“Handmade? It looks like you made it with your feet.”

I love a viscious tagline. I also love handmade things, small businesses, trinkets, hoarding things I don’t need and shopping online… obviously my passion for Etsy.com stems from these traits. This morning though, Tenley introduced me to the next best thing to a site of cool, up and coming, hard working designers, woodshoppers, knitters, jewelers, etc. It’s a site that makes fun of the random-ass, unnecessary, slightly fucked up, questionable stuff that can exist on site on which anyone can become a member. It’s name: Regretsy. Get it? Regretsy? I’m still laughing. I’m serious.

Categories include: Dead Things, Not Remotely Handmade, Don’t Ask Me, Pet Humiliation, Copyright Infringements, Self Gratification, Annoying Descriptions, Fairies and Michael Jackson, among many others. It’s a hoot. In one disgusting display below, a squirrel is eating what appears to be a mouse. Frankly, I could vom. The sight of this is actually causing me to gag. I’ll be foaming at the mouth any second now. Can you believe people actually have this shit up on Etsy? Thank god it’s not very prominent, it’d completely destroy their image. I honestly don’t think that Regretsy is out to harm Etsy in anyway, I think/hope, they essentially just want to bring out the message that some people really, really suck at making cool, handmade things and must be stopped. Well, they’ve won me over.

You can’t win every time, but you sure can try…

I have an awful habit of throwing myself on my bed. My mattress is nice and fluffy, my blankets are toasty, I have ergonomic pillows. It’s a haven… except for one thing: it’s from Ikea and the slats that hold up the mattres have a habit of unhooking themselves and falling down. Then I sink. I sink with the mattress through until the bottom of the cushy, cloudlike surface on which I lay my head is neary touching the floor. At least once a week this happens. Usually it’s Thursday evenings when I get out of class at 9:45pm after having an 8am class, 10am class and work during the day. After a few minutes I’ve sunken in and am so annoyed that I pull my act together and head out… I recognize it may be hard to see the logic in this, but please humor me just the same.

What’s really funny is how all of this is tied to memory (I’m obsessed with memory right now because of my psychology class, in fact I think I’ll write something on memory soon) and how just now, on this quiet Wednesday evening when I ought to be out at a show, but am stuck in working on a project that my group members are biting dust on,  I flung myself on the bed and the memory that came to me was of the person who repaired it when I performed this lazy routine. Like the repair, the relationship has dwindled, but in a few minutes, I’ll pull off the comforter and throw the pillows on the floor in an attempt to lighten the load. Then, I’ll struggle until I’m blue in the face to lift the mattress. For a while it’ll be to no avail, but in time I’ll lift the mattress because in reality it wasn’t that big of a thing to begin with. The value of getting over it will carry more weight than the fall of the mattress itself.

It doesn’t get any easier, the lifting of the mattress and fixing of the slats and remaking of the bed. It’s always a similar process. In fact it seems more challenging each time, but I suppose that’s because in retrospect it’s always easy to say that I was a muscle man who lifted my entire bed with one finger, mattress, fluffy top, box spring, slats and all, and that I came out on top. Sometimes you just want to be able to say that you won… You won the game, you won the promotion, you won the break-up, you won the mattress challenge. And if you keep telling yourself that you won, eventually, you have.

… I guess I’ll go make my bed now.

Being British Must Be Better

When you realize your undergraduate career is almost over and you can’t seem to figure out what’s up or down and left or right and you’re dizzy from the anxiety of not knowing what to do with your life, you’ll very likely need to recount a British saying from 1939 an awful lot. You might also take longer showers and drink more coffee, because god knows you need more stimulants.

This is hanging in Tenley’s room… but I’m starting to feel like stapling it to my forhead might make all the difference.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

…They’re the people that you meet when you’re walking down the street… the people that you meet each day.

I’ve reached a point where I officially have made the Hill my home. You know you really live in a place when the guy at the Shangri La recognizes your roommate’s debt card, the liquor store employee knows your first name, the Starbucks guy asks if Crush has been busy that day and the homeless guy on the corner of Anderson and Cambridge expects that you’ll give him a plum. It’s whatever.

