tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49701988236634749352024-02-18T21:56:47.399-05:00Wrote This, Wrote ThatThe entries here were published in the Washington Post and other probably doomed publications that have my work available on line.
Some day I'll figure out how to sort them into logical sections, today is not that day.Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-41506853815654888592017-10-23T12:51:00.001-04:002017-10-23T12:51:52.654-04:00MacKenzie-Childs Comes to DC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bolder;"><i>For: mylittlebird.com</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: bolder;">FEW HOME FURNISHINGS</span> companies can provide instant pizzazz the way MacKenzie-Childs can. “We leave no surface untouched, ever,” Rebecca Proctor, the company’s creative director, once told me. So true.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">While bits and pieces of the line have been available in the Washington area for many years, and of course there’s a mail-order catalogue, we finally have a shop devoted to it: a jewel-box townhouse just outside of Georgetown’s Cady’s Alley design center.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Every square inch of the space is lined and heaped and festooned with a dizzying array of cake stands and candlesticks, vases and stools and over-stuffed poufs. Even umbrellas and eyeglasses don’t escape the painter’s brush—the pieces are hand-painted in the company’s workshop in upstate New York.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Most incorporate the line’s black-and-white checkerboard leitmotif mixed with polka dots, paisleys, plaids and stripes. The upholstered furniture sports swooping curves, painted legs and, frequently, fabulous tassels.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">If you wonder what being Alice in Wonderland really feels like, wander on in.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">It’s difficult not to smile, hugely. It’s also hard to stop buying the stuff—but you really must. Drop a piece or two into a plain vanilla room and BOOM! Beyond that, you might pass out from the overstimulation—you can go nuts just looking at the pictures in the 103-page catalogue.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: inherit;">I personally find this stuff perfect for host/ess giving. A spatula with checkerboard handle is $30, a set of jolly canapé knives is $48. That’s the price of a bottle of something nice—but a gift that brings more permanent delight.</span></div>
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MacKenzie-Childs is at 1037 33rd Street NW, Washington DC 20007; phone 202-866-6565.</div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-12478501827566587412017-10-23T12:47:00.001-04:002017-10-23T12:47:25.665-04:00The Indoor Plant Shuffle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrkWQQ0JQv4OMQ1j7H4MjrpU5nrhq5xMVfzf6lbudIvPB9tT3lIOAywAwsq6QSgz28YAfFbej4vcrYOn4eY_bqbPQBDXQAmi9YI6o5quZBup5nPebSQZIuBn-EaC0WjNwqByi1xeNXNvh/s1600/ginger+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="840" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrkWQQ0JQv4OMQ1j7H4MjrpU5nrhq5xMVfzf6lbudIvPB9tT3lIOAywAwsq6QSgz28YAfFbej4vcrYOn4eY_bqbPQBDXQAmi9YI6o5quZBup5nPebSQZIuBn-EaC0WjNwqByi1xeNXNvh/s320/ginger+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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for: mylittlebird.com</div>
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It’s once again time to contemplate bringing your tender
plants indoors – or letting them die in peace, or place. With Halloween coming,
the sometimes grotesquely charming withering of the fruits of your summer labor
is an option to consider.</div>
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But first a note about tags.</div>
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Some months ago I rhapsodized about the surprising return of
the ginger plants, which I couldn’t recall planting in the first place as they emerged
in a rather odd location in the front garden. </div>
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Baby, adopting a superior attitude which one would not expect
from one’s only child --for whom I forfeited my 21-inch waistline, not to
mention the labor pains – wrote in the web comments on that piece that they
weren’t gingers, but cannas that we had purchased last summer, on a trip to
visit her and her Personal Prince Pete in Raleigh, North Carolina, Land of the
Fried HoHos. She took three, I took three, and that’s how they came to be (that
rhymes).</div>
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At the time, I also assumed that the stalks arising from another
large pot were bananas, and I spent the rest of the summer fretting over their
mingy growth. </div>
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How I can write a garden column and be such a lousy gardener
escapes me. If I had put a tag somewhere in the vicinity of either I would have
remembered that I was wrong about both.</div>
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So, Baby was in town this past weekend for the Women’s March
– which she attended with My Prince while I was busily atoning for the family
sins, being as it was Yom Kippur (an obnoxious and insensitive date to elect
for any march relating to inclusivity, I might add). Baby excused herself saying this is the way
she chooses to honor the day (or some such). OK then. Trot your Irish half on
down and take a knee for me in front of the Trump Hotel. </div>
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I’m getting to the point here, hold your horseradish.</div>
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As we were stepping out on Saturday night to break the
holiday fast with friends she said something like, “Whoa Mama! Your ginger is
blooming.”</div>
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And I said, “What ginger?” Since I assumed the ginger had
expired (See paragraph 3).</div>
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But there, nestled in the pot that I thought was filled with
recalcitrant bananas were three brilliant pink flowers nestled among the stiff green
stalks. </div>
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This was very exciting and I pointed with my cane (which I claim
is in use because of a trapeze accident) and said, “Move the ginger to the
front corner, and the pot of bird of paradise to the back – I’m positive that
they are bird of paradise even though they have no tags and have done precisely
nothing all summer but sit in their pot and ask for water. </div>
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And she said, “Stop pointing with your cane, it’s
obnoxious,” as she waddled across the yard with one pot and waddled back with
the other.</div>
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The ginger certainly looks perky next to the front walk, a
cunning complement to the pink geraniums in the window boxes. </div>
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Getting back to the subject of this piece, it is time to
contemplate moving your tender plants indoors for the winter. May I suggest a
nice merlot and a perch on the back porch steps while you do so. That always
works well for me. </div>
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With a little luck, someone will show up and do it for you. </div>
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Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-47321102964900544912017-07-20T09:19:00.000-04:002017-07-20T09:19:04.665-04:00Green Acre #63: 10 Steps to the Perfect French Garden<h2 class="entry-title">
No one Here But Us Chic-uns.</h2>
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July 19, 2017<br />
Tags: <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/city-gardening/" rel="tag">city gardening</a>, <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/green-acre/" rel="tag">Green Acre</a>, <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/stephanie-cavanaugh/" rel="tag">Stephanie Cavanaugh</a><br />
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<strong>I GOT SO INSPIRED</strong> by Bastille Day last week, I began musing on the nature of the French <em>jardin, </em>preferably a Provençal one. Follow this simple path and be transported. <em>Allons-y!</em><br />
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<strong>1.</strong> Start with a chair. <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00JEG3JJ0/ref=as_li_ss_tl?">You know the one.</a> Bamboo
framed and laced with black and white webbing. (It couldn’t always have
been plastic . . . it must have been something else at another time.
Lambskin? But plastic will do.) Set one or four in the garden and you
have instant France—poof!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>From Terrain, a 10-foot-long reclaimed teak dining table, $2,898 at shopterrain.com.</em></td></tr>
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<strong>2.</strong> You do have two table choices, depending on the size of your patio. There is the <a href="https://www.houzz.com/photos/55771514/Iron-and-Marble-Side-Table-traditional-outdoor-side-tables">classic</a> round bistro table, the surface of which might be tiled, or wood, or stone. You may cover this with a <a href="http://www.lacigale-usa.com/tablecloths.htm">French tablecloth;</a> the
cloths come in such lovely shades of orange and yellow and green and
blue, with sheaves of wheat or lavender, but not tea pots, printed along
the border. If you have space, consider a wooden farmhouse table of a
length to seat 15 or 20, whatever is your usual Sunday dinner guest
count. In this case, you might employ benches along the sides in
addition to your café chairs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Bulk pea gravel is $333.50 for 5 yards (whatever that means) at The Home Depot.</em></td></tr>
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<strong>3.</strong>
Now, you need to set the table and chair upon something, and while
there are surfaces that could pass—brick or flagstone come to
mind—ideally you have <a href="http://www.homedepot.com/p/5-Yards-Bulk-Pea-Gravel-ST8WG5/206617327">pea gravel</a>;
the small, pale, tan stones that wedge in your espadrilles and dig a
hole in your heel. Pea gravel is the ultimate French courtyard material.
You come away from a walk across it instantly fluent in French. Ooh!
Ow! Ouch! Or rather, <em>Zut! Merde!</em><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Cast-iron rat-tail shutter dogs, sold in pairs, </em></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em> </em></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>$18.50 the pair from John Wright. jwright.com.</em></td></tr>
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<strong>4.</strong>
Ideally, your house should be made of stone, with a bit of moss
creeping up the walls, with very large shutters covering the windows.
Americans tend to have wholly wrong shutters, far too small and flimsy
to shut over the windows in the event of a storm, or to keep the icy
blasts of winter out of the lounge. Your shutters must close over the
windows, or at least look like they can, with cast-iron <a href="https://jwright.com/product/rat-tail-with-lag-sold-in-pairs/">shutter dogs</a> holding them open against the walls.<br />
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If
your home is not stone, one would hope for brick. And the brick must be
painted the lively colors of Provence. Take a cue from one of those
southern French tablecloths and think Dijon mustard, tangerine or
buttercup yellow paired with the clearest possible blue. The trim and
the door and the body of the house have to zing off each other, but
harmoniously, <i>s’il vous plait</i>. Of course, window boxes must be overflowing with blossoms that play with your color scheme.<br />
<br />
<strong>5.</strong>
While a case might be made for a border or pots of lavender, there is
no plant more quintessentially French than the hydrangea, or more
exactly, the blue hydrangea, which is the blue of an utterly cloudless
sky after a rain, when all of the humidity has blown to Des Moines or
Baton Rouge. You might flank the door with boxwood topiaries, or you can
move the lemons and such from the orangery to the gravel for the
summer, but the hydrangea is the essence of it all.<br />
Now wield your secateurs and <em>élaguer</em>* a few branches for the table. Ah….<br />
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<a href="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/FrenchGar5web-1000x668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="size-large wp-image-20548 img-fluid" height="133" src="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/FrenchGar5web-1000x668.jpg" width="200" /></a><strong> </strong><br />
<strong>6.</strong> Yes. The table, by which I mean the table setting. Again two choices. Either white stoneware, the sort with the <a href="http://www.replacements.com/webquote/gidfru.htm">raised pattern along the border</a> (I passed up a set at <a href="http://www.misspixies.com/">Miss Pixie’s</a>
reclaimed furniture a few years ago that I still kick myself over. Baby
told me I had quite enough china. Oh, why do I ever listen to her?).
Pair this with ivory-handled dinnerware and jelly glasses, and pick out a
minor color from the tablecloth for your napkins, which must be cloth,
not paper (<em>see below)</em>.<br />
<div class="wp-caption aligncenter" id="attachment_20548" style="width: 1010px;">
<br /></div>
Of
course, if you’re lucky enough to have inherited Grandmère’s Limoges or
Sèvres china and and her silver, this is a glorious place to set it.
Matching is not essential; in fact, it is beside the point, which is
above all the cultivation of unselfconscious chic. Fretting and fussing
is so American; you must appear not to care. Squint a little, purse your
lips and practice a Gallic shrug. <i>Ne vous cassez pas la tête</i> about it.<br />
<br />
Big linen or damask napkins to catch the juices of the <i>poulet</i>
are essential: They are easier to care for than you might expect. Wash
them, fold them over once and stretch them flat. They will dry quite
smoothly, and be softer to the lip than napery flattened with starch and
an iron.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/FrenchGar2web-1000x668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="size-large wp-image-20546 img-fluid" height="213" src="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/FrenchGar2web-1000x668.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<strong>7.</strong> Ah yes, the chicken. I’m so glad I
brought that up. You want to look really French? There is nothing like
having a few chickens pecking the pea gravel. Consider the <a href="https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coucou_de_Rennes">Coucou de Rennes</a>, such fun to say! And the <a href="http://www.fermedebeaumont.com/gauloise-doree-p-4162.html">Gauloise Dorée</a>
sounds decadently like smoking, which you really should take up.
They’ll wander around your ankles as you dine, and if the clucking gets
too irritating you can always eat them.<br />
<br />
<br /><strong>8.</strong>
Now add music. While youthful French President Macron exhibits a
fondness for the electronic dance music of Daft Punk, we’ll bet that
First Lady Brigitte prefers Piaf. Create a Piaf station on Pandora and
pipe it onto the patio. Pandora will automatically increase your level
of cool, adding everything from Carla Bruni to Serge Gainsbourg to the
mix.<br />
<br />
<strong>9.</strong> Do have a ruin in the background, if at all possible.<br />
<br />
<strong>10.</strong>
You can also add olive trees, grapevines, fountains or a reflecting
pool with swans. (Swans are important, without them the pool and garden
might verge on Italian, which is somewhat similar, but much louder, and
features lasagne.)<br />
<br />
*Merci, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/violette.capellutoschor?fref=ufi">Violette Capelluto-Schor</a>. É<em>laguer</em> means to prune.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>—Stephanie Cavanaugh</em></div>
<em>LittleBird
Stephanie often has visions like this. To read earlier visions (um,
columns), type Green Acre in the Search box at the top of the page.</em>Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-43851774629229954032017-07-20T09:07:00.001-04:002017-07-20T09:07:47.653-04:00Green Acre #61: Beachy Keen<div class="container content">
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Watch Out for the Claws! <br />
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July 5, 2017<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">LittleBird
Stephanie’s inspiration. Now if only she could find a claw-foot tub. /
Photography © by Sabine Vollmer von Falken, from Shell Chic, © by
Marlene Hurley Marshall, used with permission from Storey Publishing.</td></tr>
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<strong>AT THE BEACH</strong> The
Prince collects rocks and shells. He wanders, head down, sometimes for
hours, looking not at the ocean, but at the bits washed up onto the
sand. He’ll return to me, lying on a towel, nose to book, clutching his
treasures.<br />
<br />
“Look at this one!” He’ll say of a craggy gray hunk of
something. “It’s millions of years old,” he’ll tell me, eyes bright
with wonder.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I’ll squint up at him. “It is. Wonderful.” My approval pleases him.<br />
<br />
“And
this one, the color!” he’ll sigh. Of course it’s wet, and therefore is
shiny, and the lovely coral hue will fade as it dries. But I don’t tell
him, why pop his bubble? He’s just a happy boy at the beach.<br />
<br />
Going
to the beach for us usually involves an airplane to Florida where
Number One Sister perches eight floors above the least-crowded stretch
of sand in South Florida. Here we can sit on the front terrace and see
hardly a single soul.<br />
<br />
We’ve been visiting her here every year for
the 25 years or so since she moved south from New York. Being beach
people, we have made numerous tropical island hops between times. That’s
a lot of rocks and shells. Most of them, in my snooty opinion, not in
the least worth the effort. And all of them have to be heavily hauled,
dragged, schlepped and shoved onto the plane home.<br />
<br />
At home, the
bags are emptied onto the back porch, where the collection sits in sandy
memory until I figure out where to hide them. Dump any one of
our garden pots and you’ll find a layer or two of
who-knows-what-from-where, serving as drainage.<br />
<br />
On a side trip
one year to Key West, we were wandering along Duval Street just where
clever and cool met T-shirt honky-tonk and came upon a little shop whose
entrance was marked by a small claw-foot tub encrusted with shells.<br />
<br />
These
were beautiful shells, perfect—scallops and bullas and little conchs,
even the shells that were cut in half to expose their inner whorls and
pearly centers were precisely measured. They were all shades from tawny
and tiger-striped to white, and interspersed with pearls and bits of sea
glass that caught the sunlight.<br />
<br />
I was overcome with the thought
that this was either one of the most fabulous things I’d ever seen or a
tacky margarita-fueled horror that would only be considered wonderful
here in the Conch Republic, or a Carl Hiaasen novel. *<br />
<br />
Meanwhile,
I fantasized it into the middle of the garden back home. A wallowing
pool. For me. If I’m being honest, unless I’m lying facedown in the
water with a mask staring at fishies, I rarely do anything at the ocean
besides sit in the water and read—sometimes I stand and read, if I need
exercise. I can just as well do the lying about in a tub, surrounded by
ferns and jasmine and parlor palms, bringing the tropics to Capitol
Hill. One can make a margarita anywhere.<br />
<br />
And it’s practical! When I’m done for the day, I figured, just pull the plug and water the plants.<br />
There
was even a how-to book handily for sale at the shell shop, with
instructions for encrusting your own tub (or bird bath, chandelier or
grotto) with shells. <em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Shell-Chic-Ultimate-Decorating-Seashells/dp/158017440X/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8">Shell Chic</a></em>,
by Marlene Hurley Marshall, with photos by Sabine Vollmer von Falken,
is still for sale on Amazon. It was brand new at the time, August 2002.<br />
<br />
All
we needed, besides $35 for the book, was a claw-foot tub, rustproof
paint, a ratchet gun (What’s that? Ask the Prince), silicone adhesive,
beach glass, pearly beads and shells. A whole lot of shells.<br />
But a creative snap! I thought, studying the diagrams.<br />
<br />
So
in addition to his usual bag of rocks and shells, we now had my bag of
shells—collected at shops with cunning names like Shell World and
Joyce’s Shells & Gifts, places I had theretofore averted my eyes
from, along the 98 miles between Key West and Key Largo and the highway
north to Sister’s.<br />
I recall being eager to get home and begin, a sop to vacation’s end.<br />
<br />
Only
guilty reminders remain of this project: A strand of cowries, I think
they’re called, hanging on the back porch; heaps of loose shells, many
now broken, in the dusty wicker basket I like to think of as my craft
box; and strands of fake pearls and bits of sea glass.<br />
<br />
I suppose I
could have glued these bits to something else, but my enthusiasms often
fade as quickly as they appear, particularly when it comes to arts and
crafts. If it can’t be done in 10 minutes with a paint roller or
extra-large knitting needles, forget it.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, My Prince,
bless him, continues to keep an eye out for that claw-foot tub. Amazing
that despite how everyone seems to be tearing them out for glass-walled
showers the size of small rooms with benches and multiple heads for rain
and steam and hoses for the hard-to-reach spots, old claw-foot tubs are
both hard to find and bloody expensive. Shouldn’t he have found one in
the trash by now?<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>—Stephanie Cavanaugh</em></div>
<em>LittleBird Stephanie says that her next column will feature five almost-instant ways to wallow in water in the garden—maybe</em> 10,<em> if she can think of that many. </em><br />
* If for some reason you don’t know who Carl Hiaasen is, go immediately to the library or a bookstore and enjoy.</div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-9099470591956674922017-07-20T09:02:00.002-04:002017-07-20T09:02:25.137-04:00Green Acre #62: The White Garden<h2 class="entry-title">
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July 12, 2017<br />
Tags: <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/city-gardening/" rel="tag">city gardening</a>, <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/green-acre/" rel="tag">Green Acre</a>, <a href="https://mylittlebird.com/tag/stephanie-cavanaugh/" rel="tag">Stephanie Cavanaugh</a><br />
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<em>This house in Washington DC has captured the magic of the white garden. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.</em></div>
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<strong>I KNOW I SAID</strong>
I’d write more about pools this week, but it’s too hot. Join a pool.
