough economic times I’d use this supa-cool UK-based travel agency to send me on an exotic adventure into the bush somewhere.

Like a sponge.


Over the course of this past week in Portland I traded in my yoga pants for jeans and put on a real bra exactly twice, and that was to walk 2 blocks to see movies (Beauty in Trouble, Czech dramedy, eh; Tell No One, French psychological thriller, oh so good!) and drink beer in the daytime dark at the Living Room Theater in the Pearl district (pictured). Between said movies, I… watched more movies on DVD, thanks to a sister with “industry” connections (Milk, Frost/Nixon, The Reader… something else good I can’t remember), downloaded a bunch of new music (new Killers, Carla Bruni and Horse Feathers, old Magnetic Fields, Miles Davis and Mates of State among others considerably more embarrassing), read a boatload of magazines, finished The Bad Girl by Mario Vargas Ilosa and started Seven Types of Ambiguity, a 600 page tome I’d picked up and put back a dozen times since it came out and finally decided to tackle thanks to long lines and the conveniently located Bargain Buys stack (damn you Powell’s and your strategic merchandising)– in short, did little but play tennis, hang with the fam, and soak up a ton great film, music and reading material and it felt good. Makeup didn’t touch my face, my hair went dirtier than usual, even my ears got a break from being ravaged by cheap earrings. Isn’t this what Christmas is all about though? When else can you be a complete slob if not in the comfort of your family over the holidays in a northern, gray city after having your emotions put in a blender on puree?

Garance Dore.


My new favorite blog for style inspiration/holiday phone call procrastination– a French Sartorialist, but with added gorgeous close-ups. And you get to brush up on your French!

Alvin Ailey’s 50th.


I’m still aching to go. Who wants to go with me?

I want this kind of happiness.