Recent highlights: I live in the same neighborhood as the personal shopper at Anthropologie, when I walk home from my internship at Arnold we often pass each other or run into each other en route home… obviously she doesn’t know who I am, but I recognize her and she probably thinks I’m a stalker. Until she has me falsely arrested, it’ll all be fine.

I can’t walk down the street anymore without knowing at least six people. When you work at a boutique at Charles, you know the customers, the neighborhood business owners, the guys who work at Top Shelf, all dry cleaning staff on the street, and who the Fashionably Late designer is at The Liberty each Thursday. It’s all downright awesome until you go to pick up a prescription or tampons and you have to circle the store three or four times so you don’t pee your pants in embarrassment.

Michael is the homeless man on the corner of Charles and Beacon… you know the one that opens the door and pats every pup that walks by on the head? Tenley’s almost on a first name basis with him, just like a true local. The guy on the corner of Pinckney and Charles is kind of a pain only because he wants you to buy the Phoenix or the Metro which you can get for free from him… not clear on the point, and frankly he’s a bit harassing so even though I feel bad I’ve never given him a dime. The guy on Anderson and Cambridge though I toss a piece of fruit to on the way home from Whole Foods sometimes, he’s not a cat caller like the guys outside Grampy’s, the gas station/Mexican restaurant that I avoid at all costs. It’s got to be the worst business idea ever, it’s down right nauseating, but for some reason it was in the Map Boston last year. Who decided to put that on Beacon Hill? It doesn’t exactly fit well next to Antonio’s, but I guess that’s why it’s close to Felcaro and all the nail salons… it’s not exactly Mt. Vernon Street.

I run into customers a lot, I love customers. Really though I do. It’s pretty much because I love people. I actually love girlfriends, and customers at Crush are like girlfriends. They pop in and out for a laugh, a dress, help/advice on boy trouble, help/advice for your boy trouble, a chat about their job or lack thereof and plans for the weekend. They also tend to like wine, friends and Sex and the City. And now really, what’s more fun than being wine drunk and watching Sex and the City, or When Harry Met Sally? If I could bottle up one feeling in the world, aside from maybe laughter, it’d be “Wine Buzz.” In fact, if I ever have a candle line or aromatherapy product, it’ll be Wine Buzz. An intoxicating aroma of red grapes, with wood undertones and a dash of spice for some kick. Maybe a hint of mint for cleanliness. God I love mint, it’s so clean.

Honestly, if there’s one thing I can do it’s ramble. To pull this all back together, Beacon Hillers love wine, you should see what recycling nigh looks like down her on Phillips Street, cases upon cases of empty bottles.

So anyways, those are the people in my neighborhood… The people that I meet when I’m walking down the street love wine, give money to Michael, think the Shang is disgusting and still go there because it’s the online Chinese food option, and know each other’s faces in a very suburban town meeting kind of way. That’s the view from my corner of the Hill, I should note that it’s the exact opposite corner that The State House is on.

 

Some things I just [don't] know for sure

At twenty-one, there are some things I haven’t quite figured out. Love is one of them. Lust is another. Why jeans feel so good one day, and so bad the next. I don’t know why I leave the stove on every time I cook, or why I hate bananas so much, and I really can’t wrap my head around why having a beer after a few vodka drinks gets me a little teary eyed. There are some things I’m completely certain of though:

1. Value is relative, but pennies are from Heaven. It may be a step toward your first meal in a week, or pocket change from your Starbucks… it will at some point bring a smile to someone’s face.

2. Honesty is best, for the most part… It’s likely not the most popular option, but it’s the respectable choice. A subcategory of this is: Integrity is in fact the most respectable quality.

3. Irony will always bite you in the ass… especially when it comes to guys.

4. Wearing white after Labor Day is fine. Wearing Black and Navy is French and sophisticated. Black and Brown are now trendy, and if bronze is involved you might as well be Kate Moss. Also: a pop of color never hurt anyone.

5. Red lipstick can, and will, change your life.

6. Toothless eight-year-old grins will  break your heart again and again, but someday you’re little sister will be nine. She won’t have nearly as many teeth left to lose and she’ll want knee-high boots because both you and Hannah Montana have them… so cherish every tear you shed for that silly grin, and each moment that small pain in the ass calls you “Mom” in the grocery story to embarrass you.

