Justice, Faith, and Power

Today is Mardi Gras and as a native of New Orleans, this holiday always makes me nostalgic. I don't miss living in New Orleans. Truth be told, I haven't lived there since I was 18, but it will always be home to me. I think I knew when I left there to go to college summer school in June of 1991 that I would only return as a part-time resident. I knew I'd never move back there as an adult. But again, it would always be my home.

I haven't done Mardi Gras as a grown-up so most of what I think of when I think of Mardi Gras is how exciting it was. All of it. From the Epiphany until Fat Tuesday, it was all so exciting. See, Mardi Gras is not just the day, "Fat Tuesday". Fat Tuesday is the culmination of the season of Mardi Gras and the last big blow-out affair before Lent. Yes, Mardi Gras is, in nature, a religious holiday. Who knew? As a child, having your neighborhoods and thoroughfares turned into parade routes was almost magical. Having the very streets you drove down to get to school in the morning turned into a mall of floats and bands and flambeaux that same night was such a thrill. And let's not overlook the fact that schools in NOLA got the entire week of Mardi Gras off. You got your two days for Thanksgiving. Then there were your two and HALF days for Easter. And a full week for Mardi Gras.

I think what I loved most about Mardi Gras is that it enveloped every inch of New Orleans. Unlike Jazz Fest, it wasn't confined to a specific area. There weren't access points or admission fees or gates. It's called the "Greatest Free Show On Earth" because it is just that. Every pocket of the city does Mardi Gras in their own way. There is a place for everyone at Mardi Gras. For me, it was St. Charles Avenue from Napoleon to the numbered streets of the Garden District. It was also the stands at The Pickwick Club on the corner of St. Charles and Canal downtown. These were two different ways to see Mardi Gras but they were steeped in tradition and I loved them.

Another tradition of Mardi Gras that I loved (and I think I speak for all daughters of the Big Easy) was the theme of "royalty" of the balls and krewes. I loved to read about the queens and maids of the Mardi Gras season and what they wore and who made their dresses and what they danced to. It made my home unique and it made it special. And it was fun. I guess that's the simple thread of Mardi Gras; it's fun.

Justice, Faith, and Power are the colors of Mardi Gras. These colors and their meaning stand out this year more than they have in the past. Given the state of world affairs today and the challenges we face here at home it is my hope that Justice, Faith, and Power not only reign today in New Orleans, Louisiana, but throughout the years to come in the remaining 49.

Annnnnddd We're Back

Apologies for the MIA status of the blog. Life got in the way last week so I was on radio silence. I'd love for the blog to be my first priority but until I find a way for it (or other writings) to pay the bills, the blog remains one of those things I have to take "One Day at a Time". Maybe I should name the blog Schneider. Or Bill Wilson.

I spent a quiet weekend being both cozy AND single. I threw it into complete OCD mode on Sunday and scoured my apartment from top to bottom. Any unsuspecting pedestrian who would have wandered in at around 11 am would have thought a family of eight lived in #16303 just by the piles of laundry. I did four loads. Four loads of laundry. Clearly I have more clothes than I realized. Thanks to the Gables Grandview for providing me with that brand new full sized washer and dryer. Renting DOES have its benefits.

I also went to the grocery store and Blockbuster where I rented Sex and the City, the movie. While I knew I was a little bit behind on my flick watching, I had no idea HOW far behind until the clerk at Blockbuster gasped when I confessed to him it was the first time I was watching Sex and the City, the movie. The same "in the know" clerk also asked me if the apparatus on my key chain which opens my garage and is named, "Liftmaster" was used to lift things like couches or "anything else heavy which I may need lifted". Skippy, I wish the "Liftmaster" did have that capability. If it did, you'd be lifted right out of Blockbuster.

A Daisy By Any Other Name Is A-Love-Me-Not

Before I get to the topic of today's blog, let me say that this week has been a rough one for your authoress. After composing a creative posting on Wednesday; one which I gave a lot of thought, the entire thing was deleted. I saved early AND often and it was still deleted. So, I needed a day to recover. I think I am starting to get this writer thing down because I now know how the Lindberghs felt on March 1, 1932.

Now, back to the topic of today. You knew it had to be done. Any publication entitled, "The Cozy and SINGLE Life" has to have a piece of pontification on Valentine's Day.

I am staring down the barrel of 36 and I have never had a Valentine. As a result, I've had lots of opportunity to witness Valentine's Day from the outside looking in. Like the uninvited child pressing her nose against the window of the popular girl's fancy birthday party. First of all, I am THRILLED that Valentine's Day is on a weekend. When Valentine's Day falls on a Saturday that means my office doesn't turn into an instant shrine to Merlin Olsen. I don't return from lunch and have to step back outside my office to read the sign and make sure I am at my work place and didn't stumble into a funeral home by mistake. There's no 3:1 ratio of female employees to flower delivery men. I don't necessarily have a problem with being single on Valentine's Day. I don't need the equivalent of a full-page ad in the New York Times announcing it to everyone, either. "Hey, YOU, single person with no flowers on your desk..."

