What is in a honey-bun?

I might have told you this story before, but bear with me. It starts with me being a kid, runny nosed and knit-haired. A girl, a friend, lived a few blocks over. Her house was such a fascinating place, for it was done with frills, and gilt. Stranger yet, her mother, when calling her father, called for “Dearest”. Even if only to say that it was Dearest’s damn turn to hoover the bright faux fine rugs.

It wasn’t the inter-parental love itself that seemed strange to me. My parents could stand each other well enough, among their minimalist black furniture. I learned early to recognise the subtle balance between Paris week-ends and the throwing at each other of quality steel kitchen utensils as the hallmark of harmonious adult love. But the public name-calling, the wording of the love was alien.

No kin of mine ever beloved or sweetied another. No matter how they’d beam at or beat each other, mom and pop always did it under their own sturdy northern names. In our house, nothing was ever swept under “Persian” carpets. Our floors were hard, wooden, unadorned.

I haven’t grown up the same. Quite the opposite. My relations build on aliases. I enjoy all the shrinking, shrimping, girly names given by boyfriends. They allow me to be the sort of simpering type who has one. Being called babe when slouching around in fat-day jeans, or doll-face when snot-nosed, is good for morale. Under another name, I seem, to the casual listener, a woman.

And I, in turn, herald friend and foe alike with a series of more or less heart-felt gorgeouses, babys and studs. If nothing else, it efficiently masks social incompetence. Greeting someone with a firm hug and a slick Darlin’ makes you look like you remember having met them, no? Whereas harking and humming Tom-Dick-Harry makes one seem ever so slightly a floozy.

(Funny story. I once dated a man for upwards of two years before finding out that I had got his first name wrong. The big reveal was one awkward moment, and pivotal to our not being married with kids today. I blame the silent haigh).

Any’ow. My point:

 This morning was not a super one. We scurried around the flat, trying to pack for a weekend away, while simultaneously fighting over the last of the Kleenexes (flu season) and the interesting bits of the paper (the financial pages – see yesterdays post).

True to form, I “Darlinged” in line for the bathroom, I “Darlinged” over burnt toast, and I “Darlinged” at the watery residue from the leaking garbage bag. Due to my shitty mood, they were increasingly nasty-toned “Darlings”, ending in a final one, phonetically very similar to “Damn you”.

To which the better man responded by putting down his suitcase, looking me in the eye, and calling me by my christian name. As in: “Christian name, calm the fuck down”.

It was relief. It was a home-coming. And most importantly it was recognition. He’s not living with Sugar anymore. And he still loves me.

Maira Kalman’s Pink Chair

 

Dusting the Greats: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Bergdorf Blondes, Appassionata

Dusting the Greats is a blog-in-blog about literature. Unpacking crates of books – the books that made my generation what we are – I try to remember why they were important. Today: Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Bergdorf Blondes and Appassionata.

I have been briefly deterred from unpacking any more books, through the buying and devouring in fevered daze of Wolf Hall, by that author who got that award the other day. Forgive my forgetting, but the author and the prize are of no importance, when you consider the ABSOLUTE greatness of the writing itself.

I have been scrunched up on the sofa for days, the deeply uncomfortable and lumpy sofa, forgetful of the sofa still, peering at the text through glasses that could increasingly use a good clean – occasionally barking out orders for more crisps and cappuccino ice-cream to be brought into the Presence of the Book.

Anyhoodle, after that bout of the Cromwells, I thought it was time to wash the aforementioned crips and cream from my body, and thoughts of purgatory from my mind. For this I needed not only a bathtub, but also one of those books that go in the bath. (Puritans and Henry VIII, you definitely want to keep out of there). I plan to have a special shelf for these bath-books in our new apartment. The basic requirements are:

- there must be descriptions of clothes, which you may as you soak, imagine you would fit into once you get out of the tub
- there must be love and sex, in an approx 20-80 ratio, which you may as you soak, imagine would be yours if ever you exited the tub
- some sort of plot – I am not a stickler for this – but authors seem to pride them selves on putting one in there. Expect murder, slander, backstabbing and/or alcoholic foolery dispersed between the gowns and the nudes.

