Bird notecard by artist Julianna Swaney.
It's been nearly two months since I wrote here. (Not including that throwaway post about how disappointing Lost is this season). There's no Big Reason, no drama, no disaster, just life getting too busy and swallowing me whole. I get up, go to work, work, come home, eat something for dinner I've eaten a hundred times before, catch up with Jeff about his day, watch TV, read, sleep. Weekends are full of friends and dinner parties and outings and errands. Truth is, there would be time to post something here or there, but my mind has been quiet, even though my days have not.
Still, I have a Big Announcement. Big for me, anyway. I don't make new year's resolutions, but I have designated this year the Year of Beauty. A year in which I prioritize making my surroundings beautiful. A year in which I buy nothing which does not serve some artful purpose -- function is not enough. A year in which I devour design*sponge and subscribe to Domino. A year in which I have already spent way too much money on Etsy. A year in which even my sticky notes must be beautiful.
My current obsession is with birds, a fact my sister pointed out last weekend. I hadn't even really noticed, but nine of the recent objets d'art I've purchased feature birds. Is it a thirst for freedom? An unconscious desire to escape and fly away? I'm inclined to think birds are just cool, actually.
Jeff and I finally ate at the Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton last night. We have been making and canceling reservations there for years, and I'm not sure exactly why. Sometimes we'd stop feeling flush the week we were due to go, other times illnesses and travel got in the way. But finally we went. It was meant to be a post-anniversary (eight years! And we forgot until a week later...oops!), pre-Valentine's Day celebration but then I went to LA for a week to shoot Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs for my client, and by the time I got back, two hours delayed and high as a kite on xanax, I was too tired to make it. We rescheduled for last night, one of the windiest and rainiest on record. Jeff put on his too-short black summer pants with his suit jacket, but we didn't notice until we were in the cab. He wanted to turn around, but I figured, fuck it. If I didn't notice, who will?
Dinner was lovely -- it's been a long time since we sat down to a meal that long -- and every morsel was delicious, even the ones polluted by crab that I forgot and ate and then panicked over (I've become allergic to it, like my mother and sister before me. Luckily, I escaped unscathed.) The truth is, though, I don't like eating that way any more. It's too precious, all these gossamer flourishes on the plate, two kinds of bread served with snapping silver tongs, bottles of champagne that start -- start! -- at $180. Truth is, I'd rather eat a roasted chicken from the grocery store with a baked potato at home with my friends. It's not time to toss out my pretty heels just yet, but, with one exception, I think I'm done with multi-storied meals. Despite how full I am, I leave feeling empty.
p.s. Angelina is pregnant again. Because, you know, having four kids under the age of six isn't quite exciting enough.