Tiles as table runner?

I am going to start collecting vintage tiles. Put it down the table in the middle and walla! A completely unique table runner.



(As if I need another collection!)

So You Think You Don't Like Poetry

Lost love is a popular theme in poetry; all poets attempt to write about it at some point. Nothing quite sucker-punches you like reading a poem that perfectly captures the mess of emotions that often accompanies seeing an ex. This poem, by Jeffrey McDaniel, delivers said punch-in-the-gut. I'd say "enjoy" but "read it and weep" is more apt.

The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds of women—those you write poems about and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed. My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,  whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked within the confines of my character, cast as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side. We don't have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power never put to good use. What we had together makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught one another like colds, and desire was merely a symptom that could be treated with soup and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,  I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,  as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long regret existed before humans stuck a word on it. I don't know how many paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light of a candle being blown out travels faster than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,  but I do know that all our huffing and puffing into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick birthday candle—didn't make the silence any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you so hard one of your legs would pop out of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press your face against the porthole of my submarine. I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn't be said.

Weekend update

I rarely use my blog as a forum to merely recap my activities (I like to kid myself by thinking people who don't know me might enjoy reading this), but sometimes, a weekend is so epic that it merits some 'logues love. This past weekend involved celebrity sightings, trips to two cities where I used to live, and a lot of singing women.

On Friday, I took the bus to New York City. The purpose of my 16-hour visit was to see "Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson" at the Public, directed by my friend from college, Alex Timbers. Alex is pretty much a celebrity now in his own right -- when the New York Times profiles you and describes your show as "devastatingly shrewd," you've pretty much made it. (Though my personal favorite description of Alex came from performer/writer Mike Daisey, who described him as "a cross between Jesus Christ and Ashton Kutcher"). I had the pleasure of being directed by Alex back in 2006, when I played a roofied-and-raped suicidal rave girl in Hell House:


Another sign that you've hit the big time? When STEVE MARTIN comes to your show. That's right, I saw Steve motherf*cking Martin on Friday night. I walked past him on the way to the ladies' room at the Public. We locked eyes and I gave him my best "I know who you are but I'm going to be cool about it and not say anything or ask for your autograph" smile and he responded with a relieved "I know you know who I am and thank you for not making a scene" expression. We had a moment, it was nice.

The show is incredible -- definitely check it out if you're in the New York vicinity between now and May 9th. I mean, it's an emo-rock musical about Andrew Jackson and the Populism movement. What's not to love?

After the play, I went to a fundraising party for an indie film some friends of mine are involved with. And who walks into the party just after midnight but Zachary Quinto, a.k.a. Spock from the new Star Trek movie (or Sylar, if you watch Heroes). Now, keep in mind, when I lived in New York, I never saw famous people. Apparently, they don't ride the G train or frequent the midtown Kaplan center. So seeing two in one night was pretty nifty. ZQ was very affable and charming, btw.

So that was Friday night. Saturday morning I boarded a Metro North train bound for New Haven. Now, a lot of people hate on New Haven -- sure, it's a little ghetto and not as shiny and gentrified as, say, Cambridge, but I still love it. I came back to celebrate the 40th anniversary of The New Blue, Yale's oldest women's a cappella group, which was founded in 1969, the first year of coeducation at Yale. New Blue is actually the oldest women's organization of any kind at Yale. And I was lucky enough to be a member, from 1999-2003.

At the reunion, I met women from the original class of New Blue and it was incredibly moving. There was a lot of singing, hugging, and crying. As I'm writing this, I'm realizing there's really no way to describe what I felt singing alongside true pioneers, the first women to graduate from Yale. It sounds cheesy, but they paved the way. And being in a room full of strong, powerful, beautiful, smart women is an experience I can't really put into words.


At one point during reunion, we sang a song called "River of Birds." The lyrics are as follows: "There's a river of birds in migration, a nation of women with wings." Those simple lines are repeated, starting with one voice singing alone and slowly building until there are multiple harmonies and voices. While we were singing, one alum's four-year-old daughter ran up to the stage and started singing along. Not a dry eye in the place, trust me.