Fill a copper horse trough and splash about. Run through a sprinkler.
Think cool thoughts. A white garden helps with that.<br />
If you’re
otherwise occupied during summer days when the flowers bloom, and as
often as not away on weekends or busy being air conditioned, a white
garden brings magic to the night.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/GreenAcre2web-225x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="size-medium wp-image-20459 img-fluid" height="300" src="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/GreenAcre2web-225x300.jpg" width="225" /></a>A
few blocks from me on Capitol Hill in Washington DC is a small frame
house, painted white, with black shutters and a red door, very country
in the city. A long brick path leads from the front gate, wandering
through a border that only flowers white, from early spring through
fall.<br />
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The mix of blossoms is simple enough: The early peonies are
met by great sprays of white clematis with faces the size of salad
plates; these tumble together with repeat-blooming white roses over the
black wrought-iron fencing, then frolic their<em> </em></div>
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way through the border greenery, with dusty miller providing a silvery accent.<br />
<br />
Pots
of white impatiens stationed along the walk can be moved here and there
to fill in the inevitable gaps left by a summer vacation.<br />
<br />
A
helpful sign is posted on the gate, explaining what you’re plainly
seeing but, given the oven-like heat, may not have the mental energy to
comprehend:<br />
“The white garden is an informal gardening style that
is similar in design to the English cottage garden. The open and
informal design creates associations with romance, peace and elegance.
The white flowers are mildly and densely spread throughout the garden’s
green areas, creating a luminescent sight that is especially powerful in
the twilight.”<br />
<br />
In this case, twilight is prolonged by the soft
glow from the lamp posts along the sidewalk, the flittering of
fireflies, and the twinkle of little white lights in the red-leaf maple
beside the front door, which frills above the patio table and chairs.<br />
<br />
Beyond
brilliant, white flowers can be fabulously, devastatingly, decadently
perfumed, and usually most powerfully scented in the evening or at dawn,
just when you’re around to enjoy them. Consider jasmine and lilies,
honeysuckle, moonflowers and nicotiana, orange and lemon and grapefruit
(if you have a sunny spot to winter them over)—all are white, or
available in white.<br />
<br />
One could pass out from such a cacophony of scent, lying there like Dorothy in the field of poppies leading to Oz.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know her poppies were red. Stop being so literal. It’s tiresome.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>—Stephanie Cavanaugh</em></div>
<em>LittleBird
Stephanie writes about her garden and the gardens of others, as the
mood hits her. You can read earlier Green Acre columns by typing Green
Acre in the Search box at the top of the page.</em>Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-65898238278627153052017-04-27T08:54:00.002-04:002017-04-27T09:02:51.435-04:00Scents of Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStjVG7MKbkK62IOhX_7AsTvXxG73e8LvYJU9rTQv8akR_sCQqkFEj3cNmsx1C6oTRpyEsEI7wvN3zIaYsC4UBKaxMzg9IbzcAQFK4cZ4rSHTShqnSEjqbm4mbgOjsDlIZO2knmZ2s8myn/s1600/wisteria+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStjVG7MKbkK62IOhX_7AsTvXxG73e8LvYJU9rTQv8akR_sCQqkFEj3cNmsx1C6oTRpyEsEI7wvN3zIaYsC4UBKaxMzg9IbzcAQFK4cZ4rSHTShqnSEjqbm4mbgOjsDlIZO2knmZ2s8myn/s400/wisteria+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
for <i>myliitlebird.com</i><br />
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<i> </i>The house smells delirious. Flowers blend into a Jo Malone
concoction: rosemary, lavender, wisteria, geranium, with a faint underwhiff of
dirt filtering through the open windows, filling the house with scent. A hint
of dirt is a thing, you<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>know, in your
costlier, more complex, fragrances.</div>
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I’m a little surprised at this pungent kaleidoscope, as the
day is chill and damp, not the humid warmth I expect we need to cajole such a lavish
bouquet. </div>
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The rosemary is doing well in the upper window boxes; there
are three across the front of the house. I planted it with some hesitation,
late last summer, when my latest notion for a permanent centerpiece had
flopped, as usual. While rosemary survives in our gardens, remaining green
through the winter, always a plus, the shallower depth of window boxes presents
a challenge when the temperature dips below freezing for a stretch. And
rosemary can be…overpowering, perhaps too much so for a bedroom window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Now pushing two feet tall – really
making a statement up there - they turned out to be surprisingly mild, and
handy for a stew or two. So I was planning to add a few more to the lower boxes
this Spring but, as these things happen, while poking about a garden center on
Sunday, the Prince and I were gob smacked by a French lavender of particular
allure. Rather costly, I thought, at $9 for the pot. But it was large enough to
split, which I did, whacking the hard root in two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s doing quite nicely.</div>
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I’ve gotten surprisingly good at dividing and propagating,
but that’s a story for another week. </div>
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We also bought sweet potato vines for the box fronts, lovely
acid green ruffles that cascade over the boxes and drop, reaching the tops of
the lower windows by August. These obscure the fact that some of the geraniums,
so cheerfully pink, are fake. This is, as I’ve said at least once before, a
neat trick, a floral <span class="content">trompe l'oeil that delights the eye –
but only if done subtly, just a few frilly pops of artifice mixed into an
honest display of flowers and greens. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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So the fragrant lavender floats up to billow around the
rosemary, a delightful pairing, and mingles with our neighbor’s wisteria, a
massive thing that drifts along her roofline in a flotilla of purple blossoms so
voluminous it could threaten North
Korea. Hers is the right sort of wisteria
(Japanese), as opposed to our wrong sort (Chinese) which howls at us from the
depths of the garden, throwing off a meager scentless bloom or two each year –
hidden within mountainous foliage. If you’re going to put up with this
malicious, highly invasive monster, that strangles anything in its path, it
should at least bring a sweet smelling spring flower show. You are warned. </div>
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Threading it all together is the absolutely intoxicating
scent of the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mock orange that blooms
beside the pond. I’ve snipped sprigs and branches for vases, scattered about
the house, so I can stop here and there and close my eyes and drift. </div>
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It all clips by so fast, these April scents. But soon the
Don Juan rose that clambers up the back porch railings will be in blood red bloom,
and the honeysuckle that smothers the back fence will add its syrupy note. I
don’t like to go anywhere for long, this time of year, sitting still and
sniffing is such pleasure. </div>
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If you’d like to explore scented gardens, the Prince bought
me a delicious little book several years ago: Fragrant Designs, from the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="https://shop.bbg.org/a575/fragrant-designs.html">https://shop.bbg.org/a575/fragrant-designs.html</a>
. There are plants perfect for evening, for the yard, and for containers; the
needs of each, and growing tips. The reading it is almost as tasty as the
sniffing. </div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-16594933864876485452017-04-20T09:01:00.000-04:002017-04-27T09:02:17.904-04:00Would You Hire Me to Write About Gardening?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i>for mylittlebird.com </i></div>
I am a new member of the American Horticultural Society. While
this sounds impressive, it’s no big deal. Just give them $35 (or more if you’re
so moved) and they send you a membership card that you can stick in your
wallet. In my case the card will immediately fall out and be ink-stained and
sticky with jelly bean guts and various other substances that mysteriously lurk
in the bottom of my bag, which is neither here nor there, just saying. <br />
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The Society’s website (http://ahsgardening.org/) says that membership
entitles you to a subscription to <i>The American Gardener</i> magazine,
discounts at 300 public gardens throughout North America and the Cayman Islands
(which I think needs explanation, if not exploration), on-line member
resources, the annual seed exchange, and special events. </div>
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This weekend is the annual plant fair at the Society’s
headquarters, River Farm in Mt.
Vernon, a 25-acre spread
that was once part of George Washington’s estate. The sale, which will include
plants and tools,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is open to all from
noon to 4 pm on Friday (with a 10 am opening for members), and 10 am to 4 pm on
Saturday. I’m hoping the Prince can be coerced into driving me, as we’ll need
to bring the truck for all the completely unnecessary plants I’ll want to buy.
I do not have space for one more….</div>
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Meanwhile, my first issue of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The American Gardener</i> arrived yesterday. It is marked March/April
and has articles on small trees and fast growing vines, which certainly should
appeal to a city gardener hungering for a little patch of shade and quick cover
for a trellis or wall. While the tree tips are still handy, one finds that one
should have started planting vine seeds 6-8 weeks before the last frost date,
which happens to be April 21st around here --<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>and not one of the wildly beautiful vines featured cares for shade, which
is my garden’s most prominent attribute. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Perusing the website, between rounds of Candy Crush -- I am
now at level 1820 and hate to think of how much of my life has been spent
getting there -- I notice the section for freelance submissions to the magazine
and am appalled to find myself woefully unqualified. For someone that writes
about gardens, I really know nothing about nothing. </div>
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Among the “topics of particular interest” that they enjoy
publishing:</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Profiles of individual
plant groups</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have knowledge of
several, but I doubt they’d be interested in how I’ve gone wrong with them. </div>
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There are the various lilies that I planted for decades in
too much shade. These, I can firmly state, will grow very tall (if they grow at
all) and throw off a few flowers and then sit there cluttering a wee shade
garden with their twiggish stems, which is an exceptionally boring sight. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As is still the case with several other of my
miscreant plants, once the flowers were spent I’d wire on “silk” lilies, which
were perky all season, if scentless. </div>
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The wandering jew? Tradescantia pallid, and its ilk – some
are purple, some striped with green, and so on -- is so handy for filling
spaces where something else has died. Stick your finger in the soil, insert a
bit of stem, and water or don’t. They grow like weeds. (If you wander through a
garden center chances are you’ll find a bit of one broken off on the ground.
Stick it in your pocket, break it any whichway into inch long sticks, put them
in a pot and you’ll have a plant in about a week.)</div>
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Mock orange. There are, apparently, 60 varieties of this
mammoth shrub, which doesn’t fruit (which is why it’s called “mock”) but does
blossom in springtime with hundreds of small white flowers that one hopes smell
sweet. I have found you can’t necessarily trust the grower on that last. I
planted three before I found one with the honeyed memory I was seeking. Can’t
tell you which it is though since I lost the tag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Innovative approaches
to garden design</i>. I doubt they’d be interested in my fake flowers, amusing pots
and statuary, laser lighting, and other tricks I employ to obscure my failures.
</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plant Research</i>.