When Valentine's Day is on a weekend, it's easier to overlook. I can go about my normal weekend routine and not be hit between the eyes with the atrocious color combination of red and pink every time I come around a corner. I can be my usual hermit self and not have to worry about dodging cheesy stuffed animals holding faux satin lame' hearts with the words, "I Wuv You" hot glued across the front in felt lettering. Again, remind why this holiday is so revered and cherished?

Valentine's Day has always been a self imposed status symbol. Even when I was young and had Valentine's parties at school, they were a sign of one's loveability. I can picture the flimsy card board package of valentines to this day. The were wrapped in thin, red plastic wrap and had two clear heart cut-outs for viewing of the contents. Oh and the themes. Every cartoon and child pop culture fad had a valentine produced in its honor. It's no surprise that I usually chose Peanuts valentines.

This anticipation and excitement turned into nerves and anxiety for me. I remember feeling panicked on Valentine's Day because I worried that I would only garner a small amount of valentines and be labeled unpopular or worse, unloved. Even back then, I longed for Valentine's Day to be on Saturday or a Sunday. Now, while my parents didn't have to rent a U-Haul to get me and my valentines home from school, I certainly don't ever recall having a shameful showing. That's the sort of thing you remember for life if it happens to you as a child. I think I came away with a very respectable number of paper valentines and NECCO hearts.

If I wasn't single on Valentine's Day, here's how I'd want it to go down. I'd rather have flowers sent to me at work every day. And on Valentine's Day, no flowers. No sense in being like everyone else, no matter what day of the year it is.

Technical Difficulties

Due to technical difficulties we here at the C&SL (okay, there is no "we", just "I") are/am unable to send out today's posting. In short, blogspot deleted today's entry after it had been completed.

Tune in tomorrow.

Back to Regular Programming

The blog got a three day weekend because I got a migraine yesterday. If I am able to catch the migraine early, just as it is arriving, I can usually cut it off at the pass. Since migraines usually show up for me at about 5 am, getting this timing down can be a challenge. I am usually awakened from my slumber with what feels like an ice pick impaling my skull. Sort of like this, only bigger:

This is a debilitating and excruciating affliction and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy; a pretty powerful statement coming from me. If you've never had one, consider yourself lucky. If you do fall victim to the migraine demon, I think you'll agree that my description is not an exaggeration.

In other news, the peanut butter scare has begun to freak me out so when I went to the grocery store this weekend, I made alternate plans and purchased some almond butter.
I wasn't sure what to expect. I love almonds so I thought it couldn't be too much of a risk. I was correct. It's not a huge departure from peanut butter and it saved me the stress of wondering if I had just ingested some tainted peanuts with my Thomas's Whole Grain English Muffin. If you find yourself a bit wary of peanuts these days while craving the same satisfaction from a protein packed spread, I highly recommend this product:

The White House

GOTCHA! You saw the title and started eye rolling and sighing because you thought this was going to be yet another love-fest, warm-fuzzy piece about my time at 1600 with the Bushes. Wrong-o. It's not. But a somewhat funny prank, nevertheless.

This actually popped into my head yesterday when I was at home for lunch. I find that I am constantly captivated by houses that are decorated in all white. If not the entire house, than a specific room dedicated entirely to the absence of color. White linen roman shades, white slip covers, white lamps and lamp shades. I think it takes a disciplined and committed decorator to make the decision to create a white room and not stray. See, I would run around on white because I cannot resist color.

Each time I move to a new place, I tell myself that I am going to give color the ol' heave -ho in at least one room. And every time, I go right back to color swatches. Once a cheater, always a cheater, I guess.

As you can see here, I made a strong effort to whiten by bedroom, but in the end, "accents of color", as they are called in the sophisticated world of decorating, crept in and spoiled my pristine canvass:

Even when adopting a rescue puppy, I couldn't go all white. My dog had to have a splash of cream next to his otherwise white coat.

My living room never had a fighting chance. See below for a prism of shades and hues:

If nothing else, my love for color and vibrancy proves that I do NOT see the world in only black...or white.

8 Million of My Closest Friends

Here's a new one for ya': I think New York City would be a cozy place to live. That's right. Nothing says cozy to me like 8 million plus people crammed onto 300 or so square miles. Such a peculiar impression of NYC. I don't think many, if any, would tell you they'd feel cozy in a city that never sleeps. For me, though, it's the character NYC has that gives it a cozy feel combined with the idea of having my own little refuge in the middle of all the chaos. For the small space obsessed, there's no better place to find a piece of minuscule real estate than New York. What a dichotomy it is; a city where everything is larger than life and in-your-face-BIG, the vast majority of residential space is tiny. With an enormous price tag, of course. But it's cozy to me to be able to retreat to a tiny slab and escape the constant barrage of people and noise. Sort of a port in a storm, if you will.



