I love this picture of you.
My floral printed legs laying on your chest and my feet resting on your shoulders. You're looking drunk and sleepy. A polaroid. We've just argued over something assinane again, I'm sure, but as usual by now our white flags are tossed. The second man to call me "babe" and make me think of that pig movie. Thankfully, I like pigs and I like you. I'm a control freak and you're too laid back. I washed my sheets and where I used to love the scent of Tide, I'm left missing yours. Excuse me, I'm gushing.
Exhilarating as pressing my fingers into a bag of red clay: Cool to the touch. Limitless. Mine.
This is new.
The bag is a Bonnie Cashin piece from the very early 60's before she launched Coach's women's accessories line, in 1962. It hung in my mother's closet unused until I reached high school.
It's leather granules from the bottom sank into my fingernails as I dug for my keys on the way to my door. It's now 30º F out and all I want was to find them before my doorstep, but naturally they're under a mountain of my garbage. The scenario made me think of doing surprise bag dumps when I worked at Anthropologie and how I was the worst person to do it to. Had one happened today, here's what would've been found:
- This week's Star magazine. (p.s. I do not believe that B. Spears is getting beat not one bit).
- My make up bag and some lotion.
- 2 miniature bottles of Moet that a friend bought for my birthday.
- 3 Pens
- 4 Packets of this AMAZING instant honey ginger tea.
- 6 bracelets
- A belt
- A ring
- A paycheck
- Wine opener
oh and an Iphone car charger because even though I don't drive, you just don't know when your phone is going to die in the middle of an impromptu roadtrip to Maryland.
I'm really big on "just in case" accessory packing.