Well, this I do, and then I ignore the advice, which is why I have so many
furiously invasive vines and miserably lanky climbing roses. Plant hunting, is
a subset of this category, and this I also do; each year buying a number of
irresistible plants that I know from my research are doomed.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plant conservation and
biodiversity</i>. My weeds grow like weeds, does that count?</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Environmentally
appropriate gardening</i>. Snicker. Let us parse the phrase environmentally
appropriate.</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">People-plant
relationships (horticultural therapy, ethnobotony, community gardening</i>). I
have a relationship with my plants. It is no longer a soothing one, if it ever
was. I am now thinking of a condo in Florida,
where I sit on a terrace and watch the ocean, which needs no help from me. The
thought of community gardening makes me itch. Spell check does not like
ethnobotony, by the way. I don’t either. Doesn’t the word have a racist
reverberation? Where is this magazine published, anyway?</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Plant literature and lore.</i> Yes well,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m always on the lookout for literature that
provides disaster distraction tips; this seems, however, a doubtful topic for
this audience. Lore? What does this even mean? How to poison your spouse, as
Agatha Christie might, with a lovely datura? That, I suppose I could write
about…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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They’re also looking for articles that illustrate useful gardening
techniques such as “grafting, pollarding, or propagation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right.<br />
<br />
One wonders why I write about gardens, not just once, but every week for, as
of today fifty weeks. And that’s only for Birdy here. I have been foisting my
floral incompetence on whoever would have me for the last twenty five or so
years, and expect I’ll continue. I sure wish someone would send me to a spa in Bali or something.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I’m going to Virginia
this weekend and buying a plant, maybe two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<![endif]-->Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-15045360183943920462017-04-18T11:44:00.001-04:002017-04-18T11:44:40.397-04:00On the Road: Havana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJJ6Ys9u8Rom60PAKS1twC3E0f_ypL6rbOjqtcRwlhfo0Hx9QiCBi5KfFJApeUNGvKMtO85CltEUnFOzgxZvWzI6pHgJCqKLf49bDZ8EwmRezAdHLiCJSBQC9MjctW4_E4JnysBD9bXgU/s1600/DSC09920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDJJ6Ys9u8Rom60PAKS1twC3E0f_ypL6rbOjqtcRwlhfo0Hx9QiCBi5KfFJApeUNGvKMtO85CltEUnFOzgxZvWzI6pHgJCqKLf49bDZ8EwmRezAdHLiCJSBQC9MjctW4_E4JnysBD9bXgU/s320/DSC09920.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<strong><i>for mylittlebird.com</i> </strong><br />
<br />
<strong>THE AIR IN HAVANA</strong> is sweet on Thursdays, laundry
day. The scent of fabric softener from sheets flapping on lines strung
across balconies and streets overwhelms the malaise of diesel exhaust
from the candy-colored 1950s cars and various claptrap, pasted-together
vehicles that tootle about the narrow streets. They are, these cars,
just as fantastic as you’ve heard.<br />
<br />
If I were to go to Havana
again, instead of pants I’d pack a skirt. Something swinging, colorful,
sparkling with sequins that would swish along in time to the beat of the
streets and catch the sun. <i>Hola!</i> I’d echo the call of the people I met; <i>Trump he loco!</i> which is invariably the second thing said. Si, si, Trump he loco.<br />
<br />
They
may not have much, but they do have cable TV, Florida stations
overdubbed in Spanish, so we non-Spanish speakers know something
important is happening, like Chuck Schumer is weeping, but we’re not
sure exactly why. Commercials are untouched, in English, delivered
without irony. Cheerios, Crest smiles, Shield your home, the Slomin
shield. Dial 1-800-alarm me.<br />
This winter, The Prince and I flew to Havana to celebrate a Rather Large Birthday. His.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I’d
been trying for months to pin him down on where he’d like to go, to
wallow in his sorrow at another decade passed with no switchplate in the
upstairs hallway. Oh wait, that’s my wallow.<br />
It was difficult to
hoist him out of this year’s funk; you know, those drumbeats of
approaching death thrum more loudly as the years go galumphing by.<br />
<br />
I
dangled Paris, Cuba, Amsterdam, Cuba, the moors of Yorkshire, Cuba,
Quebec. . . . We were at Banana Café, which happens to be a Cuban
restaurant on Capitol Hill, scarfing down carnitas and awash in
margaritas, when he had a Eureka! moment. “Let’s go to Cuba,” he said.<br />
<br />
I
suppose it’s clear that I encouraged this. Old cars, older buildings,
the ocean. What better time than now, when Havana is on the verge of
being: a) destroyed by swarms of obese American families in their
matching plaid shorts searching for Starbucks in the land of café
cubano; b) dropped back behind a rusted curtain by our fercocked
administration; or c) closed off to us by <i>their </i>fercocked
administration, because of our fercocked administration. Fercocked being
Yiddish for, I’ll let you guess what it means. And you’re right!<br />
<br />
Anyway,
I sighed with relief that a decision had finally been made. Have I
mentioned that this was less than two weeks before his birthday? And
that he did not want to go with a tour, waddling along like obedient
duckies behind a leader, possibly with a whistle and whip? Was it even
possible to do, given the time and travel restrictions and visas and so
on?<br />
<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
It took all of a couple of hours, thanks to
Ronald, the Corinthian leather voice on the other end of my phone call
to JetBlue. Don’t bother trying to get information online about
traveling solo to Cuba, you’ll give yourself scurvy. Travel agents, by
the way, are as yet barred from making your arrangements. Just phone
JetBlue, as I found out through a happy accident that’s too convoluted
to bother explaining.<br />
<br />
Here’s the drill: You give Ronald your
passport information, and fill out an online form swearing under penalty
of I-know-not-what to your absolutely legitimate reasons for visiting
Cuba. The categories are loose: religious activities (so tempting to
proselytize about something), humanitarian project, support for the
Cuban people. About the only thing it seems you can’t do, so far as the
US Government is concerned, is just go bake on the beach. I checked
“journalist,” which is true, and he a restoration carpenter wanting a
firsthand view of the architecture, which is also true. No one ever
asked us for proof, before, during or after.<br />
<br />
Then we flew to Fort
Lauderdale, the launching point for all JetBlue flights Cuba bound. We
picked up a visa at the airport (there’s a guy selling them for $50
approximately four inches from our departure gate) and took off for
Havana. (American Airlines has Havana flights out of Newark and Miami
International. Same deal with the close-at-hand visas.)<br />
<br />
If it was
this easy, I tell myself now, I would have booked fewer than nine days
in the city and come up with some excuse for lying on a beach; surely
there’s architecture to be seen, a story to tell, but it seemed so
intimidating, groping along in the dark, fiddling with pages of web
warnings and government-speak. If we were caught out in mild fudging
would we face a firing squad? Guantanamo and waterboarding?<br />
<br />
Having
had a fantastic time with Air B&B in Rome last year, I gave it a
try here. If you haven’t booked an Air B&B stay, it can be a great
alternative to a hotel. In Italy we had a completely modern, wonderfully
private one-bedroom apartment in a 2,000-year-old building in
Trastevere, with a delightful terrace with orange trees scenting the
air.<br />
<br />
There are some charming apartments and rooms and homes to be
had in Havana—one in particular whispered to me, white curtains
billowing in a breeze from the sea. All of them were booked. We ended up
with a room in Sol’s flat. He’s short and plump at the center, with
stick legs and arms, like a child’s drawing of a man. Since he wears one
each day, he apparently has a wardrobe of oversize sleeveless T-shirts,
huge in the arm holes, to wear with a pair of khaki Banana Republic
Bermuda shorts with a rip in the seat.<br />
<br />
Sol speaks little English
despite 12 years in the US, where he may or may not be a citizen, since
we communicated mainly via charades. A chef in Miami, he moved back home
to Havana about a year ago, bringing his sleek leather Roche Bobois
sofa. The rest of his apartment was furnished with a mix of grandma’s
castoffs, plastic flowers and Marilyn Monroe posters. Adding a <em>frisson</em>
of danger were electrical wires hung over the bathtub that had
something to do with hot water. There was not a hanger or a peg for our
clothes, and the air that floated down a shaft into our room held both
mold spores and bird effluvia.<br />
<br />
However, Sol made me chicken soup
when I had Fidel’s revenge one day, and bought The Prince a birthday
cake, which was delicious, and sang Happy Birthday in a Broadway-quality
voice. And it was cheap, about $75 a night including a lethal afternoon
cocktail Sol invented called the Osvaldo, after the upstairs neighbor
who once had a very, very bad day. There was also the occasional
breakfast or snack, and it was centrally located, just a block and a
half from the Malecon, Havana’s famed oceanfront promenade. (The ocean,
by the way, is not swimmable in Havana, just dramatic. Sometimes it
leaps the wall and floods the streets).<br />
<br />
There are three main
parts to the city. The center, where we were staying, is third-world
residential but with magnificent, jaw-dropping architecture. It looks as
if bombs have gone off. Palm trees grow out of missing roofs, walls are
falling down. People live here, restoring portions of buildings,
carving out a habitable niche. There are little home-based businesses
everywhere: nail salons, barbers, food vendors, operating out of
doorways. The bakery across the street, which made that birthday cake,
operates on the second floor of a row house, which has French doors to a
catwalk balcony that remain open all day. The cakes and rolls are sold
from a tiny stall in the ground-floor entry.<br />
<br />
There are carts
loaded with fruits, people riding bikes and holding poles dangling with
loaves of bread for sale, and stores selling strange assortments of not
much: a vacuum cleaner sharing a store window with a black-haired doll
in a ruffled dress and a wrench. Spices are considered a fine house
gift, though why there’s a cumin shortage is anyone’s guess. But the
food everywhere was strikingly mediocre and every meal took forever to
get through—three-hour lunches were normal, most of that waiting to
order and then waiting to pay the bill, severely limiting the time you
have to do anything else.<br />
<br />
Along the Malecon, a young woman,
standing in the window of her house, watches her mother (presumably) as
she jounces a well-wrapped infant. My Prince wanders near, gurgling as
he does whenever he sees a baby, and the older woman smilingly hands him
the baby. They coo at each other. We have a photo. Imagine that in
Washington.<br />
<br />
The cars were everything you imagined. Most were from
the 1950s, bulbous of fender and huge. Some remodeled, most carefully,
others inventively—Cadillac limos with the tops chopped off, painted
flamingo pink. You can hail them like taxis, though they tend to be
pricy. Far cheaper, and in their way more fun, are the pedicabs.
Everyone expects you to bargain a bit.<br />
<br />
Dogs scurry about
self-importantly. They’re amusing to watch, but don’t touch them. They
are not friendly and are inbred to the point where most seem to be the
same medium-size brown dog.<br />
Besides the dog(s), there is no sense
of danger here. This is particularly shocking because almost everyone
is wandering around with wads of cash, credit cards being worse than
iffy. Even when a shop or restaurant says it takes them, an
American card might not go through. A friend suggested we carry $1,500
in cash, which turned out to be far more than sufficient for a nine-day
stay for the two of us, including all meals, the purchase of a Che
Guevara T-shirt, $100 worth of cigars and a couple of bottles of Cuban
rum. In fact, the entire trip, with lodging and airfare, scarcely
topped $2,000.<br />
<br />
At the eastern end is the old part of the city,
which for some reason is called Habana, with a “b,” a distinction I
still don’t understand. As you’ll endlessly hear, Hemingway haunted the
cafés in this part of town. El Floridita and La Bodeguita del Medio are
now haunted by tourists. The Capitol building is here, a ringer for
ours, and fortresses with moats, charming squares and cafés, a
smattering of interesting shops and galleries, fortune tellers, and
stilt walkers in ruffled sleeves. This area is slowly undergoing a
terrific revitalization—they’re determined not to turn the city into a
theme park. While still largely a shambles, buildings are being
restored, restaurants and cafés are lively, and some gorgeous old hotels
are being rejuvenated, the sort with central courtyards, dripping with
greenery and open to the sky. The Hotel Florida was particular eye
candy. There were spanking new ones too, very modern and Euro-cool,
though rather expensive. Craving a non-threatening shower, we tried to
skip out on old Sol midway through our stay. One desk clerk quoted $400
per night, adding mournfully, “It’s much cheaper booked on line.”<br />
<br />
Good luck with that. Internet and phone service are spotty. It was refreshing to do entirely without.<br />
The
newer part of the city, the main business and financial district, is in
the west. This is where Sinatra, Bogart and Ava Gardner used to hang,
hopping over by boat or plane from Key West, just 100 miles away. The
Hotel Nacional, a replica of The Breakers in Palm Beach, built in 1930,
sits on a point with a fabulous view. It’s a national monument, and
considered (by Cubans) a five-star hotel, but it’s government-operated
and a little dingy and sad, resembling the movie-set lobby of the Grand
Budapest Hotel, when it was in decline. There are a number of museums
worth seeing; the magnificent Napoleon Museum, for one, features
splendid artwork, weapons—and the emperor’s unimaginably tiny armor. But
the 125-acre Colón Cemetery, where Christopher Columbus was once
interred, is sadly neglected, with tombs caved in and vaults ravaged,
and the Quinta de Molina, a small botanic garden, has seen better
days—though it has some engaging caged birds.<br />
<br />
I’m tempted to say
if we did this again I’d go for one of the grand hotels in the old city.
However, Sol’s place and those of his neighbors were amazing
experiences, if only in retrospect. We felt, for those days and nights,
like residents of Havana, a feeling that could not be replicated by a
stay in more traditional confines.<br />
<br />
But, no matter where you stay
or dine or what you do, keep in mind that this is not a luxury
destination. Don’t bother complaining about hot water, lumpy beds and
slow service. Don’t drink the water either. As a reviewer on Trip
Advisor perfectly summed up a review of one fine old hotel, giving it
four stars: “Before I start, remember this hotel is in Havana. There
are bits falling off the wall in the bedroom and the breakfast is
different, to say the least.”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwD94GM-DfN-YPwU6o04qsSjw-nseullfoKlugvokPeGDtMsWpEuQM3JwjeDz-QSkTXLGZRBJeQQOIxyLL7cIBa59fFWKeuFtJxTIyUEw6WttJB_8ezfgfn3B9I-Dg1_-zeJ29JOhcuHbk/s1600/DSC09920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwD94GM-DfN-YPwU6o04qsSjw-nseullfoKlugvokPeGDtMsWpEuQM3JwjeDz-QSkTXLGZRBJeQQOIxyLL7cIBa59fFWKeuFtJxTIyUEw6WttJB_8ezfgfn3B9I-Dg1_-zeJ29JOhcuHbk/s320/DSC09920.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Four-stars in Havana might not be
what you’re expecting. Roll with it, but do it soon: The
mega-cruise ships are arriving shortly; can a Day’s Inn be far behind?Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-52046069990833030802017-04-18T11:37:00.001-04:002017-04-18T11:45:12.143-04:00Fabulous Finds<i><a href="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Chair2web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" class="wp-image-19726 size-full img-fluid" height="504" src="https://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/Chair2web.jpg" width="378" /></a></i><b>for Mylittlebird.com </b><br />
<br />
<b>I’D MUCH RATHER</b> find things than buy them. If I wait long enough, what I want usually appears, though I might not know I want it until it does.<br />
<br />
Whatever
it is will be lying about in discarded splendor, or given to me (since
people know I have a magpie’s delight in cast-offs, the shinier the
better,) and would be quite satisfactory or even better than what I
might have bought. This is why I rarely buy anything (besides food—I
have yet to dumpster-dive for celery and steak).<br />
<br />
There are
wonderful wrought-iron Alice in Wonderland chairs in the dining room
that once belonged to actor John Heard’s mother, Helen, a long-ago
friend who gave them to us (please don’t tell her son, he might want to
snatch them back). She also gave us a pen-and-ink drawing of a race
horse that may or may not be Important, but that I happen to like.<br />
<br />
The
chair backs are high ovals with the metalwork knitted into a loose
basket weave. They were a tad rusty, which is both good and bad. If your
back itches you can rub up against them, which feels good. Doing so in
your best cashmere sweater is bad.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Despite Princely huffing and
puffing, I didn’t bother buffing out the rust. I sprayed them with red
primer—as I’d read somewhere that red is the undercoat for gold leafing,
which you can see for yourself if you have a gold-leafed object that’s
sufficiently worn, or maybe has a nick or dent that exposes the layers.<br />
<br />
Over
the red I sprayed antique gold, thereby creating a gilded effect. There
were no seats, so you could conceivably insert a chamber pot and turn
one into a powder room, if you were so moved. Instead, we (and I say
this loosely) inserted rounds of plywood topped with foam and
leopard-printed velvet. I should like to describe this in French while
waving a jeweled cigarette holder, which would sound most exotic.<br />
<br />
This
is in line with the way we’ve acquired most of our chairs. Among them
are two made of teak—wide of seat and needing just a bit of glue in the
leg joints and a coat of taupish stain—that we picked up on the sidewalk
walking home from dinner one night and that now occupy the front porch
most handsomely.<br />
<br />
A wing chair, covered in black linen with a
muted floral pattern, a hint of red, a little gold, showed up among the
Sunday-night garbage cans in Rehoboth Beach. It’s in the living room
beside the fireplace. Happy as a cat.<br />
<br />
<div class="wp-caption alignright" id="attachment_19726" style="width: 388px;">
<div class="wp-caption-text">
<i></i></div>
</div>
The
brown leather club chair that sits for no particular reason (no one
ever sits in it) in front of a Chinese screen in a corner of the dining
room was found waving at us from a pile at the Washington dump, on a
trip to get rid of some detritus or other. At least we were tossing
something as we were acquiring.<br />
<br />
Most recently appeared a pair of
iron outdoor chairs, photographed here and on the front, and found
deposited in a nearby alley. For the trash.<br />
<br />
Can you imagine tossing such treasure?<br />
<br />
The
wonderful busyness of the iron, the mesh of patterns, so pleasing.
Particularly delightful in the gloom of a foggy morning a few minutes
into spring. And the color! How perfectly coordinated is verdigris to
the hint of rust where the hand rubs the arms, and along the edges of
the seat. Not the color so much as their wabi-sabi* mood.<br />
<br />
These
chairs had been in storage, who knows where. They are intended to fold,
but are rusted open. I’d like to see them hanging on hooks on some wall,
maybe in our basement guest room that is insisting on developing a
Mediterranean style: beamed ceiling, whitewashed brick walls,
concrete floor stained to an agreeably mottled burnt sienna hue.<br />
<br />
It
would be nice if the French doors could be flung open to a patio and
not the underside of the back porch where ages of bikes are heaped,
waiting for someone here to be inspired to oil one, inflate the tires,
climb on and ride, which is neither here nor there but unlikely to
happen.<br />
<br />
My Prince, pinching his nose and going all authoritative,
says these chairs must be sanded and the rust spots primed and he will
get to them soon, or shortly after he gets to everything else that needs
fixing. Perhaps he can even make them open and shut. And no, I can’t do
it because I’ll just make my usual mess.<br />
<br />
Which is so.<br />
<br />
On
the other hand, it’s amazing what a can of spray paint can do. It’s been
20 years since Helen gave us the dining-room chairs and that they’re
nothing more than gilded rust the Prince has conveniently forgotten.<br />
Anyway,
the end of a perfect afternoon: At lunch yesterday at LittleBird
Nancy’s house, I happened to complain about my hip pain, which could of
course simply be misplaced back pain. Which is neither here nor there.
Anyway, I was whining, and Nancy started talking about an episode in
France last fall when friends she was traveling with got tired of her
limping and wheezing and ran out and bought her a cane (two canes,
actually, but that’s a whole other story). Nancy popped up from the
sofa, looked around her cluttered living room and spotted one of the
canes sticking out from behind . . . something. What a difference a cane
makes when you’re limping around in pain!<br />
<br />
I happily gimped down
the street to my car and back to Capitol Hill, with another successful
found object in my possession, received rather than purchased. No spray
paint required.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>—Stephanie Cavanaugh</i></div>
<br />
*Wabi-sabi
is an actual term, neither made-up nor Yiddish. It’s a Japanese
concept, an acceptance of transience and imperfection. This excellent
thought lets you affect an artsy posture when you just don’t feel like
fixing something.Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-78850146142251547352017-04-18T11:34:00.000-04:002017-04-18T11:45:44.696-04:00The Swedes Invade Georgetown<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdL2tGzVGdGw5mgYyPCXFK70jwPlEUmcGbE4AiV4oxQnlKant_dsi3HC8uTfymCb6CckcS8ct7i0p5Mv5wDH_FXj3dtFvMJYMp8dhTRc0f3IhNLUjZTrDBy6IKgI-uHjxk45wJaHlKdI0R/s1600/%2526+other+stories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdL2tGzVGdGw5mgYyPCXFK70jwPlEUmcGbE4AiV4oxQnlKant_dsi3HC8uTfymCb6CckcS8ct7i0p5Mv5wDH_FXj3dtFvMJYMp8dhTRc0f3IhNLUjZTrDBy6IKgI-uHjxk45wJaHlKdI0R/s320/%2526+other+stories.jpg" width="320" /></a><b><i>for mylittlebird.com </i></b><br />
<br />
<b>THERE’S IKEA, </b>H&M and <a href="http://www.simonandschuster.com/books/A-Man-Called-Ove/Fredrik-Backman/9781476738024" target="_blank"><i>A Man Called Ove</i></a>,
the best-selling “feel good” novel by Swedish writer Fredrik Backman.