7. Burning the edge of a piece of ribbon keeps it from fraying. Burning the edge of a ribbon when it’s already on a headband that you’ve covered in Krazy Glue will start a small fire.

8. Wisdom is subjective, and usually unwanted. That said, if someone had properly taught me how to blow dry my hair straight my middle school years would have gone much more smoothly and if someone had told me that going to Fisher would be a mistake, I might have believed them… but I’d have lost out on a hysterical, albeit traumatizing, experience.

9. No one can compare to your best friend. If you find a good one, hang onto her. You’ll know she’s a keeper if: she can go glass for glass with you on a (or ten) bottles of wine, she’s so well read that she could fill the BPL with books, she takes pictures of your family/halloweencostume/olddesignerhandbags/boyyou’rekindofseeing/apartment just because you ask (and because frankly she wants to laugh at you), she can’t come out of a hangover without and ice pack and an Alka Seltzer but stands by the fact that these crises can’t last past 5pm, she thinks of your little sisters as her own, she tells you to buy it even when you don’t need it, she could really use an IV drip for coffee and agrees that you’ll both be more fun at 30 than at 22.

10. Sharpies can fix anything, from a scratch on your bumper to a scuff on your shoe. If you’re pale they’ll stain for days, and they smell like victory.

11. Studying for midterms does not get easier as you age, it actually just becomes more annoying because you have more to do.

12. In Ghana, wild boars chill out on the beach… Everything is 10x more interesting when your friend blogs about it and posts it on Facebook because she’s there and teaching children amazing things like the English language.

13. On the other side, the grass may be greener; the snow may be whiter; the ocean could be bluer; the light might even be better. So explore, every day… and if it’s risky, try it anyways… you know, just to overcome the anxiety.

 

The Bursting of My Brain: Lacking Sleep, Epsom Salt, Missing Little Sisters and Color Perception in the Extrastriatal Cortex

Being up at 7am everyday is hard enough, but the stress of having a Sensation and Perception paper to write, bronchitis, and a dying pet fish sort of put me over the edge this week. My breathing has improved, but I haven’t tried to run yet… which really sucks because I had planned to be really good about running this week, really I had. I haven’t run in three weeks, how do people with full time 9-5s stay in shape? I can’t seem to get my ass in gear enough to exercise (I can barely remember to comb my hair and put on make up) in the morning. This week though will be my week. I figure by Monday or Tuesday my breathing should have improved enough that I’ll be able to go for a run without passing out.

Which brings me to the paper, which has kept me up for too many late nights this past week. I have a pretty solid grasp on how the visual system is organized within the brain, and how high level visual processing differs from low level visual processing. That said, it’s been a real challenge for me to put it into my own words and create a coherent paper that my professor will find deserving of an A… because, I can’t work with less than that. I’ll say this though: it wasn’t all bad, I’ve actually enjoyed writing this paper for a great many reasons, despite the fact that my own brain may explode by the end of it.

Color perception is acheived in the extrastriatal cortex after stimuli (created from the reflection of light off of objects in the environment) are detected and drive electrical responses in the lateral geniculate cortex and processed by area V1.

On the pet stressor note: Merlot isn’t doing so hot. Thursday I thought for sure he was dead. I started crying on the phone with my mom and prepared for his burial at sea. I tapped on his bowl for a lengthy period of time and was struggling with his death when he finally began moving again. Wished so badly that Tenley were home. So we moved him into the bathroom because it’s warmer in there– the radiator in that room gets super hot and the steam helps to create a tropica environment. He’s been… better, but not great. His fins stick together and appear rotted on the ends, and he sinks to the bottom and cannot swim well. After a great deal of research, Tenley and I decided to give him a “salt bath.” This “salt bath” was suggested by a number of betta fish experts on the internet, so we created the mixture and placed him in there. Now, we had read that they get a bit distressed in this new salty environment, but we had no idea how strongly he’d react to it. He became very shaken up and appeared to seize, at which point Tenley and I were brought to tears and couldn’t get him out of there fast enough.