Alas, I dove into the bags and boxes and came out with three contenders for the “Books, Bath, and Beyond” shelf. They are:

Words are half the price of diamonds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Truman Capote
Title: Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Language: English
First Read: 12, at Christmas, just prior to taking up smoking and brittle laughs
Number of times read: 6, consecutive, with pauses for posing in the mirror and feeling inadequate
Influenced: Never having seen the movie, I got to make all the pictures in my own mind. And what pictures they were! For the longest time, I imagined that for a girl to be truly loved, she need be whip-thin, aloof, high as a kite and in possession of a cat weighing more than she. Actually, nothing as disabused me of this notion yet.
Opinion today: Arriving at the doorstep of actual Tiffany’s – 15 years later – was a huge let-down. It felt like someplace my grandmother would go – were she in to jewels instead of gardening. Frumpy, dumpy, if sparkly. However the Holly of my mind stays young, and wrapped in fox-furs. Those damn furs, they make me look boxy.
Shelf or Attic: Shelf. But cigarettes, I have quit for real.

Blondes eat more prunes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Plum Sykes
Title: Bergdorf Blondes
Language: English
First Read: 26, and even at that age it made me bleach my hair. Disaster
Number of times read: Never again, I can’t trust it close to a bottle of peroxide
Influenced: An agonising period of trying to get back normal hair, mousy brown though it may be. Also, I think it had me on an all liquid diet for a day or two, but this was more from looking at the picture of Plum herself than from the actual reading.
Opinion today: Has it or has it not been replaced by the devil wears prada ugly betty the moment gossip girl entire world of fashion blogs including that girl from texas? Well, kinda. And when I read those blogs, I can pretend to my boss that I am doing Important Reseach on Impact of Social Media.
Shelf or Attic: Shaftic – that is, I am undecided. I guess it should be packed away, but I may need that picture of Plum to ward of the evils of cheese and wine with boyfriend who loves me just the way I am…

There's a pun about bow-legged here somewhere, but I can't bring myself to it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Jilly Cooper
Title: Appassionata
Language: English
First Read: 23, and that was when I first realised the glory of staying in reading about far-fetched sexual antics, instead of being out at clubs trying to re-enact them.
Number of times read: I suppose there was a time or a dozen I went back. But just for laughs, mind.
Influenced: If you haven’t broken up with a boyfriend because trashy books have given you an inflated view of what sex should be, you haven’t really lived.
Opinion today: I couldn’t say without a re-read. And as not to leave you wondering, I shall get on that right this minute…
Shelf or Attic: Attic, if for no other reason than that I actually rather like my current boyfriend. Long-haired Celtic horn players cannot bring you the satisfaction that a long-term relationship gives you. They are made of paper you see, and cannot be trained to heat chicken soup.

Boho Boo Hoo

Garance Doré: read this and weep. Malheureusement, il y a -aussi- des filles comme moi:

My sense of dress is a finely tuned instrument for the gauging of my level of social commitment. If I expect to interact with relevant others/strangers I tend to make some sort of effort. However if the others are limited to man in mailroom and boyfriend, I might easily slip into something more comfortable…

This morning I did not shower. I was not very enthusiastic about combing my hair. I did not give a damn about the coffee stains on my jeans, or the hole on my elbow. I just slipped into the most pyjamish things “in my wardrobe” (read: from the heap on the bedroom floor) and stumbled into work.

Which was fine, till three-thirty rolls around with a phonecall from the Better Man, “reminding me” of cocktail ballyhoo straight after work. (read: appraise me of for first time.)