And don’t forget hygge, the trendy yet unpronounceable Scandinavian word
that covers comfort in food, furnishings and clothes.<br />
<br />
Now, enter <a href="http://www.cosstores.com/us/" target="_blank">COS</a> and <a href="http://www.stories.com/us/" target="_blank">& Other Stories</a>, higher-end siblings of H&M, flagship of cheap chic, just opened in Georgetown. It’s a Scandinavian invasion.<br />
<br />
COS,
which has taken over the Benetton store at the corner of Wisconsin and
M, NW, wears an air of paranoia entirely suited to today’s DC. No photos
please! Any questions go to PR.<br />
<br />
One
manager, who told us nearly nothing, gave his first name only, and
looked nervous about it, so we’ll keep it to ourselves. More forthcoming
was a black-clad cool salesman who was too excited about the wares to
zip it. Another manager, forehead scrunched into worry lines, asked if
the salesman had given his name and when we said no, she said “good. We
need clearance from PR.” We just smiled and admitted our disobedience.<br />
<br />
The
space is dazzling, with large windows, bleached floors and minimalist
displays —a few of each item hang from racks with signs telling you to
just ask if you don’t see your size or color.<br />
Men’s and women’s
clothing are arranged on three levels; for now, kid stuff is only
available online or in the brand’s Los Angeles location. There are
suits, dresses, shoes and accessories, with the highest price point a
suit for $295 and the lowest, $9 for a pair of sparkle socks. The lines
are clean and classic, many of the styles are comfortably oversized, at
least for women. The menswear runs more to the schoolboy chic look of <a href="https://www.thombrowne.com/" target="_blank">Thom Browne</a>, on a budget.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Sophisticated garb at an affordable price point.<br />
<br />
We
stopped a 40-something browser in the men’s department, a neat dresser
in a down vest and thick rimmed black hipster glasses. It was “cool,” he
said in thickly accented English. “We don’t have this in Russia.”<br />
<br />
The
colors for spring are traditional: navy, black, white and gray, with
pops of candy orange. I’m told, though this is apparently top secret,
that the colors change with the seasons.<br />
<br />
For summer, a totally unforgiving but smashing black maillot is a mere $49. A
brilliant orange bikini that should suit your inner Ursula
Andress—remember the white one she wore in Dr. No?— is $35 for the top,
$25 for the bottom. A diving knife is not included.<br />
<br />
Several tops
are in bold black-and-white stripes, good for playing pirate or Piaf.
One dangled from a hanger in the hand of Jane Rodman, who’s 72 and
visiting from Toronto. She raved about the store, “I like the simple
lines and the beautiful colors,” she said, admiring her find. ‘My
daughter-in-law will be proud of me.”<br />
<br />
Around the corner, across
from Georgetown Park, is & Other Stories, where you can arrive in
your PJs and depart dressed and made-up for a night of clubbing—and snap
up a pair of copper-framed sunglasses to hide your blood-shot eyes the
morning after.<br />
<br />
The huge industrial warehouse-styled space has everything from makeup to shoes and jewelry. Though it skews a bit <i>jeune fille</i>,
there are finds. Particularly fetching, for those with slim hips, are
ballet pink, wide-leg pants, with pockets ($95) for your Ginger Rogers’
moments. Pair these with a matching pink sweater, or a contrasting one
in black ($55), or be slinky in a pink cami trimmed with black lace
($55).<br />
<br />
Add tough chic lace-up black leather boots with lethal
heels and toes, or pad about in slippers as soft as gloves, with the
backs broken down flat, as if you’ve been schlumping about in something a
mite too small. The shop’s so new the prices don’t all include U.S.
dollars—if you’re adept at exchange rates, they’re 79 Euros or 790
krona.<br />
<br />
I’d wrap up the look with a gorgeous navy trench with a
bath wrap belt— of indeterminate price and fabric, though I’d guess
rayon again. It’s effortlessly slinky and looking like it cost far more
than it does, whatever that is.<br />
<br />
A large makeup department
sells house-brand cosmetics, including the glitteriest gold nail polish
we’ve ever seen for $9 and a gold body oil for $29. Also, a selection of
body washes, scrubs and lotions make a last-minute gift shopper’s life
easy. Shimmery socks ($12 for 3 pair) and inexpensive jewelry are placed
strategically around the store. Impulse purchases encouraged.Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-49103395739363866732017-03-02T12:01:00.000-05:002017-04-18T11:45:56.457-04:00Flower Power in Philadelphia!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ETKhjEvSdlJnOQhkxsHfRFnbC90IgMOcgNB7UkOzgBUiVlTEkkpuN4L25AyJnnSI1y3M-gBfLpaLltfEcEMigcr_iAV4YsUcNO3DSJqOuNGqm-9OQ0-e42urRPcCvQr0HVaaPVBxkM1d/s1600/flower+show+image+courtesy+phila+flower+show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ETKhjEvSdlJnOQhkxsHfRFnbC90IgMOcgNB7UkOzgBUiVlTEkkpuN4L25AyJnnSI1y3M-gBfLpaLltfEcEMigcr_iAV4YsUcNO3DSJqOuNGqm-9OQ0-e42urRPcCvQr0HVaaPVBxkM1d/s400/flower+show+image+courtesy+phila+flower+show.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i>for mylittlebird.com</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Washington
continues its march toward the most floriferous spring in memory, with</div>
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cherry trees, daffodils, and tulips beginning to bloom, and
mock orange, hydrangeas, and</div>
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roses leafing out months ahead of schedule. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Usually this unnatural combination of flowers is only
visible at the Philadelphia Flower</div>
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Show, where city-sized plots manicured by top designers brim
with fantasy: Full grown</div>
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trees, waterfalls, and ponds, and plants that never bloom
together are nurtured to peak in</div>
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time for a floral extravaganza.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Each year has a theme. This time it’s Amsterdam, and a “controlled chaos” of
flowers,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
according to the press release. Wander under a bridge
inspired by the Dutch canals and</div>
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decorated with Delft
tile, brim-full flower boxes, and hanging baskets, and enter</div>
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the centerpiece of the show, a floral canopy of more than
6,000 cut and dried flowers</div>
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hovering above thousands of tulips, fritillaria, narcissus,
and anemones.</div>
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There will be many demonstrations and lectures
and special events, including competitions, wherein the truly anal demonstrate
their ability to spend the winter bringing their azaleas and whatnots into
premature flowering perfection; and displays of miniature gardens with gnomes
and itty bitty twig cottages that make my skin crawl, but that is neither here
nor there; new this year is a “spa experience,” for some reason.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMgbb5CRmnllnPk5rKicxKQqomjkkR1AOfQcBtqKg8Dv9wzEHBzeZpmiwNzCeHMTz_kDR7-wrDrrAnqzltAKmrn_Vbq_9mYznm7OcTJHk89giugHL5Pbv75VlaIcBr7t2nEccJ0kKLVBX/s1600/flower+show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMgbb5CRmnllnPk5rKicxKQqomjkkR1AOfQcBtqKg8Dv9wzEHBzeZpmiwNzCeHMTz_kDR7-wrDrrAnqzltAKmrn_Vbq_9mYznm7OcTJHk89giugHL5Pbv75VlaIcBr7t2nEccJ0kKLVBX/s320/flower+show.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
There are always flower boxes dazzling in their
inventiveness, marvelously inspirational, with so many tricks to try that
sadly, more often than not, don’t pan out. Like inserting vases and margarita
glasses to loft your display and add color and whimsy. The less said about my experiment
with that, the better. Suffice it to say you have to be willing to stand in
front of your personal display and keep adjusting and watering for four or five
months.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In normal years, you leave the show panting for spring,
knowing it’s weeks away and</div>
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there’s nothing to look forward to but pale sun and chilly
drizzle. So you stick your nose</div>
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in a gardening book or two and day dream this years
impossibilities; oh my goodness</div>
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how this and that will look – dreams that ultimately lead to
what do I do about the damn</div>
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black spot. Again.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ah, but this year, this year… there’s already a flower show
happening outside your door – a chaos that just needs to be controlled, and the
Philadelphia Flower Show is just the place to go for the brightest ideas
on<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>how to do that.</div>
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If you haven’t been before, play hooky from work and visit
on a weekday; it’s marginally less crowded, though there are more strollers to
trip over. The show runs from</div>
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March 11 through the 19th, with adult tickets priced at $28
if purchased online, $35 at the</div>
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box office, and additional discounts for children and
students</div>
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<a href="https://theflowershow.com/plan-your-%20visit/show-info/">https://theflowershow.com/plan-your-
visit/show-info/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Philadelphia
has this event down to a science. There are plenty of lots for parking, or</div>
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take the train, which I did one year. You get off and clear
signs (!) lead you to the subway, which scoots you directly to the Convention
Center. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Take a break for a cheese steak at the classic food market
next door and return to the</div>
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shopping area for garden ornaments and tools, books, bulbs,
plants, and cut stems.</div>
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Curly willow is a particular favorite of mine, with twisted
stems four feet tall in red or</div>
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green. The branches are occasionally available locally, for
about twice the price, so</div>
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they’re worth schlepping.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Stick them dry in a vase and they’ll stay until you start
sneezing from the dust, which</div>
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could take years depending on your housekeeping. Better
still, trim a bit off the stem</div>
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ends and stick them in water and within a couple of weeks
they’ll leaf out most</div>
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beautifully, a stunning tabletop display. </div>
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<br /></div>
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They let down a mass of roots and theoretically you can
plant them. I have had absolutely</div>
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no success with this, though I’ve seen them growing outside
a florist in Old Town so I</div>
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know it can be done. I suspect it may be a Gay Thing, as
some things just are. You know?</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is a also variety of philodendron that I’ve only seen
at the show that is sold in a</div>
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bunch of foot long branches or stems. If you can snag a few
of these, stick them in water</div>
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and they’ll grow for years, eventually poking at the
ceiling, with absolutely no care</div>
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whatsoever. They make an outstanding display in spots where
you want a fuss free and</div>
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really dramatic accent.</div>
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<br /></div>
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One thing to avoid is the plumeria, and it will be tough to
do. The flowers are like small</div>
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orchids and the smell is so heady and tropical that you can
pass out at a whiff. There are</div>
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always sweet little Hawaiian women, so trustworthy,
grandmotherly looking, peddling</div>
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these sticks, shyly smiling and swearing that there’s
nothing to growing them. Just stick it in soil and you’ll be rewarded with a
paradise of sight and scent. They lie.</div>
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<br /></div>
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While you will faithfully water and croon over that stick,
months will pass before it sends</div>
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forth a single green leaf, which will slowly blacken and the
whole thing will rot and be</div>
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tossed in the trash.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Consider yourself warned. Now go!</div>
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<br /></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-58103928968424499142016-09-22T12:53:00.003-04:002017-04-18T11:46:42.709-04:00I See A Little Fertilizer in Your Future<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUiFwf2-uByR8noQVU0cHBPie1gKnEkgaIB2nGklhv3bXqxSFdoNUQdluHpRF9RzN9-PjwXNi-hnl-oZOi6daTUGBwvwFLC9BnjjDx4UeU784YhiscSYrpyO3CDQRrDFEqttfRzypLM15/s1600/crystal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNUiFwf2-uByR8noQVU0cHBPie1gKnEkgaIB2nGklhv3bXqxSFdoNUQdluHpRF9RzN9-PjwXNi-hnl-oZOi6daTUGBwvwFLC9BnjjDx4UeU784YhiscSYrpyO3CDQRrDFEqttfRzypLM15/s320/crystal.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<h4 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #141412; font-family: crimson, serif; line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<b style="box-sizing: border-box;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">For My Little Bird</span></i></b></h4>
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<b style="box-sizing: border-box;">AMONG THE MANY</b> questions I have never been asked is why there is a small crystal ball suspended from a rather grimy pink string hanging from the broken lamp that occupies a sizable section of my desk.</div>
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It is possibly the most useless piece of gardening equipage in my arsenal of gardening implements.</div>
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Equipage, by the way, and since I just double-checked with Encarta, means: “The equipment and supplies needed for an undertaking, especially a military expedition.”</div>
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Which about sums up gardening tools, yes?</div>
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The crystal is supposed to sense the plant’s desires, the which way it wants to nestle into the pot or the earth. The “do I need water or not.” The hunger for an 8-0-24 or 10-10-10 fertilizer.</div>
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All you need to do is hold the string (allowing enough string for it to dangle freely) with a weight suspended (I use a crystal since I happen to have such things handy, but anything with just enough heft to keep the string taut will do) between thumb and forefinger above whichever plant is troubling you.<br />
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Amazon offers a rather <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Natural-Amethyst-Crystal-Pendulum-Charged/dp/B002Y2NJWS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1474425311&sr=8-1&keywords=healing+crystal+pendulum" target="_blank">pretty amethyst number</a> that is “12 Facet Reiki Charged,” which could mean it’s a good deal, for $5.20, chain and shipping included. 547 customers gave it 4.5 stars. 15 questions are answered.</div>
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Now hold it steady and ask, for instance, “Is this planted in the right direction?”</div>
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Wait a bit and slooowly the weight will begin to rotate, circling to the right if the direction is correct, to the left if it is not. (Left, is always incorrect, unless we’re discussing politics, when it’s frequently right. And who’s on first, I might add).</div>
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Given time, the pendulum will begin to swing round and round, sometimes hesitantly, as if the petunia or mum is uncertain of its desires, and other times it swoops about with wild abandon, as if to say, “Now you’re talking!”</div>
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In either event, if it circles left, turn the plant in some direction or other and ask again. Continue until you get it spinning right.</div>
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If the health of a plant is suspicious—maybe it is looking forlorn, or even drooping dramatically—do not ask, “Are you dead?” If the answer is yes, it is clearly lying. (But why would it, you’re probably wondering. I don’t think you want to know the answer; lying plants are just unfathomable.)</div>
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Instead ask, “Would you care for a drink?” or, perhaps, “More sun?” If there is no response, you can then assume it dead and dispose of it.</div>
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Such divining, as it’s technically called, can also be done over vegetables and fruits in the supermarket and is particularly helpful with those that are challenging and expensive, the ones that are particularly frustrating when you get them home and find them . . . inadequate. Take, for instance, honeydew melon, a constant cause of irritation, as its ripeness is particularly difficult to gauge. Just dangle your weight above one and ask, “Are you ripe?” Now stand there quietly, with your string and your weight (as people stare at you like you’re completely insane) and wait for the response.</div>
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You can also try this with daily life issues as well, like: Should I get a divorce? Eat a bacon sandwich? Take a nap?</div>
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This technique was learned as part of a session of past life therapy that I tried some (many) years ago, as a completely rational alternative to traditional therapy and the expenditure of countless dollars. During the session various things appeared, including a horse, apples, a lake, a cave, some great black clothing and really terrific hair.</div>
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I also learned the divining trick, which is, if nothing else, diverting.</div>
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Would that it worked when dangled over My Prince.</div>
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Namaste.</div>
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Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-31146389038797200832016-07-23T12:06:00.003-04:002017-04-18T11:47:08.189-04:00Green Acre Lucky #13: From Trash to Treasure<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #141412; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 16px/1.6 crimson, serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px 0px 24px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmG9mBlgY93dDGGf_taD5wLHL9JDZ_Tgvxe5mX5DhH15AcZu8nRJhyphenhyphenW6lij1j-aG0gu3o2aCwx6o4J83hA-_ymKeCPZhyphenhyphenV2Sb3AAOv1TMBDLz6z-Bz8aaJ6Y18H1zcO1IOkgQhAogG7uAx/s1600/terracotta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmG9mBlgY93dDGGf_taD5wLHL9JDZ_Tgvxe5mX5DhH15AcZu8nRJhyphenhyphenW6lij1j-aG0gu3o2aCwx6o4J83hA-_ymKeCPZhyphenhyphenV2Sb3AAOv1TMBDLz6z-Bz8aaJ6Y18H1zcO1IOkgQhAogG7uAx/s320/terracotta.jpg" width="244" /></a><b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;"></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://mylittlebird.com/2016/07/green-acre-lucky-13-from-trash-to-treasure/" target="_blank">for MYLITTLEBIRD.COM</a></span></i></div>
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<b style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">SOMETIMES, AND BY THIS</b><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I mean almost daily, the design pages of the New York Times provoke me to scream,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Are you out of your minds!?</i></div>
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And I say this fondly, being an ex-New Yorker, born and raised and schooled and—to demonstrate my street cred—once able to tell at a glance a real Gucci bit on a shoe from a knock-off, and consider this essential information.</div>
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I am looking at a planter by designer Huy Bui, who wears what might impolitely be called a shit-eating grin in the photo that accompanies the interview, as well he should. It’s really a terrarium and it’s constructed of oak strips that you mount yourself, “like Lego blocks,” he says, on a charred wood base, whatever that is. Part of his<a href="http://www.homemade-nyc.com/products/copy-of-the-lowline-edition" style="background: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #555555; text-decoration: underline; transition: 0.15s linear;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Homemade Collection,”</a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>it can sit on your tabletop for $850.</div>
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I think, I’m in fact sure, the parts for something like this are lurking in our garage, or possibly the basement. Maybe the attic.</div>
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For your outdoor space, Mr. Bui suggests<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/19/realestate/shopping-guide-planters.html?_r=0" style="background: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #555555; text-decoration: underline; transition: 0.15s linear;">various planters</a>, including one with “deep asymmetrical ripples,” called the Babylon. Designed by Harry and Camila for Dedon, “it comes in four sizes, the largest more than three feet tall—ideal for a tree.” It costs $1,385 and is made of polyethylene.<br />
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Nestling near our pond, in a collection of ferns, is a gorgeous terracotta number with deep asymmetrical ripples. It’s more than three feet tall, ideal for a tree. The Prince brought it home from who knows what sidewalk last year—it’s now growing a fine furze of moss, which is a lovely touch, and also very<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">en trende</i>, according to Bui.</div>