So that was my weekend. How was yours?

Vintage poetry book for children

As you will know if you've read my blog long enough, I have a small collection of vintage children's books.

My recent acquisition, Aladdin jewel-like book:



The whimsical vintage Ameliaranne Bridesmaid book:



My treasured House By Mouse book:



And my other mouse books...

To add to my collection is this beautiful thriftstore find in Glenbrook, NSW.

Dunno's Adventures 4 by Nikolai NOSOV. This one's How Dunno Became a POET. Printed in 1984.

Gorgeous huh?

I wish I had a reading nook for Hannah. Maybe when we move. She misses it so much.

I keep looking for a vintage plate rack in my thriftstore and eBay travels. I plan to use it to display my vintage children's books. Like this one from Martha Stewart:



Don't you have special books you love to pore over on special rainy days? I love to read to Hannah on gloomy days with some brightly lit lamps, or pore over the tiny images with a quiet but quick toast and coffee on Saturday morning before taking to a paintbrush. They make fantastically whimsical gifts to newborn bubs.

Make sure you look through some gorgeous reading corners from a previous blogpost. So many good ideas to steal.

Like using the oft-forgotten empty space behind the door for a reading nook. What else can you store there? Brooms? Store a pretty lamp on a little table, chuck some cushions, a beanbag... books... and you have the cutest, most special secret reading corner for a little one!

My girls...

I finally got the gift my sister got for my birthday last Sep 2009 a frame and a home on the wall. I love it there.

Last week, I scored a gilt, wooden, ornate frame for it while thrift-shopping (yay!). I had every intention of painting the frame a lovely egg blue but when the Kate Spade print was inserted, it felt complete.

My Kate Spade print from Etsy seller KathrynElyse

My MIL loves it too!

Of course, in this tiny home I have to be so careful what I place on the walls. I can't wait to get back into a proper house (I so miss my previous home) so I can put up my other pieces, like my David Downton and Janet Hill collection.

So for now, I treasure these splendid one offs.

On a nearby wall I have just ONE Janet Hill up.



Nearby again, I have this small, sweet vintage oil painting of a lady in pink, staring into the sea. I got her from the Camberwell Markets, VIC a year ago. I love her.



If you have been following me for a while now, you've seen pictures of my previous home and would have deduced the obvious fact: I love art.

Some of my favourite fashion prints from Etsy:

Lene from Podgehodge

Marie loves fashion from brooklit

Rose Suspenders from abigailpamela

Cricket from jkldesign

Ella from whatHEloves

Flora from sandrasuy

Martyna from Amilka

Audrey II from brooklit

Mystie II from brooklit

Maternity Picasso from CarolDesign

Joey from finalfashion

Sandrine from hollyillustration

improper British ladies from ZoeHong

Sparkle Fashion from ZoeHong

What a drag

Allow me to introduce my drag persona, just created with the Dragulator. Her name? Vagnino Dentata.

As you can see, she's totally fierce, not to mention well-accessorized with a hotdog and a dove. I have to admit, I'm a bit obsessed with drag queens. This obsession developed when I was cast in play alongside several of them: The Jack of Tarts, which played at La Mama in New York in February of 2008. In one scene, I had the pleasure of tap dancing with Lance Cruce, a veteran Village performer/queen. Check it out:

That's me on my knees on the right. Damn, my tits look great from that angle. But I digress.

I met a number of fabulous, fabulous people in that show. And it was easy to get friends to come see it because I'm fairly sure there won't be another opportunity to see me tap dance, much less with a drag queen.

I myself have technically been in drag on stage a number of times. Since I went to an all-girls camp as a kid, I played a number of men, such as the Butler in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Kurt Von Trapp in The Sound of Music. I have also played male animals in children's shows (Mr. Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; Mole in The Wind and the Willows). I was cast in these roles because I had short hair and no breasts. One of these is still true.

I think my affinity for drag queens can be partly explained by the fact that when I talk to myself, the inner voice that responds is that of a sassy gay man (Katie: "I'm so sad about my break-up"; Inner Voice: "Grrrrl, you know he couldn't find your clit with a map and a flashlight.") I'm not sure how normal this is -- I mean, everyone talks to themselves from time to time, but does everyone have an inner drag queen talking back?

