California

The hills were verdant.  Like something out of East of Eden.  Rolling and lush, speckled here and there with cheery mustard plants.  Calla lillies grew in the ditches.  Camelia blossoms weighted down their branches and oranges hung heavy on the bough.

California.  Even in the pouring rain, its beauty could not be dampened.

Of course, the day we held reign, the sun sparkled like a prism and the sky seemed to yawn out before us, endless in its blue perfection.  We dressed up, as we are wont to do.  Southern Ladies.  We both wore skirts, my mother and I.  Our first stop on our vineyard tour was Jordan.  Even the ripe sonoma countryside could not prepare us for the beauty of Jordan; a french villa set in the heart of the Russian River Valley.  Live oaks bent their gnarled branches down to the immaculately trimmed lawn.  In the distance, hill after hill of vines and mustard.  We felt transported, plucked and placed in Burgundy.  The tasting itself was as much a culinary treat as one for an oenophile.  My mother gushed, overwhelmed by the luxury.

California does that to me... overwhelms my senses.  I want to forget time and place and succumb to the environment, embrace the different clime, the vibe.  I feel brazen in California.  I wear my hair parted on the opposite side, use eyeliner and unbutton my blouse a little lower.

As the temperatures varies here, and the sun darts behind the omnipresent spring clouds, I capitulate and dream, wish, wonder... California, I hear your Siren call.

Spring

Spring is the ficklest of seasons.  Even as birds sing and red buds burst forth, the air is chilled.  I, sunburned from a week in the Caribbean, stare longingly out the window as tulips and cherry blossoms dispatch their petals to the winds.

The breezes in Jamaica were a far cry from these chilly gusts.  The clouds had not yet lifted from the highest peaks on the island when we boarded the bus to take us to our private beach.  The skinny Jamaican girls flirted and chided as we wove through the countryside just outside of Ocho Rios.  Far from the mangy goats and dirty children, we, the bloated pasty americans from the gaudy cruise ship, rushed out onto the golden sands.  No beggars here.  No reefer.  Plenty of rum punch and jerk chicken and helpful attendants who at once seemed both friendly and weary with us.  The sea was an opal, shimmering under the sun's gaze.  In the distance, the lush rainforest dropped into the water.  I closed my eyes and wished I could always remain so warm, so satisfied, so satiated.

I skip out the door and barely get down the steps before I return to the house for a sweater.  The cheerful sun has tricked me once again.  Why are the birds singing so gaily in this chilly weather?  The daffodils bob their gentle bonnets in the wind as I wrap my arms around myself.  I long for Jamaica.  Or at least June.

House Beautiful

I am flat on my back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.  The sun cascades through the westerly facing window.  The blue of the walls tints  the ceiling in the bright sunlight.  It appears as though I am under an endless summer sky.

Three days ago I dismantled, moved and reassembled my Queen size bed.  I hauled the mattress, box spring, head and foot boards and side rails across the house.  I felt a smug sense of satisfaction when I locked the side rails into the foot and head boards.  Yesterday, I hung the inside mount rattan blinds in my new bathroom.  The frameless glass door to the shower has yet to be installed but I am enchanted with the room and find myself in there frequently.

There is an indelible print upon this home.  The apple green chinoiserie toile wallpaper in the study leading to the robin's egg blue in the bedroom... the blue of the venetian glass chandelier picking up the color in the rug... the metallic silver design in the wallpaper echoed in the mercury glass sconces.  I have picked and chosen from my grandmother's New Orleanian background and made my own home, humble though it is.  Still a 1950s brick rambler, minutes from the Pentagon because this house was made for a DOD worker, undoubtedly.  Yet, there is something here; there is something peeking forth.  No St. Charles Avenue manse but... there are her red toile dishes, her French bisque, Aunt Dot's watercolors... there are subtle signs here of Gran's influence.

I only wish I could channel more.

Finding a path

The color is Forget Me Not and the trim is Ice the Cake.  The bathroom is papered with Thibaut in Julian, brown with metallic.  The sconces are mercuried glass with crystal accents.  The vanities are mirrored with marble tops.  For the shower, I chose a marble tile with silver and copper accented glass tiles.  The floors are hardwood.

I spent a lot of time designing our bathroom.   I wanted an exquisite jewel box.  Warm rich colors and cool striking accents.

I am not a designer.  Do I wish to be?

My mother has an inherent gift.  She can decorate for anyone... any palette, any taste, any budget.  I?  I only know what I like.  Decorating to me is like wine, I only know a personal preference... I cannot feign any knowledge.

Marymount has an excellent design program.  I have entertained the idea of getting a degree in design.  Then I took the GMAT.  Perhaps I am not good at testing... maybe I had an off day... my scores were lackluster and I was not admitted to the program.

What does that mean to me?  Am I disappointed?  Thwarted?  Challenged?  I am unsure.  There is no crossroads for me... I am not at a pivotal point... and yet.  I am undecided about my future and also certain that I am meant to have one out of my home.

I still love to decorate.  I still love to write.  I still love to write about decorating.

Madeline Albright didn't attend law school until she was in her fifties.  Maybe there is yet room for me to discover what I should do.

Passing it down

He is still a small boy despite the fact that he is 3/4 my size.  Tall yet slight.  Athletic but lean.  I watch as he stands in front of the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes.  He uses a step stool which makes him slightly higher than he needs to be so he stoops to rinse the suds.

Teddy is honey colored with dirty blonde hair and long thick black lashes framing his slate blue eyes.  You are struck by his beauty until he smiles and you see his large adult teeth, crooked, in his small child mouth. His limbs are long and sinewy.  He is pushing through a size 3 shoe.