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(Furze, I am informed by the editor is a kind of gorse, a rather thorny plant, and not a spread of soft fuzz, which is what it sounds like. Doesn’t it? Well, that is what editors are for.)</div>
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<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Furz</i>, upon further investigation, also means fart in German—<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">ein furz</i>. And did you know that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">trump</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>is British slang for fart? That is neither here nor there, but wonderful, I think.</div>
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Now, no one loves pots and planters more than I do—see various posts on the subject—but the most I’ve ever paid for one, and technically it’s not a planter but an Art Deco umbrella stand cunningly redeployed as a fern holder, was a hundred bucks. I considered this a charitable contribution, though alas not a tax write-off, to the legal costs of a couple of guys who got caught selling a minuscule amount of weed, which is also neither here nor there.</div>
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Otherly, the plants that ornament our porches and gardens (my, that sounds a lot grander than it is) were found discarded on the sidewalks, or sticking out of dumpsters, or they were gifts of a sort, as in:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Please take this or I’m throwing it out</i>.</div>
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Generally, all one needs to do to land free stuff is have knowledge of the trash truck timetable for various neighborhoods; of course, the finer the neighborhood the finer the trash.</div>
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Where once Capitol Hill was considered more shabby than chic, and one needed to rummage in Georgetown or Cleveland Park—and we’ve many fine finds from foraging out west—my neighborhood streets are now littered with Bugaboo strollers pushed along by au pairs and nannies endlessly chattering on their cell phones in French, and Spanish, and Chinese, and the restaurant line for Rose’s Luxury stretches hours down the sidewalk.</div>
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Add to that being a rather transient place, what with upheavals of political fame and fortune, and the Hill’s pickings are excellent—you can furnish a house, rather nicely, from the sidewalks.</div>
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I’ve found pots and urns and pedestal bases made of stone and concrete, porcelain and ceramic. The cast-iron pot I discussed several columns ago was a moving giveaway. Weighing easily 100 pounds and valued at around $350 (triple that, probably, in New York) I was very moved, as was my back. It holds a sago palm and summers on the front porch atop another find, this one picked up at curbside, a wonderful stone stand with protruding lion heads that winters in the living room and makes a fine extra seat when magazines aren’t piled on it. I don’t recall which yard sale or alleyway disgorged the Chinese pot on the back porch, with its green leaves dancing with brightly painted butterflies. I am, in fact, amazed that it is not broken.</div>
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<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Who throws this stuff out?</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But they do.</div>
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While New York is in a class of its own for foolish pricing of fantastic junk, Washington also has its moments.</div>
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On a recent meander through the chichi antiques shops of upper Georgetown I encountered a broken plaster pedestal bearing a fancy parchment tag with $350 handwritten in a scrolling script the color of faded blood.</div>
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As it happens, we have a similar broken pedestal, two in fact. Purchased at my favorite Virginia junk shop, Slindy’s of Culpeper (I added that “of Culpeper” to give the place some class), it was not broken when I discovered it, shoved into a dusty shop corner. And it was shoved into that corner because it is not the sort of thing that attracts the typical Slindy’s client, who leans toward Russian military memorabilia and clown paintings on black velvet.</div>
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Therefore, I snapped it up for 10 bucks, figuring it would be a fine perch for my jasmine come winter in my tiny solarium. As such things happen, I carried it out to The Prince’s pick-up truck, which is always handy for such expeditions, and set it down<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">gently</i> on the pavement where it instantly and tragically cracked in half.</div>
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After eying the two segments for some time, I had a eureka moment: shove a plastic water bottle with the top cut off into the pedestal’s neck and make a vase. This is a clever trick, I might add.</div>
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Being a good and generous mother, I gave the other half of this pedestal (valued at $350) to Baby, who has stuffed it with curly willow branches and set it in a corner of her living room in Raleigh, home of fried Twinkies.</div>
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Speaking of brilliant tricks (there will eventually be mention of a garden): That same day in that same shop in Georgetown, I saw a table set with lovely faded purple damask napkins. Eight for $100.</div>
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While I find damask a little fusty in its white form, this color version was delicious. As it happened, I have a drawer full of white damask napkins that I couldn’t bring myself to toss out as they were inherited from my mother.</div>
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So I bought a large bottle of purple Rit dye and for a grand total of $4.98 and I now have eight beautiful napkins—that grow prettier as they fade in the wash.</div>
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Napkin trick: I grew up with and have always used cloth napkins. In cotton or linen they’re so much more pleasant than paper, and not in the least difficult to care for if you handle them the way my mother did: Toss them in the washing machine, fold them in half and pull and pat them flat, then hang them over a rail or a chair back to dry.</div>
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If you do this right, they’ll have just enough rumple that you look, not a slob, but a casually elegant housekeeper. Like someone with a garden in Provence, without the garden. Brilliant, no?</div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-11129682424161836622016-07-07T15:25:00.003-04:002017-04-18T11:47:44.851-04:00<h2 class="entry-title" style="box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: inherit; font-family: crimson, serif; font-size: 40px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 20px 0px 0px;">
Green Acre: Have a Finger? Grow a Plant!</h2>
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JULY 6, 2016</div>
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<figure class="wp-caption aligncenter" id="attachment_17708" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #141412; font-family: crimson, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 100%; width: 1000px;"><figcaption class="wp-caption-text" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #220e10; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 24px; text-align: center;">Tradescantia pallid. / Above and cover photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.</figcaption></figure><br />
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<b style="box-sizing: border-box;">I JUST FLIPPED</b> through 42 Googlets on the care, feeding and propagation of spiderwort—or, as my Jewish grandmother called it, wandering jew. This is the plant least likely to require any instructions whatsoever.</div>
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I have been growing tradescantia pallida (as it’s more haughtily called) since 1972, or thereabouts, when Stan and Betty Gottlieb gave me a sprig snipped on a trip to Jamaica or Trinidad or Aruba. I stuck it in one of the many potted avocado plants that lined the windowsill of the New York apartment I shared with my husband once removed (the Pre-Prince), and it grew.</div>
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Avocado plants raised from pits (stick a couple of toothpicks into the sides and balance on a glass of water until roots emerge) do not usually fruit, at least in northern climes. They are useful as screens, however, in this case softening an unglamorous view of Columbus Avenue (except when Robert Redford, in all his <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Butch Cassidy</i> glory, was playing tennis across the street). They are also fine starter plants for budding gardeners since the process is so stupidly simple.<br />
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Similarly, you really have to work hard to come up with instructions for cultivating spiderwort—which is why it’s amazing that so many people have done so (me included, now it seems).</div>
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Pinch a bit off and stick it in soil.</div>
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They grow in the sun, they grow in the shade, they grow in crappy soil, they can survive an illegal trip home from the Dominican Republic wrapped in a wet bathing suit (got me a variegated variety that way). But they don’t care if it’s dry either.</div>
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Being tropical, they do not survive frost, but a couple of sprigs wintered over in the kitchen window—a glass of water will do, though they won’t protest a little dirt—will grow long and leggy and can be snipped and snipped again and plopped in pots and borders and baskets in spring.</div>
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And sometime around now, when bare spots inevitably appear in the garden or window boxes, you’ll have such an abundance of these leggy sprigs that gaps can be filled instantly and thus: Break off a piece, stick forefinger in soil, insert snipping, tamp soil down. If you feel like watering, do so. If not, it’ll rain soon enough, probably.</div>
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The avocados and the spiderwort, along with my myriad and ultimately ghastly collection of spider (aka chlorophytum) plants, were of a propagation technique called Entirely Accidental, with a result so stunning to the perpetrator (me) that it was, to get Olympian about it, like sticking a Yurchenko vault with 2½ twists (yes, I looked up “most difficult gymnastics vault”).</div>
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Purely as an aside here, the Washington Post says macramé plant hangers, the blight of the 1960s Bohemian look, are back in style. Time to start cultivating the spider plants again, I suppose. Sigh.</div>
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Returning to the subject, it has taken years, nay decades, for me to realize that one can purposely and quite easily propagate other plants, a whole host of them! (I rarely deploy exclamation points, but this one is so deserved.)</div>
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I assumed, when I gave it any thought at all, that anything beyond putting a plant on a windowsill or in a yard and then praying that it would at least live was best left to the experts, someone schooled in the alchemy of grafting and light and fertilization… A British accent helps, or a name like Agatha or Clive. But it was none of the business of mortals.</div>
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Occasionally Agatha or Clive issue mumbled convoluted and entirely inconvenient, messy and possibly dangerous instructions (involving knives) for doing this or that, while no doubt snickering behind a hand.</div>
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For instance, one or the other of them wrote that you can just yank geraniums out before frost and hang them by their roots in the basement or garage (or a closet if you’ve neither) to winter over. So for some years I did that, suspending their withering foliage and dirty feet from wire hangers hung on a basement beam. Many survived but when repotted looked hellish, bent and scrawny and slow to flower, and I’d trudge off to buy new ones.</div>
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And then—how did this happen? I realized that all one has to do is snip a twig of a branch, dip the cut end in some rooting substance (just ask for rooting substance at the garden center) and—as with those wandering jews—stick your finger in a pot, pop in the stem end, water and “Done.” I haven’t bought a geranium in years. If they get leggy-looking, break off a leg and stick it somewhere. Set the pot in a little patch of sun and they will grow. Easy enough?</div>
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However, it took me until now to discover there are all manner of plants this can be done with! (I have to exclaim again here.) And, you don’t necessarily need any special equipment or fancy potting medium—except maybe a pencil or a chopstick if you don’t want to dirty your finger.</div>
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The geraniums and wandering jew have a fat juicy stem in common. If you come across something of similar stem, do the dip and poke and see what happens. This can be done at any time of the year.</div>
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Plants with woody stems take marginally more effort—and apparently, this is the ideal time to do so. Don’t fall asleep here.</div>
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Late spring or early summer—<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">now</i>—is a ripe time for propagation. I found this out after looking for a website on cuttings and coming across this Aussie, who (by the way) called clippers secateurs, which is how I happened to mention them myself last week.</div>
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And I came across the Aussie because I was wandering the street with a stolen stem of I-don’t-know-what but it was pretty, and was halted in my tracks by an actual employed gardener who said, “Where did you get that? Throw it away, it’s poisonous, and don’t touch any orifice”<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">—</i>yes, he said that, and all sorts of visions ensued—”until you’ve thoroughly washed your hands.”</div>
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So as soon as I got home I immediately stuck it in a corner of a window box to see what it will do, and went off to wash. I am fine.</div>
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As I was chatting with the employed gardener, who kept imploring me to ditch my stem and <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Stop wiping the perspiration off my cheeks with my fingers</i> (it was hot out), I asked about propagating and he said, grumpily, “Google ‘cuttings cutting cuttings.’ ” He said that three times, so that’s just what I did.</div>
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And the Aussie, who was the cutest of the lot that popped up, and of course had that accent that proclaimed authority, explained that you want the growth to be new, but firm; not sweet and fragile little buddlings that waver limply, but not so hard that you can’t cut them with the kitchen scissors when you’re not using them to snip chives or cut packing tape or some such. After that, it’s just dip and poke again.</div>
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I brought the question to my favorite Facebook group, Container Gardening Gone to Pot, which I joined many months ago because I was enchanted by the name. Sometimes the postings are less than useful, a photo of someone holding a rose asking, What is this flower? And all the photos of “fairy gardens,” a concept I detest.</div>
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But lurking are fine resources. In this case, after asking the group for suggestions, one reader directed me to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/American-Horticultural-Society-Propagation-Plant/dp/0789441160" style="background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #555555; transition: all 0.15s linear;">Plant Propagation </a>by Alan Toogood ($25.36), published by the American Horticultural Society. Toogood is, among other things, Horticulture Correspondent for the London Times (wouldn’t you just know).<br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.6; text-align: center;">What a delightful encyclopedia of propagation it </span><span style="line-height: 1.6; text-align: center;">is; 318 helpfully illustrated pages covering everything from garden trees to roses, fuchsias to bougainvillea, some of it, like grafting, too exhausting to contemplate, but so much of it entirely accessible and as easy as dip and poke.</span></div>
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A complete primer on what to snip from a friend’s—or employ my favorite garden-center trick, the <i style="box-sizing: border-box;">oops-this-bit-fell-off—</i>and equally valuable, understanding when not to bother. Camellias, for instance, root easily from cuttings but can take three to four years to flower.</div>
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Right. Have I told you about the Raleigh Farmer’s Market? If you have about four hours and a car, you can get a beautifully budded camellia, cheap, and fried Twinkies too.</div>
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Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-61126767399111789882016-05-05T11:26:00.002-04:002016-05-05T11:26:30.865-04:00Green Acre: Cherry Blossom Time<img alt="Pond snow: A backyard water feature a/k/a a pond is shrouded in cherry blossoms. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh." src="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/Garden2web-1000x668.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>for My Little Bird</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">I HAVE NOT EATEN</strong> an apricot in more than 30 years. The very thought of those sickly-sweet little fruits, the mushy texture of the ripe pulp, raises bile in my throat, a gag that begins just below the sag of me jowls.</div>
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Though the apricot tree died years ago, the painful memories remain keen.</div>
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See, a stick that was off-centered in the garden of our brand new (to us) house and was said to be an apricot tree eventually became one. Lo it developed a habit of prettily flowering and then, after several years of pleasurable scent and blossom, began spurting forth fruit, bushels of fruit, which you might think was very exciting and pleasant and tasty but was instead utterly disgusting and grew increasingly vile with each passing year.</div>
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But in the beginning, how we thrilled that the skinny little sapling would eventually yield our very own apricot crop.</div>
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<a href="http://mylittlebird.com/2016/05/green-acre-cherry-blossom-time/" target="_blank">read on...</a>Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-53054791939454591202016-04-28T08:20:00.002-04:002016-04-28T08:20:17.310-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAtI8U4sozxVNV2JAD8C7MX7X7IdeilwCbQCebPbGDNRcUOKQTGddQ7sKOIL6SBuq7yh-gS7IecdMS42fPENA7G2MXz2lbBAyC2niVw8gmiWxlIP9QRY1UjNvZ4FRhdCQOzdWPlcRfE8O/s1600/garden+full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAtI8U4sozxVNV2JAD8C7MX7X7IdeilwCbQCebPbGDNRcUOKQTGddQ7sKOIL6SBuq7yh-gS7IecdMS42fPENA7G2MXz2lbBAyC2niVw8gmiWxlIP9QRY1UjNvZ4FRhdCQOzdWPlcRfE8O/s640/garden+full.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<h2 class="entry-title" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: #141412; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: italic 40px/normal crimson, serif; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 20px 0px 0px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 1; word-spacing: 0px;">
Green Acre: In the Beginning, There Was Dirt . . </h2>
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;"><em>for Mylittlebird.com</em></strong></div>
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<strong style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold;">THIS IS NOT</strong> a tutorial for gardeners, at least those sorts of gardeners who are organized and careful about watering and pH levels and plants that prefer acidic or alkaline soil, or who consider pruning, for god’s sake.</div>
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Fundamentally, I am very lazy, and would much prefer to direct gardeners to do this and that, not do it myself. But thirty-odd years ago my husband, The Prince, and I happened to buy a house, spitting distance from the Capitol, and the house happened to have an area behind it that could only be called potential.</div>
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Here is what was there: dirt. Not particularly good dirt either, just dirty dirt, not soft and turned and rich and lovely and squirming with fat liver-colored worms. It was gritty and dry and heavy with clods of clay.</div>
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There was also a stick that the guy who owned the house before us said was an apricot tree. When he left we found a naked GI Joe doll in the attic, with hair glued on in a strategic place, and a hand gun. There was a rare lack of dispute between My Prince and me about the disposition of the doll. The gun was more contentious, though it eventually went. I believe there was some manly Clint Eastwood make-my-day vision involved as the neighborhood was—well, let us just say, to put it calmly, 30-some years ago there were no fancy prams, nannies and $35-a-pound cheeses on Capitol Hill.</div>
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But that is neither here nor there.</div>
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<em>continued here:</em></div>
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<a href="http://mylittlebird.com/2016/04/green-acre-in-the-beginning-there-was-dirt/" target="_blank">http://mylittlebird.com/2016/04/green-acre-in-the-beginning-there-was-dirt/</a></h2>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-74352143276129173532015-09-17T17:49:00.000-04:002015-09-17T17:49:21.381-04:00Find Your Passion at the Ocean Reef Club<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span><span>the duPont Registry September 20015 </span></span></i></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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At the apex of the Florida Keys, 112 miles north of Key West's carnival and 65 miles south of Miami, the world is set at bay. </div>
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Arriving by car, the 2500 acres of the Ocean Reef Club lie
hidden off Card Sound Road,
as you approach the land of Bogie and Bacall, Key Largo.