Of course it follows that I LOVE the reality competition on Logo, RuPaul's Drag Race. It's "the search for the next drag superstar" and subtly satirizes both America's Next Top Model and Project Runway while also being wholly original and laugh-out-loud funny. Season 2 is down to the Final Four: Raven, Jujubee, Tatianna, and Tyra Sanchez (a.k.a. "The other Tyra"). I was devastated when my favorite, Pandora Boxx, was eliminated after having to Lip-Synch for her Life:

Sigh. I love you, Pandora. You were robbed. Call me, ok? We'll talk shit about Santino.

So now I'm rooting for Raven and Jujubee (who's from Boston!). Tyra is too much of a bitch and Tatianna's drag persona is not developed enough -- as one of my friends pointed out, she's more of a transvestite than a true queen. She makes a pretty girl, but doesn't really transform into her female character the same way the more experienced queens do.

Well, now that I've completely lost/alienated my straight male readership, I'll wrap this up with the same wise words RuPaul uses to close out every episode: "If you can't love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else?"

Can I get an amen, sister?

Civic responsibility

In case you were curious, I have located the creepiest restroom facility in Boston: the ladies room on the second floor of the Suffolk County Courthouse. It's dark and narrow and you might get shivved on your way to wash your hands.

What was I doing at the Suffolk County Courthouse this morning, you ask? It has nothing to do with my recent penchant for stealing. No, for the first time, I was reporting for JURY DUTY!

Now, most people dread jury duty, but me? I was a little excited. I was summoned a few times when I lived in New York, but because I switched apartments so frequently, I never actually had to serve (every time you switch counties/districts, you're in a different jury selection pool). And the one time I actually still lived in the apartment where the summons was sent, my boss basically demanded that I postpone because apparently, she thought she needed more than the justice system on the week in question.

I think it's weird to want jury duty, so of course, I've been feigning irritation and cracking jokes about what I could do/wear to ensure I wouldn't get selected. Like showing up wearing this:

Nothing says unstable like a seasonally inappropriate Halloween costume.

Secretly, though, I've been looking forward to today ever since I got my summons. So what happened?

For starters, I got up at the ass-crack of dawn, otherwise known as 6:30 a.m. I wanted to give myself an hour to get to the courthouse, where I was due at 8:00 a.m. This was unnecessary since people continued to roll into the courthouse well past 9:00 a.m. Around 9:30, a court officer made a short announcement and then put on a video explaining how jury selection works. This video was made before I was born, I am pretty sure. A white-haired judge thanked us for our service and assured us not to take it personally if we were not picked for a jury. The difference between civil and criminal cases was explained. Some basic details about courtroom proceedings were mentioned, though come over, we all watch Law and Order, we don't need to be told what a "verdict" is.

The video made no mention of jury sequestering, which is another strange fantasy of mine. I've always thought it would be kind of glamorous/exciting/surreal to have to be cut off from the rest of the world. Though I've always wondered: is all T.V. prohibited or just news? I doubt America's Next Top Model would really affect my impartiality.

Anyway, the video ends and the court officer tells us we can take a "break" (a break from what? Sitting?) but we have to be back at 9:50. He emphasizes the importance of coming back on time.

Jump forward to 9:50 -- nothing happens. 10:30 -- no sign of court officer. Good thing we were all so punctual. Finally, at 11:15, some folks are called out of the room, maybe 1/4 of the total people in the room. At 11:45, we are told to go on another "break," until 12:05.

12:05 comes and goes.

Finally, at 12:50, the court officer says that all the other cases on the docket have been settled out of court and we can all go home.

Well, I'm a little underwhelmed. On the bright side, I don't have to show up at 8:00 a.m. again for another 3 years. But it might have been kind of exciting to be "impaneled." Oh well. I fulfilled my civic duty by showing up. And I got some good reading done. And my presence apparently intimidated some defendants into pleading out and saving taxpayers' money. Justice was served...I think.