He seems to have collected himself, and his breathing has improved. His swimming is not up to par, but the tips of one fin do seem a bit better. Many websites suggested repeating the salt bath again and again after the fish had recovered, but we can’t possibly do that to him. For god’s sake, torturing living things is not something we make a habit of and he seems so distraught. Now I’m worried that he’ll suffer from PTSD. My poor little guy.

I haven’t had nearly enough caffeine today.

On happier notes though: Arnold is great, even though my supervisor has the Swine. Things at Crush are fantastic and we have a fun event coming up this week. We’re expecting our first shoe deliveries by the end of the month and have gotten a ton of press lately, including another credit in LUCKY! I got to go home last weekend and spend some time with the family, which was great. Brittany is so grown up, it’s amazing and sad how much she changes between the times I get to see her. I miss her so much and try so hard to stay a really big part of her life. We carved pumpkins, made cookies and cupcakes, played board games, watched some football with my dad, went shopping (alone and then with KK) and cuddled up on the couch with mom and KK to watch The Lion King. It’s always so hard to say goodbye to her little face. It’s funny how the age difference changes things. I miss KK so much, but I know that when I see her again it’ll be the same, she’s a real person and she’s the person I’ve known best since we were small. With Britty, I feel like I miss a lot. She’s sweet though, she made sure Tenley and I got a 5×7 of her school portrait and also a wallet each. It’s so cute how she considers Tenley as much a part of our family as I do because she’s known her for her entire life, and also the way she compares her friendship with her best friend Anna to my friendship with Tenley. She says:  “Anna is like Tenley because we are so funny together and we just tell each other almost everything and her mom is nice like our mom too.” … and then I tear up, of course.

Cinderella Slipper Pumpkin!

Nine going on nineteen, making Halloween Funfetti cupcakes.

Easily one of my favorite pictures of Britty and I.

Falling, and Rising: hemlines, gdp and enemies.

Summer comes and goes so quickly in the northeast. The second you’ve achieved a bathing suit ready body, it’s time to bundle up again. Then school starts and you cease running, or at least I do. I’m no good at running first thing in the morning… I have to intern or work at 9am 4 or 5 days a week, and the other two I have an 8am class… and I just can’t seem to tackle my sneakers and sports bra at that time of day.

I’m not complaining of course. I’m so fortunate to be at Arnold this semester. So far everyone as been great. I love my supervisor, and everyone in Planning has been so nice and of course really interesting and in tune with all things trendy and/or newsworthy. I love it.

Crush continues to hold my heart in the palm of its hand. It’s not just picking new lines, or dressing models for fashion shows, or playing dress up with customers all day though… I’m always so awestruck by how representative apparel and jewelry are of the overall zeitgeist. I guess that’s a big part of what draws me to consumer insights.

A personal favorite cocktail party tidbit of information that I like to share is that the Empire Waist initially appeared in the aftermath of the bubonic plague. When illness, poverty and a poor economy hit, the wealthy were determined to look healthy, well fed, and (for ladies) pregnant. The world sought to repopulate and having children, a pregnant wife, and bombasted overcoat that could rival the dad from Roseanne’s beer belly were signs of prosperity. How do you like them apples?

Fast forward a few hundred years to Vietnam and everyone wanted to look underfed, under (or over) dressed, and poor, or at least not like they were spending money on clothes. In the early sixties, and in the office, dressing was still a conservative practice… as the world turned upside down though, hemlines drew closer to the hip, denim became destroyed (for the first time!) and all things au natural looking became all the rage.

In the mid nineties after a few years of republican rule, Seattle inspired us all to tear our clothes apart, buy the most voluminous jeans we could find, don some flannel, and our brother’s Doc Martens. Well, actually, I didn’t have a brother or Doc Martens… but if I’d been a little older, and had some brothers I’d totally have been with everyone else on that trend.

We recovered… our jeans got tighter through the hips and wider around the ankles, someone decided we’d wear lingerie look– as tops and dresses with cardigans and somewhere in there Coach threw up all over my highschool, and presumably the rest of the world. Rather than looking grungier, more musically inclined, natural cool… we piled on the eye shadow and played up the cleavage with our preppy sweaters and flared jeans. We had to look older, or at least my generation did. I’m keeping in mind that many women were being introduced to a sharp little look I’ll call “the frozen face,” better known as Botox.