A fashionista could no doubt pull off the disheveled look. But I never look casually tousled. Instead, to speak in fashion lingo – I channel gutter-nutter. My complete lack of glamour is not helped by any sort of lint. If I were Mary-Kate or Ashely, I’d be surrounded by a swarm of pigeons, not paparazzi. If I were Helena Christenssen on that long ago Isaak beach, my nose would be peeling and there’d be sand lodged in…places. For christ sake: I’d make a Grace Kelly get-up look like I were just about to put on the kettle for another cuppa.

My outfit would stand a better chance if I were, at least, wearing comfortable shoes. And by comfortable, I mean shoes that make my feet ache and my back burn, but that give that little bit of height needed for me to look down my nose at people. But instead of purple superhigh wedges or blue velvet stilettos, today I am wearing decidedly dodgy old Stan Smiths. Returning to the analogies: they scream locker-room, rather than whisper club-house.

Solution? Simple really. Sure I’ll meet the Better Man straight after work. After a short detour to the shops, courtesey of his bill. I am thinking it will take at least three inches to glam up my thrift-store self. And I am thinking, also, that a fur might be a valuable lesson – teaching him the economical benefits of not springing surprise interactions….

Dusting the Greats: Donna Tartt Secret History

Dusting the Greats is a blog-in-blog about literature. Unpacking crates of books – the books that made my generation what we are – I try to remember why they were important. Today: Donna Tartt’s Secret History.

Four years ago I put down Ulysses having stated that, it does, indeed, end in a full stop. Then I carried it, along with my other pretensions, into the attic. I barred the attic door with five different locks. I hid the keys well. I left town. And I did not look back.

An infinite number of chick-lit, bit-lit, frock-fic and Vouge later, this weekend saw the resurrection of my past life. 90 plus boxes and bags of Literature have been moved from their dusty confines to the floor, table, bathroom and kitchen sink of my present abode. There they will get a good cleaning, before being installed in the pristine shelves of The New Apartment.

Or so I thought.

Last night, after 48 hours of uncomplaining and tender lugging, carrying and lumbering, the Better Man sat me down with a calculator and a scale sketch of The New Apartement. Apparently, it was time for a reality check. If I were to have all my books up, and he all his, we would be left with a negative amount of space for anything else.

So, cutting a long story short: join me as I sort trough the Greats and the Pretentious, the Influential and the Hardly Recognized, the Speckled with Damp and the Smudged With Chocolate.

First out:

Author: Donna Tartt.
Title: The Secret History.
Language: Swedish.
First Read: 1995 on holiday in Greece
Number of times read: Astronomical, mostly in bath or while treating parents with contempt
It influenced: Choice of major, choice of cigarettes, entire sense of self between ages of 14 and 18
Opinion today: Naïve, over-laden, but sweet, like memory of childhood birthday cake
Shelf or Attic: Shelf on strenght of time served.

The Book Taped and Battered

 

Sneak Peek (into Hellmouth)

Time makes paupers of us all. For sooner or later, we all hear the clock strike mortage o’clock. That solemn hour at which we troop down to the bank to exchange liquidity for a hard stone pit of angst at bottom of gut.

The pit, in my case, comes with some pretty nice stuff attached. Hardwood floors. 3 m ceilings. Never been used chef’s kitchen. South west balcony. All conveniently located on top of what the cognizenti tell me is the best vietnamese kitchen in all of Stockholm.

And another nice aspect, it comes with the VERY FIRM attachement of the better man, since we have co-signed all the papers, and are now in joint debt so deep it almost looks like love. Breaking up, from now on, involves bailiffs.

But what does owning together acutally entail? Here are a few things I have noticed so far – and we’re still 2 months away from getting the key and unpacking our boxes.

-”We” are now allowed “opinions” on the wisdom of “each-other’s” purchases. Namely whether it is clever or not to buy yet another pair of shoes.

-”We” are now allowed to veto aspects of each others behaviour. Namely whether it is ok to let spikey stilletos lie around in the others unlit night-time-piss-path.