He is at once endearing and confounding.  He questions everything, defies authority and yet longs to be cuddled.

People, namely close family members, relish telling me that Teddy is "just like" me.  God, I hope not.  Not for my sake but for his.  What if he is Bi Polar?

No one thinks Annelise is my carbon copy... or anybody's for that matter.  Annelise is 100% original.  Her round little face and eyes, her fair skin, her propensity for hoarding.

What is it that we give our children?  Love, patience, knowledge, kindness... boundaries, rules, regulations... DNA.... what else?  A quick temper?  Apathy?  Intelligence?

I am quick to recognize Tim's traits in our children.... Teddy's love of sports and math, Annelise's analytical skills and gentle demeanor.

Harder to to identify are good traits I might have imparted.

I should compile a list... skepticism, tolerance, humility, a passion for cooking, wanderlust, devotion, generosity, the appreciation of a good cocktail, the ability to pull something together out of nothing, strong familial ties....

And of course love.  Abiding and true.  The kind that leaves you breathless and then consistently, daily, fills your lungs.

Fallen of the Clothes Horse

I am at war.  This insidious enemy is devious and destructive so I must be wary.  Actually, this enemy is unavoidable as I am battling myself.... embroiled in the Battle of the Bulge.

For six short weeks I adopted a Lassiez-faire attitude and indulged in food and drink.  I ignored the gym, eschewed any form of exercise.  After all, I thought, you should accrue a fit body from working out and that should ensure that you are immune to getting pudgy.  Andouille sausage, butter and olive foccacia, Dulce Tres Leche cake, a Sonoma wine tour, creme brulee, foie gras, pheasant slowly roasted in a butter sage sauce.  I didn't miss the burpees or the squats... until that fateful 42nd day.  As if overnight, I had added another inch to my frame and couldn't coax the zipper of my jeans past my hips.  A lifetime dedicated to diet and exercise eradicated in six weeks.

As I moved my clothes from my old closet to new yesterday, I stared wistfully at the size 2 Oscar de la Renta suit and the size 4 Diane von Furstenburg dresses.  The red satin crop pants, the strapless Tracey Reese cocktail dress I wore to the first Derby party, the horde of Citizens, Joe's and 7 for all Mankind jeans.  I care about the fate of the world, health care, the next election, Darfur and homeless animals... I do. However, I am also a slave to fashion.  God, I love clothes.  It is so painful to relegate these beautiful pieces, many acquired quite stealthily from Goodwill, to the Basement of Shame, where all my out of season and suddenly too small clothes go.

Was that 30 seconds of creme brulee worth a St. John one shouldered frock?  The pheasant for the Max Mara wool sheath?  I have returned to the gym, wearing fleece and sweats.  In quiet moments at the house, I will bust out 50 squats or 25 sit ups.  I also bought jeans a size larger, at Old Navy.  I had sorbet for dessert last night instead of the chocolate ganache torte.  I'm prepared to give up beer.  I have to get back down to my fighting weight, if for no other reason than because I cannot afford to replace my wardrobe.  Plus, I just downright love my clothes... I love telling my incredulous friends that I actually did find those Rock and Republic jeans at Goodwill and that I scored that Prada dress for 85% off at Neiman's Last Call.  I have put time, effort and yes, sometimes even money into my wardrobe.  I'm proud of it.

And maybe that is my problem... Pride goeth before the fall.

Ah, yes but there will always be shoes....

Outfitting for life

The carpenters have adjusted the last few rods in the closet.  A few more coats of paint on the shoe cubby and the closet will be done.  So tonight, I purged my clothing.

Hidden amongst the plentiful Ann Taylor shirts and Goodwill finds, was the jacket that Sassie, my paternal grandmother, aka the Princess of Darkness, was married in.

It is brown velvet with an ermine trim.  Her grandfather bought the suit and had it custom tailored at Bergdorf Goodman.  Sassie was married in City Hall in New York City.

I have a plenitude of Sassie's clothing.... I have cashmere twin sets and tailored silk sheaths.  I have cocktail dresses made in Hong Kong and an ensemble of woven straw from Florence.

Sassie lived large.  Maybe that was her problem... a spoiled young rich woman from the vast Texas oil country... maybe she assumed that my grandfather was landed Virginia gentry, he a small town commonwealth attorney.

No matter.  Though his pay might have been paltry, Sassie's mother had money, money to lavish upon the child she had abandoned.  She had, of course, abandoned all of her children, but in her old age, only Sassie survived.  Natalie.  She had run away with the horse trainer.  Sassie, known then as Sally, was shipped to a private New England boarding school.

She grew up mean.  She hated the world and threw money at it hoping that it would turn her way.

I have no clothing of Gran's... nothing to don and remember her by except a gold charm bracelet, given to me on my 18th birthday.  She dressed beautifully through the decades but never thought to save her clothing.  When Sassie died, as we delved among her things, I discovered a cache of gold charms and added them to my bracelet.

Both of my grandmothers were stylish.  One had money to indulge her wishes, the other was probably outfitted in debt.

It is an unusually warm November day.  It is the day before I am to be married.  The air is crisp but the sun is warm.  We, my bridal party and family, sit in a sunlit room at the country club.  I have worn a brown suit with an autumnal silk scarf.  Gran comments upon its beauty; Sassie criticizes its quality.

I chose very carefully for Gran's service.  I wore a Max Mara dress made of jersey with crepe sleeves and bodice.  I wore Gran's pearls, the ones Grandaddy gave her on their wedding day.

I cannot remember what I wore to Sassie's service.

Yet I remember Sassie every time I wear that fantastic straw dress from Florence or that simple silk sheath from Hong Kong.  Gran gave me unconditional love; Sassie gave me what she could.

I appreciate both.