The economy sucks again though. We’re at war again. Young people voted, for the first time really, and the plaid is back. It’s sleeker this time though, because no one is going to hire you looking like Kurt Cobain, and chances are… you (like everyone else) are looking for work. Boyfriend blazers, tapered skinny jeans, ruffled blouses, plaids, prints and organic fibers help us to look trendy, professional, and like we pay our bills… all vital tasks that have gained extra respect recently. We’re learning to balance. Checkbooks, voluminous tops, cocktail dresses and jewelry… a sign perhaps that things are really looking up. The tent dress seems to have disappeared and while high-waisted skirts and dresses are still super sexy and ultra feminine, looking pregnant no longer seems necessary. This is an especially happy for younger women such as myself who’d prefer not to get dirty looks from grandmother figures on the T…

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to figure out if I have a clean t-shirt to complete my blazer/skinnies/oversized t-shirt look for tomorrow. I’m caught up on trends thanks to Crush, now if only I could get that far with laundry.

Oh My Ghana, Liz and Summer have come and gone

In April, somewhat unemployed and approaching finals at a rapid pace, my mind was a whirlwind. No internship, no job in Boston, a Beacon Hill apartment to pay rent on and a serious will to remin in the city for the summer, I was somewhat concerned about how things would turn out… but turn out they did.

At one point Tenley suggested we make this the best summer ever. Our truly final summer break. After this, it’s the big leagues, real 9 to 5s with health insurance, salary pay and [hopefully] paying off some sweet student loans… well, if all goes according to plan.

Towards the end of May, Liz moved in. I’ll be the first to admit that in the weeks beforehand, I was a nervous wreck about who would move into Ashley’s room for the summer. In my mind we’d obviously get a meth-head klepotmaniac turned serial killer who builds jenga towers out of matches, sprinkles them with oil and then tosses a match onto the pile….  but, happily, Liz was not one of THOSE subletters.

This semester, Liz will be studying in Ghana. She’s started a blog and I’m very excited to follow her travels, as I imagine everyone else will be too. Tenley and I have begun reading already, and we can’t wait to see Liz again upon her return. If we’re lucky, she may join us again next summer.

Follow her blog at: http://esmckenna.wordpress.com/ It’s creatively called “OH MY GHANA.”

Below is a photo of Tenley, Liz and myself on the Fourth of July!

Happy Fourth!

Sparkle

On May 30th, I represented Crush at Sparkle II, a charity fashion show to benefit Rosie’s Place at the Beacon Hill Hotel and Bistro. As a result, my good friend Tracey Leffler and I were pictured on the Stuff Boston Magazine website.

The Steps to Flattering

I’m a sucker for the gladiator trend. I have a pair of grey suede ones that I love, and I’m constantly trying on sandals in stores and nearly buying them… but the problem I keep running into is this: MY LEGS ARE TOO SHORT. Like many women, I have shapely legs… no so much from running, but from having hips and thighs that don’t emulate those of a super model. They’re short. My torso is long, but my legs are not lengthy, and t-strap sandals and pumps aren’t always the most flattering footwear. Too much attention around the ankles cuts off the smooth feminine line offered from the exposed part of your foot up to the hem of your skirt. Pumps are sexy because they offer foot cleavage and elongate your legs… gladiators are so cool, so badass, so cute, so this season… and I love ‘em.

Facing this debacle I’ve come to a conclusion: wear gladiators, with jeans, with the right skirts, with maxi dresses… but when it comes to minis, shorts, or workwear… pumps always seem to be the way to go.

Giuseppe Zanotti Nude Colored Pumps with Tortoise Shell Heel... Love them, but rather far out of my undergrad budget.

What I want right now: nude/beige/neutral colored pumps. Heels elongate your legs, but in a skin tone… they make every girl TinaTurner. And so I begin my hunt, and I suggest anyone else who’s self-conscious about their legs do the same, for the perfect leather (though I suppose synthetic would be fine) natural colored pumps. Here’s hoping that they’ll do wonders for my very pale, always bruised from a not-so-graceful fall or scarred from shaving slip up, far too curvy, and not long or toned enough legs.