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Surrounded by water and directly on the Atlantic,
residents are as likely to sail in, or land a private jet on the 4,000 foot
airstrip.</div>
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Sixty years ago this was a single family's retreat. Today it's
a sublimely private, self-contained town, with fourteen restaurants,
fashionable shops, a food market, a medical clinic, an inn for visitors, and a
cultural center where superstars like Liza Minelli and Tony Bennett have
head-lined.</div>
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"This is by no means a retirement community," says
Richard Weinstein, the Ocean Reef Club's VP of membership and marketing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"The vast majority are still employed,
and the semi-retired are actively involved on corporate or non-profit boards of
directors."</div>
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It's multigenerational, adds Paul Bobik, president of the Club's
real estate company. "You have members who've owned homes for thirty-plus
years and now their children and grandchildren are purchasing." </div>
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A private school serves students through eighth grade,
either full-time or drop-in for extended family breaks, and twenty camps
include cooking, diving, and beach volleyball. </div>
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Surrounded by water, there's world-class fishing, and
sailing, and heavenly diving at Pennecamp
Park. On land, there two
championship golf-courses, tennis courts, swimming pools, the beach, a fabulous
spa, and an endless variety of clubs for every pleasure. Delightfully, the
favored mode of transportation is the golf cart.</div>
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Homes range from palatial oceanfront estates, to marina
villas and condominiums, to boat slips for the live-aboard set. Single family
home prices begin at $1,000,000, condos from $500,000, and docks from $200,000.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Club membership is separate and social memberships are
available. </div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-73274143162404175082015-04-08T07:34:00.002-04:002015-04-08T07:34:15.241-04:00Mother of the Bride Chronicles, Part 3: Wither the Wonder BraFor Mylittlebird.com<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/MotherBrideBraWeb-1000x668.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="iStock" border="0" class="attachment-large wp-post-image" height="266" src="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/MotherBrideBraWeb-1000x668.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div>
<br />
<strong>I’M JUST GOING OUT</strong> to buy a bra. So why do I feel like I’m headed for a colonoscopy?<br />
<br />
Being
firmly, though not so much anymore, of the braless generation, I am not
totally unfamiliar with undergarments. But the only bra I possess of
the non-sports variety (a modest concession to time and gravity) is a
hot pink push-up number purchased 20 years ago.<br />
<br />
It’s in pristine
condition but just won’t suit my Mother of the Bride Dress, a black gown
with a rhinestone doodad closing the faux wrap front. It’s a
heavyweight jersey and as close as I could get to pajamas.<br />
While
The Bride breathed a sigh of relief that I selected something other than
black pants, she pointed out that the visible combination of back lines
from my ancient bra and the top edge of the essential Spanx just would
not do, even if I spent the evening with my back against the wall.<br />
<br />
How
can this be?! I have no back fat! Whereforth do I bulge? While my
thighs and midsection might be well-larded, I have a fine back, or so
I’m told by my princely husband. I don’t spend much time looking at it
so I gratefully take his word.<br />
<br />
But, apparently, if the <em>poitrine</em>,
as they so glamorously call it in French, is not hoisted, I look like a
Renaissance painting of a mother in waiting. You know the ones, with
the hands demurely clasped above the swollen belly–just add jowls, and a
scowl.<br />
<br />
My friend Kathleen swears that a proper brassiere is a
life-altering experience. Make it one of those body-shapers, as they’re
so coyly called (a girdle? Heaven forbid!) and the abdominal swelling
will be magically diminished as my breasts proudly rise. Clothing will
hang sveltely and line-free. I will be magnificent.<br />
<br />
So we are off to <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/st/nordstrom-tysons-corner-center" target="_blank">Nordstrom at Tysons Corner</a>,
which has, Kathleen says, the mother lode of foundation garments. A
storage room so vast, she assures me, that various hoists and
compression agents are stacked floor to ceiling–she caught a glimpse of
it one day when the door was left ajar.<br />
Alas, Nordstrom
disappoints. While there are lovely, lacy, dainty items in abundance,
the selection for the (oh lord) matron is lacking.<br />
<br />
Now, let’s be
perfectly clear: I am not fat. I am, in fact, still several sizes below
the Average American Woman. But getting into the available body-shapers
was like stuffing a sausage casing. How are they supposed to get on,
anyway? I tried pulling one over my head and my arms were jammed into my
ears. A full-length number got stuck between my knees and my hips.<br />
<br />
Two
gorgeous bustiers were a total bust, even with a foot-on-the-rear
maneuver by Kathleen trying to get the little hooks latched. Even if it
fitted I’d require a lady’s maid.<br />
<br />
By then, I was beyond shame.
Kathleen and the saleswoman were no longer speaking to me; they
consulted each other as they stripped one thing off and pulled on
another, then headed off for larger sizes. Larger Sizes!<br />
<br />
On I
struggled, staring at the mirror in misery, pushing this bit of flab
here, that bit there, and then noticing in horror the sign on the wall
informing me that Nordstrom’s staff monitored the dressing rooms. So I
sat in a corner, and pondered my mismatched socks.<br />
<br />
Who are these things made for? Anyone who can tug one on can’t possibly need it.<br />
<br />
And
the ones that fit me? They looked like something my Aunt Ruthie used
to fold her pendulous boobs into in the cabana dressing room.<br />
<br />
You want mortification? I thought Nordstrom prided itself on its broad array of sizes. I guess that’s just the shoes.<br />
<br />
Kathleen
finally arrived with a pretty lace thing that would do the job if it
were only a bit bigger, and they can order it and I can try it at home,
if I can flag someone down in the street to assist with the hooks . . .
so I do, and consider myself done.<br />
<br />
But I’m not! Macy’s is next.
Kathleen is indefatigable in this quest. If she hadn’t towed me out
here, I’d have left an hour and a half ago.<br />
<br />
Macy’s is, in fact,
good! Almost immediately I see something that resembles an armored black
tank top with a built-in chest. It goes on, and is not even the largest
available size, which could be its greatest selling point besides being
20 percent off. I’m willing to instantly whip out my credit card,
though Kathleen insisted I sit and bend and hop around like I’m dancing
to make sure it didn’t make a gradual creep up my torso.<br />
It didn’t.<br />
<br />
I now almost have two undergarments, but since I’m going on a diet in the morning I’m not removing any tags.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>–Stephanie Cavanaugh</em></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-11960787452115900752015-04-01T08:31:00.002-04:002015-04-01T08:31:58.393-04:00Mother of the Bride Chronicles, Part Two. In Which We Try a Four-Minue Facelift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTIfSK49O40vu5ftX8P_ZdKcLTNZ-gVzUNf13uhsaSaMQVfJnDgiS_5ashGYeUgoD1xIqW94iqPMbApUE2y8Z2QY7Iumu_h9Vhm3bIEhYhdELC-_eJommWRoVUQnOew7jXeMPXGRrVMSO/s1600/MomOfBrideWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTIfSK49O40vu5ftX8P_ZdKcLTNZ-gVzUNf13uhsaSaMQVfJnDgiS_5ashGYeUgoD1xIqW94iqPMbApUE2y8Z2QY7Iumu_h9Vhm3bIEhYhdELC-_eJommWRoVUQnOew7jXeMPXGRrVMSO/s1600/MomOfBrideWeb.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<i>For MyLittleBird.Com </i><br />
<br />
I feel like my face is sucking a lemon.<br />
<br />
Per instructions, I’ve
pumped two squirts of Allurica Clinical Strength 4 Minute Facelift onto
my fingertips and rubbed it in vigorously from chin to nose, then
pumped another two to cover my forehead and scowl lines.<br />
<br />
Now I’m to sit still and wait for it to completely set and magically lift my face.<br />
<br />
Mindy
Miller Berg, my pusher, says, “it’s a temporary fix, but there’s
nothing like it for special occasions; when you’re going out to dinner
or being photographed.”<br />
<br />
Special occasion.<br />
Dinner.<br />
Photographs.<br />
Check, check, check . . .<br />
<br />
Sounds like a wedding, which I just happen to have coming up, my daughter’s, in fact. On April 18. And, oh man, do I need work.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/MomOfBride3web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Before and After with Allurica" class="alignright size-full wp-image-9885" src="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/MomOfBride3web.jpg" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/MomOfBride2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Before and after using Allurica" class="wp-image-9884 size-full" height="200" src="http://mylittlebird.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/MomOfBride2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before and after with Allurica.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If Mindy’s name is familiar, by the way, the
51-year-old New Jersey-based marketing pro, editor, stand-up comedian
and sometime photographer underwent a physical and emotional overhaul
courtesy of “Today” show nutritionist Joy Bauer and her Get Fit Club
last year.<br />
<figure class="wp-caption alignright" id="attachment_9884" style="width: 300px;"><figcaption class="wp-caption-text"></figcaption></figure> Mindy
tripped across Allurica when a friend asked her to take before and
after photos at a conference, and watched as one after another guest
slapped on the product and sat in front of the camera. “I finally got up
my gumption and tried it. I said, Holy crap! I don’t buy into hype but .
. . ”<br />
<br />
That’s four minutes of typing, excuse me while I go check my face.<br />
<br />
Well,
how interesting! The marionette lines that have etched themselves from
the corners of my mouth to my chin are gone. My forehead is, I think, 50
percent smoother.<br />
<br />
Since Mindy cautioned me not to use anything
too heavy or oily, I can now put on moisturizer, BB cream, a little
bronzer, mascara, lipstick and, hey . . .<br />
<br />
I look a tad tighter, but not plasticized. Better, though not incredible. I could be deluding myself.<br />
<br />
Let’s just go and ask my husband’s opinion, although this is frequently a mistake.<br />
<br />
Sidling bravely into his office I say, “Honey, does my face look any different?”<br />
<br />
“Than what?” He says, looking up from the paperwork he was shuffling about on his desk.<br />
“Than it did yesterday.”<br />
<br />
“You’re wearing makeup.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not the makeup.”<br />
<br />
“I’m not supposed to notice the lipstick?”<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
“This is a little tricky,” he says warily, suspecting a trap.<br />
<br />
“Just be honest. Do you see anything different?”<br />
<br />
“You don’t usually have lipstick on in the morning.”<br />
<br />
“It’s not the lipstick.”<br />
<br />
He studies me in a way he hasn’t studied me in years and says: “You did something to your eyebrows?”<br />
<br />
“No, I didn’t do anything to my eyebrows. Do I look at all different?”<br />
<br />
“You have color right here,” he says, rubbing the apples of his cheeks.<br />
“Yeah, but it’s not the color.”<br />
<br />
“Did you get implants?” (I’m surprised that he says this so calmly)<br />
<br />
“No,” I say, resorting to hints. “Does my face look any tighter . . . or less lined?”<br />
<br />
“Since
yesterday?” A lengthy period of facial study ensues. “Well. Your cheeks
look full and firm, is that what I’m supposed to notice?”<br />
<br />
“Maybe. How about my forehead?”<br />
<br />
“I see furrows in it.”<br />
<br />
“Hmmm, okay,” I say with, I guess, a hint of disappointment.<br />
<br />
“Was I not supposed to see them?”<br />
<br />
<br />
“How about my chin?”<br />
<br />
“No, I don’t see anything; did I use to see something?”<br />
<br />
I laugh a small, aha! laugh and return to my brow. “Do my forehead furrows look the same?”<br />
<br />
Another
studied pause: “Basically . . . you look less furrowed than you usually
do. What is it, an overnight serum?” (He knows from serum since there
are bottles of various brands falling off the bathroom shelf.)<br />
<br />
“It’s a four-minute facelift.”<br />
<br />
“My
goodness,” he says. Which in retrospect is an oddly mild reply.
Possibly he’s relieved. “So, how long does it last? Four minutes?
Walking down the aisle takes longer than that. ” He laughs soundlessly,
which for him is uproarious and always an unsettling sight, rather like
viewing a silent movie.<br />
<br />
Three hours later and the grooves below
my mouth are reappearing, although my face still appears softer–like a
smear of Old Hollywood Vaseline on the camera lens. Maybe I could make
it through the wedding.<br />
<br />
Mindy says she sometimes reapplies
Allurica to trouble spots a few times a day, but the longer she uses it
the less she needs. “You don’t have a lot of time to rest in bitch face.
Even though it’s temporary, it’s muscle memory.”<br />
<br />
At $90 for a
one-month supply, one would hope there was some incremental improvement.
Well . . . Mindy says with regular use you retrain your face to–not
scrunch so much. Used with Botox, she says, the smoothing effect of that
powerful injectible, which usually lasts around three months, is
strengthened and prolonged.<br />
<br />
The Allurica Clinical Strength 4
Minute Facelift was developed by Gregory Kelly, who brought Dermasilk’s
Five-Minute Facelift to market in 1994. Dermasilk is sold for $29.95 on
Amazon, and has a 3.7 out of 5 star rating.<br />
<br />
Is this four-minute version $61.05 better? I have no idea. Kelly was not available for comment.<br />
<br />
Allurica
is not yet available in the Washington area, and will be sold only by
dermatologists and at spas (like a high-end Mary Kay or Avon). The
company is so new that the web page is still in development, but more
information and lots of before and after shots are available on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Allurica" target="_blank">Allurica’s Facebook page</a>. And they are quite remarkable (which is how I got sucked into trying it).<br />
<br />
“It’s
truly revolutionary,” says Mindy, whose experiments with various face
firmers border on the heroic. “Nothing else does what this does.”<br />
<br />
Perhaps I just need better training, but the only lemon I want to be sucking is at the wedding, in a gin and tonic.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<em>–Stephanie Cavanaugh</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>More Mother of the Bride struggles coming up soon (before the wedding!).</em></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-24996326971646828552015-03-28T08:10:00.002-04:002015-03-28T08:47:19.097-04:00Designer Tricks that Will Let You See Your Home in a Whole New Light<br />
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://img.washingtonpost.com/rf/image_1484w/2010-2019/WashingtonPost/2015/03/19/RealEstate/Images/LIGHTING0321021426726451.jpg?uuid=eK9GQs3SEeSHME9HNBbnWQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" class="zoom-in" data-hi-res-src="https://img.washingtonpost.com/rf/image_1484w/2010-2019/WashingtonPost/2015/03/19/RealEstate/Images/LIGHTING0321021426726451.jpg?uuid=eK9GQs3SEeSHME9HNBbnWQ" data-low-res-src="https://img.washingtonpost.com/rf/image_400w/2010-2019/WashingtonPost/2015/03/19/RealEstate/Images/LIGHTING0321021426726451.jpg?uuid=eK9GQs3SEeSHME9HNBbnWQ" height="400" src="https://img.washingtonpost.com/rf/image_1484w/2010-2019/WashingtonPost/2015/03/19/RealEstate/Images/LIGHTING0321021426726451.jpg?uuid=eK9GQs3SEeSHME9HNBbnWQ" width="377" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
A supermodel at work - <span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Courtesy Theodore's Contemporary Furniture</span></h4>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>A slightly abbreviated version of this piece appeared in the Washington Post Real Estate section</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Judith Capen hopped up from the candlelit table and popped
on the overhead light. Suddenly, ghoulish shadows appeared beneath her twinkly
eyes and wrinkles sprayed cheeks that a second ago seemed cherubic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"You never want to look into a light source," she said.