-”We” are now allowed to be frank and open with each other. Namely on whether fave bright yellow and pink rendition of last supper is ever “going to get any fucking where near “my”, oh, ok, “our” walls” or not. “We” are also allowed to glance threateningly at certain not-so-splendid-but-I-do-love-them potted plants.

…but all that is all-didely-right. For “I” am allowed to scour the webs daily for inspiration, and day-dream about folding towels, and compare endlessly, endlessly the merits of eggshell versus cream.

(And once he’s been bludgeoned with seen the pretty shoe-rack that I have my eye on, I’m sure he’ll come around to those green suede beauts with the butterflies I saw the other day. They won’t even be in the way!)

As for the blogs? You’ll find them here, here and here. And oh, there.

Clothing Lines

While we’re on the subject of literature – I have made a discovery! Much like the intrepid explorer who wanders through a hostile jungle only to stumble, suddenly, into a death-trap swamp hidden under the debris, I have been wading trough reams and heaps of chick-lit, only to discover a sub-strata.

I like to call it Frock Fic.

Where chick-lit deals with the emotional rollercoaster that is coming of age, finding a man, having him find you and then settling down, Frock Fic uses the same rollercoaster as disguise for a wardrobe party.

The real drama of the story isn’t whether she’ll get or not get her man – it is in the height of her heels and the cut (probably bias) of her skirt. Instead of dialoguing, there is cataloguing of designer items. Instead of detailing the thoughts of the heroine, there are in-detail descriptions of the detailing on her jean-pocket. Let us look, for example, at the terribly addictive Luxe series:

Superficially, it is the story of the blonde, the brunette, the raven and the redhed – all on their semi-moral hunts for hubbies. Set in 1900, in New York, they all have class, sass, and sometimes cash. Seems basic.

The more you read, however, the more you realise that this is truly, as with all the best fiction, a tale of many layers. Literally. No one can make but the slightest appearance in the story without an in-depht portrayal of her gowns, and buttons, and capes, and brooches.

Given the fact that the author is constantly changing the scene, leaving no one in the same shirtfront for more than five stanzas, this leaves little space for delving the emotional depths of the dashing beaux and belles. The length of their bangs however, are given with exactitude.

Confusing? Frustrating? Yes, until one realises. This isn’t a story about love – it’s a story about lace. The clothes are the point of this drivell ever being written.

 Which makes it much, much, easier to place this Frock Fic in it’s correct literary tradition. The fashion blog. Most of these are – I tell you they must be – fiction. Look at the outfits depicted there. Pleather shorts with zebra booties and a corselette. Pink socks in brown pumps with plum harempants and taupe spangles. Orange eyelet bathingsuits with furry trim – in December!

Or else: excruciatingly beautiful, heart-renderingly perfect, absolutely fabulous clothes. Costing a kings bloody ransom. And displayed on the lithe frame of a highschool student earning a maximum of peanuts (that go uneaten) for her babysitting.

In related news, I will now put on comfy slippers and log on to Sea of Shoes: my kind of bed-time story.

Swedish Academy Internet Debacle Cause Ill Gotten Gains to Be Spent on Comfortable Shoes

So by now you’ve all read the Literary Saloon, right, about the link doing the rounds at the Svenska Akademin?

“The referrer logs for the Literary Saloon yesterday — when I’d mentioned that the Müller-odds were worth paying attention to — showed several visits from mail.Svenskaakademien.se        

Visits from the Swedish Academy (who select the Nobel laureate) aren’t that unusual, but more than one in close succession is — and this indicates someone there was mailing around the (well, a) link.”

What can we learn from this?

a) Maybe they should get one academian on there who knows which button turns “on” the computer. Nothing against age and wisdom, but there is something to be said for being rudimentarily aware of the world around you, even if you do, you know, dig books.

b) Everybody does it: procrastinating at work by googeling themselves. I’ll be doing it myself in a few minutes, checking the rating for “bitter shoe fetishist who thinks the prize should have gone to Candace Bushnell.com”

c) When standing around in a hot and crowded room, waiting for the clock to chime and the little man to come out of the gilt door, you’ll wish you’d worn sneakers. (Though heels are a must if you want to see the little man over the heads of the sweating camera men).

d) If no-one else at work follows the Literary Saloon, you can make a killing in the office laureate betting pool.