The character bestowed upon New York City is a big contributor to this coziness I feel when I am there. Take, for instance, grocery shopping. (There I go again with groceries.) Manhattan is not a city of strip malls. When I think of shopping for food in New York, I picture myself not so much at Zabar's, but in a corner market or "bodega" if you're attempting to go native. I love these places and I love that most trips to the "bodega" are not hour long, sprees of bulk purchases. Being a hugely pedestrian city, you can't double park your mini van on Columbus while the grocery porter loads your car with a month's supply of groceries. In New York, it's a totally different game. It's an appealing idea; popping into the corner deli/market on your way home from work and grabbing whatever it is you're craving for dinner and then taking it up to your sixth floor walk-up. Equally appealing is having groceries delivered to your front door. A self-proclaimed shut-in, I feel this is a service that should be taking the country by storm. I love that in New York you can have just about anything delivered at any time of day. No need to leave the apartment if you don't want to. Heaven, I tell you.





The historic nature of New York makes it cozy. Pre-war buildings and subway tiles are just two of my favorite examples. New York is an epicenter of the progressive and yet, hasn't forgotten from whence it came. I love that contrast.



Some will argue that I am romanticizing New York a bit; that it's a very hard and exhausting and insanely expensive place to live. Perhaps. But I've found that life is a trade-off and I don't think NYC would be any different. It all depends on what you're willing to sacrifice in the name of feeling comfortable and content and, yes, cozy, in your surroundings.

Great Minds

Addendum to previous posting: I failed to blog yesterday. In a feeble attempt to make up for it, I am posting twice today, however, the topic for the second half of the double feature just presented itself.

After posting, "The List - Back by Popular Demand", I decided to skim one of my favorite blogs out there, Beach Bungalow 8. It's listed on the right hand side of the C&SL. Rather than try to convey to you what I discovered when I clicked on it, I will simply refer you to this blog and ask that you scroll down the second posting entitled, "Virtual Voyeur". I then refer you to my posting of "A Peeping Thomas".

A-hem...

The List - Back by Popular Demand

I'm cognizant of posting too many lists when writing the blog. I think they make a good read every now and then, but getting in the habit is sort of a cop-out when it comes to writing, I think.

That said, when I released "My Least Favorite Things, Part I", I received many responses/requests for certain words that were absent from the posting. Here's the thing, for as long as I can remember, I have had a running list of words that I hate. It gained notoriety in the early 90s and continued to grow. This collection of words that I hate is its own entity. It simply can't be grouped in with reply cards and bananas. "The List", as it is affectionately known, has been the topic of countless conversations. It's funny because people will arbitrarily ask me if a certain word is "on The List".

There is one rule which governs The List and that is, words do not qualify based on definition. They are on there because of the way they sound. For instance, the word "puss" does not make the cut. That's a gimme. Puss is gross so of course, we think the word is gross. That's too easy.

Here is a portion of The List. There isn't enough memory on the computer for me to include all its members.

The List:

1) Cockpit

2) Moist

3) Ointment

4) Slacks

5) Satchel

6) Platter

7) Belly

8) Proctor

9) Bulb

10) Probe

11) Balm

12) Lube

13) Wound

14) Trousers

15) Salve

Broken Hip

I am the most unhip person in America. When it comes to any and all things pop culture, you'd think I was part of Tom Brokaw's Greatest Generation. Honest to God, be it technology, fashion, or Hollywood, I am so behind the curve it's embarrassing. My friends buy US Weekly and In Style magazines. I buy Coastal Living and Real Simple. My friends save up for iPhones. I save up for a Le Creuset. Need more proof? I didn't own a DVD player until almost a year ago...and the one I DO own is the bottom of the line model sold at Target. Still not convinced? From 1997 until 2007 the only t.v. I owned was a small 19 inch with built in VCR. The big "upgrade" for me came in the summer of 2007 when I added a larger, flat screen, bought second hand from a former co-worker. For the record, I still own the 19 inch. It resides in my bedroom.

Instead of Hollywood drama, I'm running down the top appointments of the new administration in Washington. I wait for Cabinet picks the way the rest of savvy, celebrity obsessed, America waits for the Oscar nominations. I read WSJ Editorials and the Washington Post instead of Perez and TMZ. MTV Cribs? No thanks, I want to know who has what office in the West Wing.

When it comes to fashion, this may be my greatest downfall. I'm not on the cutting edge of fashion. Never have been, probably never will be. No one would EVER accuse me of being a slave to fashion. I love Ann Taylor. I love Cole Haan. I love Anthropologie. I love J. Crew. Now, this isn't like shopping at Laura Ashley or Units, but it's not exactly a set of names you see splattered all over NYC during Fashion Week. I'm willing to bet my collection of sweater sets that there's no dialogue like this overheard in Fashion District in NYC in September:

"I'm heading to the Diane von Furstenberg show. You?"

"I'm on my to the Ann Taylor show. I hear she's out down herself this year with sundresses and double strands of pearls".

I love clothes and I think I have fairly decent taste, but I could never tell you what's "in" this season. I'm not a runway girl. Most designers' names escape me. The ones that do sound familiar are way out of my price range so I automatically dump them into my mental "junk mail". Trendy I am not.

Clearly my desire to be hip is not all THAT great because I am surrounded by hip people. My friends and family are probably in the top percentage in terms of being pop-culturally astute. At least I know I don't have to go far if I decide to have a hip replacement.