"Every time you glance up it's the Dracula effect, your eyes look like
black holes." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's enough to make
one scream. One does.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blame it on the wine. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/%2410%20flexible%20light%20from%20Ikea%20casts%20a%20dramatic%20shadow%20in%20Cavanaugh%20living%20room.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAAdUPUrviFCO-83bqZ8nzc0Btlf6vtqoXkGK04hy7Kg-Q" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/%2410%20flexible%20light%20from%20Ikea%20casts%20a%20dramatic%20shadow%20in%20Cavanaugh%20living%20room.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAAdUPUrviFCO-83bqZ8nzc0Btlf6vtqoXkGK04hy7Kg-Q" border="0" class="shrinkToFit decoded" height="320" src="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/%2410%20flexible%20light%20from%20Ikea%20casts%20a%20dramatic%20shadow%20in%20Cavanaugh%20living%20room.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAAdUPUrviFCO-83bqZ8nzc0Btlf6vtqoXkGK04hy7Kg-Q" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author digs a $10 Ikea spot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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It's amazing what lighting can do. Besides making you look more
attractive, and dare we say sexier, good lighting can be energizing, focusing,
relaxing, or simply illuminating -- accenting the room's best features,
minimizing the unsavory, and making your home a more enjoyable living and
entertaining space when evening falls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the plethora of lighting gadgets and gizmos available everywhere
from Ikea to Amazon to Home Depot and Restoration Hardware, just about any
effect is possible, inexpensively and often by dinnertime.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Capen, an award winning architect with Architrave
Architects, made her point about overheads. That harsh light, handy as it is
for Scrabble, killed the mood and threatened to put an end to a convivial over-dinner
conversation about....lighting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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"How do you know an architect designed a space? By the
number of wall switches." That's an architect joke, she said. </div>
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<br /></div>
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If Capen was designing a kitchen from scratch, for example,
she'd stop the cabinets eight inches from the ceiling, "and have a tube on
top so you have enough light to stagger through without tripping over the
cat." That would have one switch. Another would operate a brighter fixture
for the counter, "so you could see what you're doing with sharp
knives." Two more would operate an overhead light and a ceiling fan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Instead of walking around the room and turning on lights, or
fidgeting with a dimmer, "I'd rather walk to the wall, flip some switches,
and be done with it," she said. "I can mix and match and get
distinctly different things versus one fixture that goes from light to less
bright." </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Capen%20Weinstein%20Living%20Room%20After%20Horozontal.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAC3VWXsedewQdD2nMtROPj7XxmhcSUuWThdmzAay8m4rg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Capen%20Weinstein%20Living%20Room%20After%20Horozontal.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAC3VWXsedewQdD2nMtROPj7XxmhcSUuWThdmzAay8m4rg" border="0" class="shrinkToFit decoded" height="265" src="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Capen%20Weinstein%20Living%20Room%20After%20Horozontal.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AAC3VWXsedewQdD2nMtROPj7XxmhcSUuWThdmzAay8m4rg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Light at play in the Capen Weinstein home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But most of us are not going to rip out the ceilings and
walls and install an elaborate and expensive new system. Instead, we sit with a
feeling of vague dissatisfaction, contemplating a room as clinically bright as
McDonald's, or fidgeting with a lamp shade to get enough light to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Capen is quick to concede that you don't have to. There
are plenty of cheap sources of light that are plenty effective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Like fluorescents," she said.
"Put them on top of cabinets where you don't see the fixture." This
is not just a kitchen trick, consider fluorescents on top of an armoire, or a
tall bookcase, anywhere the source is unseen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Puck lights, little round battery powered LED discs that require no
wiring, are also handy for inside cabinets, under shelves, and dark corners.
"It's not about an expensive fixture, but what you can do with it to shape
a space."</div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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It is possible to have it all, an ambiance that invites
pleasure, relaxation, stimulation and charm -- and even disguise a few of a home's
more unsavory issues by redirecting the eye to something more pleasing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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"What you want to do is layer the light, said San Francisco lighting
designer Randall Whitehead. "People try to do everything with one fixture,
but you want different types of light to successfully illuminate the room. The
best rooms use various sources of illumination to create a subtle design."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The language of light is pretty straightforward. Whitehead,
who is also a columnist and author of seven books on residential lighting, said
there are four lighting terms everyone should know: task, ambient, decorative,
and accent. </div>
<br />
<br />
● <b>Task lighting</b> can brightly illuminate your desk, your
closet, your kitchen counter, or your bathroom mirror so you don’t slice
your throat shaving.<br />
<br />
● <b>Decorative lighting </b>includes
chandeliers, hanging fixtures in the foyer, and table lamps.
“Architectural jewelry,” he calls these. “They are the supermodels of
light; they just need to look pretty.”<br />
<br />
● <b>Accent</b> or <b>directed lighting </b>highlights
objects in a room. “Museums traditionally use a directed light on each
piece of art and statuary,” he said. “It’s spotty, but dramatic.”
However, when overused in a residential setting, “accent lighting can
imply that what you own is more important than the people in the room.”<br />
<br />
●That’s where <b>ambient lighting </b>comes
in. We might call it the umami of illumination that bounces light
around, blending all of the effects together and making the eye do a
happy dance. This type of indirect illumination is the least understood
and implemented but potentially the most bewitching element in any
lighting scheme. “Add it and you become the star of your own home — as
important as the objects in the space,” Whitehead said.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
Just be cautious with the light you select, LEDs are
becoming more attractive in design and quality of illumination,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"But a lot of what's out there is too
cool a light, a color not neat on skin tones. People look ghostly," he said.
"Look for warmer bulbs, particularly those called dimmed
incandescent." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Whitehead-LVR-from-photo-corner-Final-F-Liv-Rm.png" class="thumb-image loaded" data-image-dimensions="1152x750" data-image-focal-point="0.5,0.5" data-image-id="53601040e4b0a78001c4ce27" data-image-resolution="1000w" data-image="http://static1.squarespace.com/static/530c1e02e4b0d6d1d221f803/53528192e4b073dfbc7d476d/53601040e4b0a78001c4ce27/1398804573557/Whitehead-LVR-from-photo-corner-Final-F-Liv-Rm.png" data-load="false" src="http://static1.squarespace.com/static/530c1e02e4b0d6d1d221f803/53528192e4b073dfbc7d476d/53601040e4b0a78001c4ce27/1398804573557/Whitehead-LVR-from-photo-corner-Final-F-Liv-Rm.png?format=1000w" data-src="http://static1.squarespace.com/static/530c1e02e4b0d6d1d221f803/53528192e4b073dfbc7d476d/53601040e4b0a78001c4ce27/1398804573557/Whitehead-LVR-from-photo-corner-Final-F-Liv-Rm.png" data-type="image" height="416" id="yui_3_17_2_1_1427543029887_426" style="left: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; position: relative; top: 0px;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Protrero Hill living room by lighting designer Randall Whitehead</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To put it all together, "Start with the people and then
add art and architecture," said Whitehead. The living room of an apartment
Whitehead designed in San Francisco's
Protrero Hill, demonstrates the interplay.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"The first thing you see is the beautiful, subtle leaf
pattern projected on the ceiling," he said. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shooting light upward from an LED fixture fit
with a dramatic stencil pattern makes the space feel larger and a rather bland,
low ceiling more interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unearthly lantern
that resembles a stainless steel pod dangles off to the side of the room. This
is the architectural jewelry, "it's not really providing illumination,
just an illusion."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recessed lights highlight the coffee table, the fireplace,
and artwork. "Recessed fixtures should not be directed over seating, it's
harsh. An uncomfortable light to be under. " </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fading into the far left corner of the room is a black
shaded lamp "that throws light up for ambiance, and down for reading on
the sofa. It functions like a torchaire," providing light without calling
attention to itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lights mounted outside and above the sliding glass doors
to the terrace, visually expand the space so the room feels as large as it does
during the day. Without them, you create a black mirror effect; you can't see
out and are closing off the room."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The result is a room shaped by layers of light, easily
adjusting to the needs of the homeowners, whether chilling in front of the fire
or entertaining a room full of guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too often, however, our homes look their best only when
they're put on the market for sale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now
why didn't I think of that earlier, one wonders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Lighting is an easy, cheap, and simple way of updating
the look of virtually any room in your house," said realtor Ryall Smith of
Coldwell Banker, who shared a few quick and inexpensive tricks he uses when
staging homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20work.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AADC1G1adh_SlEpKkTA_yG7bfN3RHhM5WsMgh_B9civsug" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20work.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AADC1G1adh_SlEpKkTA_yG7bfN3RHhM5WsMgh_B9civsug" border="0" class="shrinkToFit decoded" height="400" src="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20work.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AADC1G1adh_SlEpKkTA_yG7bfN3RHhM5WsMgh_B9civsug" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kitchen set for cooking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Dark corners suck the energy out of a room," said
Smith. "Take a look at your living room and dining room and put in up
lights, you can get them at Home Depot." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20work.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AADC1G1adh_SlEpKkTA_yG7bfN3RHhM5WsMgh_B9civsug" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Little lamps can make for big transformations. "Most kitchens,
for example, have only overhead lighting," he said. "Buy two small
lamps and put them in corners, or maybe one in the dark triangle behind the
sink, or on a stretch of granite counter. You won't need the overheads and it
creates and homey, warm feeling."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like moths, humans gravitate toward the brightest light. If
you don't want your guests to congregate in the kitchen during a party, turn on
those little lamps and turn off the overhead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"We put lamps in rooms where you wouldn't think of
putting in lighting," said Smith. "Plug in an attractive lamp in the
bathroom and it becomes part of the living space." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20party.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AACdPNCmcqzzUp7dlwXcv4feK3zyDXE3OpgLte8GTmmD3w" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20party.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AACdPNCmcqzzUp7dlwXcv4feK3zyDXE3OpgLte8GTmmD3w" border="0" class="shrinkToFit decoded" height="400" src="https://dl-web.dropbox.com/get/additional%20photos%20cavanaugh%20lighting%20story/Cavanaugh%20kitchen%20lit%20for%20party.jpg?_subject_uid=109765597&w=AACdPNCmcqzzUp7dlwXcv4feK3zyDXE3OpgLte8GTmmD3w" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kitchen set to keep out the moths</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With home technology, smart phones, and new applications
it's easier than ever to create a mood. You can program your lighting to change
throughout the day, "Now we have LED bulbs that will change color at the
touch of a switch," he said. "You can have bright white for task
lighting, maybe red for entertaining."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lighting designer Nancy Schertler has lit up Arena Stage,
and just about every other theater around town, since 1976, unsurprisingly
waxed ecstatic. "You're painting with light," she said. "It's
magical.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"In a natural world you have the sun, on the stage you
figure out the angle the intensity of he light, creating a picture for every
moment in the play and helping focus the audience's attention."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the home you can do the same, highlight a sculpture, the
texture of a wall, and enhance yourself. "Keep the lights low on the
table. You won't see the meal, or be able to read, but you'll look good,"
she said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can they make you look more youthful, too? "I was once
told<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>the ingénue is too old, can you
make her look younger?" Shertler said with a laugh, "If I knew
that..."</div>
<br />
<br />
<i>A shorter version of this piece appeared in the Washington Post Real Estate section </i><br />
<br />
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</xml><![endif]-->Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-46032236118090095372015-03-11T18:26:00.002-04:002015-03-11T18:35:25.452-04:00Whip Those Lashes into Shape!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif69i2UBXp1bN7Biop2kfjf3uqnVANofc_prWSEV5w9jfd8g115dmJuKaq3VUMr0DVzePCgWnGduDxbrmMljfUrJU0tCFKH-GzxgW5agBOXydRKugqXGzA1IhC6e_ctK8Xm-vbzN797kBK/s1600/mascara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif69i2UBXp1bN7Biop2kfjf3uqnVANofc_prWSEV5w9jfd8g115dmJuKaq3VUMr0DVzePCgWnGduDxbrmMljfUrJU0tCFKH-GzxgW5agBOXydRKugqXGzA1IhC6e_ctK8Xm-vbzN797kBK/s1600/mascara.jpg" height="320" width="170" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For MyLittleBird.com</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mascara? I've played with so many. High end to low. But for
maximum drama, I keep returning to the stuff in a cake -- perhaps the only
thing from the trendy-again 70s that I can still wear without looking ridiculous.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My purple suede hot pants come
immediately to mind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A drip of water smudged around to make a nearly dry paste (spit
works brilliantly too, but we won't mention that) and there is nothing like
cake mascara for creating the thickest lashes shy of falsies. Uppers and
lowers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It used to be easy to find, and so cheap! Maybelline had it in
a little sliding drawer of a red case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
buck, maybe? Mary Quant was pricier, but had the best brush, I still have it.
Much like a baby-scaled toothbrush -- if your baby has a particularly wide
mouth. Tight bristles. Indestructible. Does 1968 qualify it as an antique? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lancome's mascara had one with a little plastic comb on one
side, I still have that too, though all of the plastic bits have broken off
(how I wonder? Was I cleaning the grout?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cake mascara might be hard to exhume in stores, but it's
still easily findable on line.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Longcils Boncza has been around for few decades. The <a href="http://www.vermontcountrystore.com/store/jump/productDetail/Make-up_&_Skincare/Make-up_&_Skincare/Make-up_&_Skincare/Longcils_Boncza_Cake_Mascara/62064" target="_blank">Vermont Country</a> store has it for $39.95 plus shipping. It's a tiny cake, though these things tend to last forever, so I guess that's
fair, to keep them in business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it's
French, so add an immediate 50% mark-up. And they say it was a favorite of
Marilyn Monroe (which goes to show just how far back this goes. MM would be
pushing 90 this year).</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUHspFX4ppRa4kBxdV7lPazgN_lLZVYP8-sGjhp6iNINH8RRMdousF0H3hXTdKUgtoIZnUItSQYCMsKUNFccPXBZNEVvbFittO8pI31PZK0g4lLr7AZPiDxryW82cfopqtogaoluW4fXk/s1600/mabelline+mascara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUHspFX4ppRa4kBxdV7lPazgN_lLZVYP8-sGjhp6iNINH8RRMdousF0H3hXTdKUgtoIZnUItSQYCMsKUNFccPXBZNEVvbFittO8pI31PZK0g4lLr7AZPiDxryW82cfopqtogaoluW4fXk/s1600/mabelline+mascara.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amazon has it too, but the Vermont Country Store is a trove
of nearly forgotten treasures and far more fun. Tangee lipstick? Max Factor Pan
Stick? White Shoulders Powder? They also have an assortment of flannel granny
gowns, perfect for leafing through their website.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though a bustier would be more appropriate attire for this mascara's
application. Marabou mules too, if you've got. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Internet marketer <a href="http://www.makeupmania.com/la-femme-pro-cake-mascara/?gdftrk=gdfV25867_a_7c2327_a_7c9826_a_7c488606458400&gclid=CPT89-ul38MCFdgQgQodEKIAwg" target="_blank">Makeup Mania</a> has bars in black or brown
for $8.50 from La Femme, which may or may not be French. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven't tried either one of them, but the buyer reviews
are positive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mine is from Paula Dorf, bought at Blue Mercury in Georgetown at least ten
years ago. I don't recall what it cost, maybe fifteen bucks, but that doesn't
matter since it not longer exists except, perhaps, in a dusty corner of
Ebay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The .21 oz cake looks to have
another 20 years worth of use. It came with a feathery brush that was for crap.
But deploy my Mary Quant relic and Hello Twiggy!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-21960926201761086042015-02-20T10:17:00.001-05:002015-03-21T17:17:08.383-04:00Chasing My Chins And Other Adventures in Skin Care: The Mother of the Bride Chronicles, Part I<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For<a href="http://mylittlebird.com/" target="_blank"> My Little Bird.com</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days I wish bearded women were in. Today is one of them.
I once vastly improved a chinless ex by talking him into some pretty lush whiskers.