Miscoated

Monday, October, Stockholm:

The rain cannot possibly be said to be falling, since it is actually AIMING at us. Hurling is a much better word for it. The world is grey, and wet with it. The only discernible warmth is hissing, in the form of steam, from the McDonald’s ventilation outlet. And the only discernible colour is the sticky slimy slick brown of leaves rotting in the gutter.

We hurry into the crowded department store. Oblivious to the reek of cheap perfume, insensible to ugly shoes, and fat ladies toting children, made it seems, entirely from snot, I elbow my way to my Holy Grail, Better Man in tow.

There it hangs, in splendour. It is bright red, and sleekly cut. It has a collar that could be turned up, were it mine, just so against the wind. It has breadth enough for my bottom, and pockets in which I vow never to jumble lumpy clumpy bits of paper and old matchboxes. It is Audrey Hepburn, and Mary Poppins, and a Toreador, and a Princess, and a Cherry Pie – all rolled into One Perfect Coat.

Yes, I know what the price-tag says. I balked at first, but have returned every day for a week to gawp, and now I am ready to take the plunge. As I slip my wet wool cardigan of my shoulders, and my shoulders into its silken inner casing, I feel my eyes grow brighter, and my back straighten (and my boobs grow and my hair lengthen). I turn with a secretive, alluring smile to the Better Man, brought along officially to advice, but secretly to be dazzled.
And he looks. And he speaks. And he says:

“Meh, I wouldn’t. It makes you look sort of pregnant.”

Tuesday, October, Stockholm:

 I have stolen his favourite sweater. I plan to wear it non-stop, and grinding the elbows against my desk, until he buys me something twice as beautiful and trice as expensive. And chocolates too.

And Hadley Freemans take:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/oct/05/high-street-fashion-hadley-freeman

Cliniqually Depressed

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that there are those who have their shit together and those who have not. Tonight, as I was lathering myself, my pants, and my bathroom with industrial strength Ajax, I came to the realization that my shit is most definitely scattered.

Every so often I decide to make something of myself. With “of myself”, I mean that I decide never again to skip washing my hair in favor of toast, never again to leave cleaning the flat for so long you need a pressure hose to get it in shape, and most importantly, never again to be wandering the streets at 8 on a Sunday night, desperately hunting for clean undies.

There is something deeply demoralizing about having to buy clean underwear from the polite gentleman at the corner shop – yet again – because you haven’t been arsed to do your laundry.

Well, every time the zeal comes upon me, I spend a lunch-hour blowing half a months pay on expensive skincare products and white cotton slivers. I usually throw in something whole-grain for good measure. I come home, apply the products, fold the slivers, and then attack dusty corners of apartment with vacuum. My boyfriend looks on curiously and eats popcorn while I bask in sense of self righteousness.

And all would be well if it ended there.

But then life seems to expect a repeat performance. And I may be many things, but a fan of sticking to my guns I am not. The next day dawns, with it’s endless possibilities of a) watching TV instead of rinsing dishes b) eating bite-size chocolates with my afternoon coffee instead of not eating bite-size chocolates with my afternoon coffee c) reading Candace Bushnell instead of doing laundry and d) falling asleep on boyfriends lap instead of scrubbing with a loofah.

And so the shit that was scraped into a tidy heap slowly spreads over apartment, skin, and booty over the course of the week. Till Sunday, when I stand once more, desperately trying to dislodge clumps of toothpaste from bathroom mirror and washing tattered and gray, yet garish, H&M panties in the tub.

They seem made of some strange material I do not recognize. Maybe it is moral fibre.