Spotting him recently at a funeral, I noticed he's still sporting a beard forty
years later. Does his wife knows what's under there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Meanwhile, I resemble a basset hound in a turtleneck, a
situation that is reaching crises level as my daughter's April wedding
approaches. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To paraphrase Catherine Deneuve, At some point you have to
choose between the ass and the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sadly, what I have are really good ankles, which haven't been a
significant lure since about 1915. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While kvetching about my falling face, I've done virtually
nothing but study possible solutions for the past thirty years. Perhaps it's
the German in me, this reluctance to Get Serious About My Skin. As if I should
be able to keep my chin up entirely through force of will. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh how stupid are the young. Thirty years ago I looked like
a nymph. A nymph with nearly undetectable scowl lines, what they call inverted
commas between my eyes, no doubt formed from whining about looking older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's when a similarly tetched girlfriend and I started a
weekly radio talk show called<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> A New
Wrinkle</i>, to discuss what to do about our nonexistent problems: Retin-A and
Botox and such, then cutting edge. Fortunately, or not, the station (the only
one that would host us) had such a weak signal that my husband had to sit in
the car in their parking lot to listen. We made tapes, but thankfully I no
longer have anything to play them back on.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now I don't much care about looking older, but how old I
look is another matter. I'd rather not look any particular age at all. Here's
what I want to hear whispered at the wedding:</div>
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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"How old is she, do you think?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"I don't know, she's just ageless, isn't she...."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so...back issues of Bazaar and Vogue and Allure are
stacked on the bathroom floor -- where occasionally I'll approach the mirror
and try something distracting with eyeliner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I read reviews of every pill, cream, and serum on MakeupAlley.com,
where followers follow everything and occasionally post something more
thoughtful and in depth than, "OMG! I can tell by the bottle that arrived
two minutes ago that this is absolutely my HG.* Four stars!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I compare them to the reviews on
Amazon.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Occasionally I'm moved to try something. Right now I'm more
moved than usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The issue at hand is I'm cursed with a preternaturally
youthful looking Mother of the Groom, who's just six months younger than I but
looks like -- a kid. Evidence? When a medical event recently landed me in the
hospital and she arrived at my bedside, the nurse leaned over and, I kid you
not, said: "Your daughter's here."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you want a photo of the two of us together? Spit, spit,
as they say in Yiddish to ward off demons.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before the wedding threat, and attendant tabs for said event
started mounting, I experimented with Botox for the scowl, but the doctor was a
little over enthusiastic, my eyelids drooped, and I looked like a sleepy cow
for three months. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was also goodbye to
Lancôme's Advanced Genefique, which I swore was doing something for the $80 or
so it cost every six months (I always wait for the free bonus gift to replenish
-- who doesn't get excited about another logo make-up bag?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The keepers include three little purple pills a day of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Natures-Bounty-Optimal-Solutions-Softgels/dp/B004I8GU4A/ref=zg_bs_6939008011_3" target="_blank"><span class="st">Nature's Bounty </span><i>Hair</i><span class="st">, </span></a><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Natures-Bounty-Optimal-Solutions-Softgels/dp/B004I8GU4A/ref=zg_bs_6939008011_3" target="_blank">Skin and Nails </a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Natures-Bounty-Optimal-Solutions-Softgels/dp/B004I8GU4A/ref=zg_bs_6939008011_3"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></i><i><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">which has 572 positive reviews on Amazon, costs
$15.49 for 250 caplets, and lets me use my fingernails as screwdrivers. I'm
also yanking hair from some unsightly locations, so I suppose it works for that
as well, and several friends thought my skin glowy enough to buy it -- and agree
with my results.</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An honest four stars does go to the now ubiquitous Clarisonic
Mia, a power brush that I've used semi-regularly for more than a year. My face
has never been cleaner and smoother. Of course I wonder if the Clarisonic major,
or whatever they call it, is better... maybe Clarisonic wants to send me the
high-test model to test drive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I layer on serums (layering is Very Big right now) from
the 50% off about-to-expire basket near the checkout aisle at Harris Teeter. Who
knows if they do anything. They never get a chance to work before the next possible
cheap <i><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">panacea
screams, Hey there!</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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On top of whatever I slather on Nivea cream, which has the consistency
of Crisco, and which I'm told is all the MOG has ever used, and which some people
swear is every bit as good as Creme de la Mer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Read the "study" done a few years ago in the <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2418153/Claire-used-1-Nivea-cream-half-face--105-Cr-la-Mer-The-results-VERY-revealing.html" target="_blank">UK's Daily Mail</a> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Creme de la Mer has yet to appear in the
Harris Teeter bin I have no basis for personal comparison -- are you listening
La Mer Corporate?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now I'm awaiting the postman, bearing a test drive of
a miracle product that's guaranteed, they say, to hoist the jaw and iron the crevices
in four minutes flat and last for at least five hours. Which is about what I'll
need to get through The Wedding, or at least through the photography
session.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it wears off too soon, I can
keep a drink in front of my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*HG stands for Holy Grail, that product -- lipstick color,
mascara, face cream -- that a woman has spent her life (frequently the first 18
years) ISO (in search of). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OMG! (Oh my
God!) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-33226570256327648062015-01-14T08:36:00.000-05:002015-03-21T17:10:58.679-04:00High Life at the Umstead - Luxury in the North Carolina Triangle<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLQS168OhT_BU5EQ8kAhyphenhyphen7wASoNXRlovAfoH8XvuupI9PnqE-Fhg1ZxK7Zh4Uw6a99MW5CObsZUlqtchhKTa8OPnHdq9B5QFShnAgQpjQkhV2DCf15_fXw1E_BUjKSqEELMugYj9-td4p/s1600/bar+better.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNLQS168OhT_BU5EQ8kAhyphenhyphen7wASoNXRlovAfoH8XvuupI9PnqE-Fhg1ZxK7Zh4Uw6a99MW5CObsZUlqtchhKTa8OPnHdq9B5QFShnAgQpjQkhV2DCf15_fXw1E_BUjKSqEELMugYj9-td4p/s1600/bar+better.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Story and Photos for the Washington Post's FW</i></span></span></b></div>
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We (and by that I mean I) were severely underdressed for
lounging at the Umstead. The Forbes five star resort and spa set in a 12-acre wooded
grove in Cary, North Carolina warrants slink; champagne satin a la Harlow, marabou
mules, a coupe not a flute for the bubbly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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Sleek blond furniture, Frette linens, plush carpets, triple
layers of drape, it's tres 1930s drawing room comedy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bring on Jeeves! Enter Clark Gable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(You can add a pup but Fluffy will add $200
to room tabs that begin at $329).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHpbNWsNhLRlB0LnfzUE4XuiUYbJXmZGWO_vRLsX6BC827Ps_y0ILk2AxnIZ9QHkKyaowrXQg7_LvDO6kjhKYupNXufakmIyYyXAxwYTeXM6qiT8Gu1OP3WzcBdw4iiFujkXnJm9CPHtX/s1600/suite+balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHpbNWsNhLRlB0LnfzUE4XuiUYbJXmZGWO_vRLsX6BC827Ps_y0ILk2AxnIZ9QHkKyaowrXQg7_LvDO6kjhKYupNXufakmIyYyXAxwYTeXM6qiT8Gu1OP3WzcBdw4iiFujkXnJm9CPHtX/s1600/suite+balcony.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a>Our 1080 square foot suite runs $599, including a foyer,
powder room, huge balcony overlooking the pool (open through November) and a
lake with a trail that skirts splashing fountains and basking turtles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bath, large enough for a rumba and
standard in all rooms, features a soaking tub, separate glassed shower and
toilet, double vanity, and Gilcrest and Soames toiletries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnALkmJXdAxj7JNjG0WpJHVAaF8-I91LHQPtavHW9u1bCcW2F32UkjzTlQPu4WUZwhaz_1deshgSX1Zns57e2WU9wydRVnS_HzCdfNaMczMbPQipIYaabrrVZzfb9yDo4fDIHrjRARNKSi/s1600/suite+living+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnALkmJXdAxj7JNjG0WpJHVAaF8-I91LHQPtavHW9u1bCcW2F32UkjzTlQPu4WUZwhaz_1deshgSX1Zns57e2WU9wydRVnS_HzCdfNaMczMbPQipIYaabrrVZzfb9yDo4fDIHrjRARNKSi/s1600/suite+living+room.jpg" height="242" width="320" /></a></div>
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What magic have they done with the lighting and mirrors? One
looks ten pounds lighter, three inches taller, positively slinky. Fear not the
dreaded mirrored elevator! You won't regret the final glance before sashaying
off to Herons, the hotel's extraordinary restaurant, or a night cap in the bar
and grill, which borrows glitter from the Dale Chihuly glass sculpture -- the
room's centerpiece captivates the eye from every angle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotel's artwork alone is worth the visit.
</div>
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A zip down the road from the Research Triangle that is Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel
Hill (and the perfect chill out if you're visiting your college student at
Duke, Wake Forest, or UNC),<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the Umstead is also a fine stopping point on
trips south.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"It's our fourth
visit," said one glowing guest from Baltimore.
"We've traveled the world and the restaurant is incredible -- and after a
five hour car trip the massage is heavenly!"</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6NYBnxUdKpxJ6jL_Y_jO22rR-av0KlON9XLlQrLpdSsvY6tNbLKCzF88AooImaqV-gftuBL3sQ34HZQZpetvuu_g5rMC2k9SYanhSQhOZiwmqguC144QCwdpXarG9CxVPK4TDJKw10oe/s1600/spa+entry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6NYBnxUdKpxJ6jL_Y_jO22rR-av0KlON9XLlQrLpdSsvY6tNbLKCzF88AooImaqV-gftuBL3sQ34HZQZpetvuu_g5rMC2k9SYanhSQhOZiwmqguC144QCwdpXarG9CxVPK4TDJKw10oe/s1600/spa+entry.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ah, the spa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Included
with your room are separate but equal facilities for men and women, including eucalyptus
infused steam baths, saunas, whirlpools, lounges, a meditation garden, and a
co-ed current pool. There are cucumber slices for the eyes (though we can't
swear they offer them to guys), teas and waters for system cleansing and
invigorating. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Extras include massage therapies from thumping to soothing,
exotic body scrubs, collagen facials and peels, manicures, and waxing. A tour
guide is required to show you the layout. One is provided. </div>
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And have you ever been in a scented gym? We (and by that, I
mean I) kid you not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweat never smelled
so sweet. </div>
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Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-32192700674375967172014-12-30T09:46:00.001-05:002015-03-21T17:11:20.024-04:00Experience the Ultimate Southern Exposure at The Jefferson Hotel<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9kD5bGrd_umKH4elwgN4x-gGe2jU6gFDbA6Jt27wVncsQt9aHhlc-G1S2qSe5eF-UCrmFhr2DWirAdmgYIa4F6njdmrPUqPtgR9Po6DfWY9hBZi_DUehZFSD2sw-vf8TdQYAtG2eleEt/s1600/jef+truck.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9kD5bGrd_umKH4elwgN4x-gGe2jU6gFDbA6Jt27wVncsQt9aHhlc-G1S2qSe5eF-UCrmFhr2DWirAdmgYIa4F6njdmrPUqPtgR9Po6DfWY9hBZi_DUehZFSD2sw-vf8TdQYAtG2eleEt/s1600/jef+truck.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i> for the Washington Post's FW </i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
There are reasons why some hotels
rate five stars from Forbes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
pulling up to a grand port cochere in a twenty-year-old pick-up, duct-tape
patched and loaded with old house parts, and being greeted like her ladyship
back from the hunt. (Which she was, Richmond
has fantastic salvage yards).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Such a place is The Jefferson, exorbitantly
gracious and luxurious to the tips of the terry slippers set out beside your
turned down bed and the Molton Brown soaps and creams in the marble bath. </div>
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Built in 1895 by Colonel Lewis
Ginter, a confederate officer and tobacco baron, who also designed the
beautiful Ginter gardens on the edge of town, the beaux arts masterpiece <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>immediately and forevermore became the
centerpiece of Richmond's
society events. Among the guests were twelve U.S.
Presidents, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Charlie Chaplain, Elvis, and
most of the cast of the recent hit movie, Lincoln.
</div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggIthOP2DF_v73mh0Do7qJowAdk3ubmLhgejyxRQJX9EaEPq3iTrQALHs67dtxadV3feMpNEnaSrcibHFCEfK-umPE0FEYjqFCS-9HwlYYArCR-rlzdaxCr3BnPvfrNBcKaeYE7gn2uEST/s1600/jeff+pool.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggIthOP2DF_v73mh0Do7qJowAdk3ubmLhgejyxRQJX9EaEPq3iTrQALHs67dtxadV3feMpNEnaSrcibHFCEfK-umPE0FEYjqFCS-9HwlYYArCR-rlzdaxCr3BnPvfrNBcKaeYE7gn2uEST/s1600/jeff+pool.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></a></div>
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A weekend here could be filled
without leaving the premises. There's a lower level health club, spa, and beauty
salon. Palms surround the second floor indoor pool, which gives out to a
sundeck overlooking rooftops that range from antebellum to contemporary. </div>
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There are divine grits in the
casual TJ's, and southern accented fare in the more formal Lemaire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Morning coffee can be taken in the upper
lobby, where a life-sized carrara marble statue of Thomas Jefferson stands
beneath the vast stained glass dome of a Tiffany stained glass skylight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Even more impressive is the
sensational lower lobby, dominated by an extraordinary sweeping staircase that
was replicated in Gone With the Wind, the steps that Rhett swooped Scarlett up
in the film's most palpitating scene. </div>
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Have we mentioned that this place
is astonishing to look at?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Set at city center, it takes no
more than ten minutes to reach any part of the confederate capital, from the
Riverwalk along the sparkling James, to the mile-long stretch of bistros and
boutiques in Carytown, and myriad historic sites.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Distances between most attractions are
amusingly listed in yards, not miles, on hotels.com. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Room rates begin at $350, but there
are frequently special offers. Starting October 19 the Virginia Museum of Fine
Arts is hosting an exclusive exhibition, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Forbidden
City: Imperial Treasures from the Palace
Museum, Beijing</i>. The hotel's package for two,
valid Sunday to Thursday through January 11, includes valet parking, breakfast,
and tickets to the show starting at $315.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Plus the hotel always offers guests
complementary car service to whisk you around town then bring you back to your
robe and slippers.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Now that's luxury.</div>
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<br /></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970198823663474935.post-69281741231326124262014-12-15T10:18:00.004-05:002015-03-21T17:11:55.894-04:00Ein frohes Weihnachtsfest und alles Gute zum neuen Jahr! (And to All a Good Night)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgmT9M99M8-c-GPxG8T_9kto26RIa1yTxl4SELgHMpYH9qu9F34MlwZjefywxn1tNaBwOR_0hGg0hBbVzBLgF5kCx65ylQlM7nmxWxoSbTPSy5HMLOrWxQRwfEbgYiG5M_G8yCSECMCVF/s1600/ornament+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgmT9M99M8-c-GPxG8T_9kto26RIa1yTxl4SELgHMpYH9qu9F34MlwZjefywxn1tNaBwOR_0hGg0hBbVzBLgF5kCx65ylQlM7nmxWxoSbTPSy5HMLOrWxQRwfEbgYiG5M_G8yCSECMCVF/s1600/ornament+3.jpg" height="400" width="270" /></a></i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>for the Washington Post's FW magazine</i></span><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Winterfest at Tyson's Corner is in full swing on the brand
new outdoor plaza, with ice skating, live music, brats and beer and mugs of hot
mulled <i><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Glühwein.
</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It's
Bavaria on the new Silver Line, which scoots
you out in about thirty minutes from Metro
Center, and deposits you on
a footbridge to a fairytale. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Bob
Maurer, the marketing director at Tyson's Corner
Center, is no stranger to creating
fantasy worlds in Washington.
He was the impresario behind Union Station's long collaboration with Norway, which
brought model trains, a huge tree, and wonderful crafts and music to those
gilded halls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">At
Tysons he collaborated with Käthe Wohlfahrt, of </span>Rothenburg ob der
Tauber, a company nearly synonymous with Christmas in Germany, <span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">that has created snow
globe scenes in major cities around the world, from Tokyo, to Paris, and now to
our Emerald City of Shopping. </span></div>
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<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Wohlfhart's
vast tent is set in a wonderland of trees, 18 of them surrounding a 52 foot
behemoth, offering a shimmering light show at dusk, synced to music piped in on
weekdays, and featuring jazz and choral groups live on weekends.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Within
the tent are collectibles and delectable's from Germany, many of them hand
crafted: blown glass ornaments, miniatures, music boxes, nutcrackers, those
clever Christmas carousels that rotate by the heat of candles, and buttery,
fruit-filled stollen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Thirty
more tents dot the plaza, with local artists and craftspeople offering marzipan-fancy
soaps, hand tooled leather bracelets, fiber art, and vendors from around the
world adding an eclectic mix of fair trade goods including pashminas from Turkey, brilliantly colored jewelry from Colombia,
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and cheese boards from Tunesia. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The
craft tents are organized by Mike Berman, who also brings the marvelous holiday
fair to downtown DC each year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one
is different he says, more gift centered and in line with the high quality
items one would expect to find within the Mall shops.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">It's
an odd confluence, perhaps; a mall hosting an outdoor festival. But it's all
about introducing (or reintroducing) Washingtonians to the pleasure of congregating
with friends in the frosty air, taking a spin on the 5200 square foot ice rink,
and celebrating the season. If the weather's too brisk, 300 toasty shops and
restaurants, plus the movies, await. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">And
for a true miracle of the season, Tyson's concierge can deliver </span>all<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> of your parcels from any
shop -- or tent -- in the Mall to any place within ten miles, on the same day,
for five bucks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No drones involved,
yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Stephanie Cavanaughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09161288102578516246noreply@blogger.com0