I don’t know when weddings became such a big industry. When my parents got married, it was in the backyard of the bride’s parents’ home, as it was for most people then. Her mother did the majority of the planning, they showed up, badda-bing badda-boom, and five hours later they were rattling back down the driveway trailing some tin cans behind their VW. Perhaps this is a simplified view with 40+ years of hindsight, but planning definitely does not seem like it was the year-long full-time job it is these days.

These days the bar feels substantially higher. Take a gander through a Martha Stewart Weddings, or peruse one of the highly specialized and highly precious wedding blogs out there, and you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. A humble backyard affair will not cut it – unless, of course, it is styled by a celebrity stylist, who could make it come off as charming and naive… instead of it actually being naive. After all, this is going to be “your big day!” as everybody keeps referring to it, with a big smile! And with 100 plus of your most favorite people traveling from all over to be there, you do not want to disappoint.

The main thing I have discovered about wedding planning is that (like coastlines) it is a fractal-like process. Every bit of it, as soon as you dive in opens a world of questions of equal complexity. You need a cake, for example, so you research and find a nice cake baker. But its not done – you need to figure out what kind of cake, what kind of filling, what kind of frosting, what kind of decoration, what combination of tiered and sheet cake, will you have a what kind of groom’s cake and what will that be, how does everybody feel about cake toppers, and if so what kind and how much do they cost and con they come in time. Then you have to figure out how the cake will be transported and when, who will provide the pedestal for it to sit on, the table to support it, and the knife with which to do the ceremonial cutting. Each one of these questions could be an equally complex operation. You agree to use the cake knife that your aunt used at her wedding, until she back-pedals because she’s afraid it’ll get taken away at security on the flight there. Back to square on with the cake knife. Every step of the way involves endless research, coordination with vendors, and vetting of the proposed solution between a committee of people, including your mother, your father, your fiance, the secretary at work, and anybody else who happens to overhear. When a vendor goes out of stock on something you wanted or messes up an order, well then, just start right over.

This process happens with every item on the wedding shopping list, from big to small. The venue, the dress (the shoes, to veil or not to veil, the hair (down or up, and if up, high or low and how to make sure the stylist doesn’t use too much hairspray??), the make-up, the jewelry, the lingerie, the alterations), the ring, the caterer, the photographer, the dj, the officiant, the invitations, the flowers, the drinks, the decorations, the cake, the bridal party gifts, the favors. I could go on with the parenthetical decisions required. Throw in a couple of unresolved family issues (which, so thankfully, we have not really encountered. My parents are being a-maaaazing.) and I can see where Bridezilla comes in.

I realize as I’m writing this that I’m making this process sound like not much fun. But the thing is, it *is* fun. Obsessive and sometimes stressful, but so fun. When else do you get to design one day so fully, to pack it so chock full of beauty and meaning and special details. When else do you get to have all the people you love in the same place at the same time, and enjoy beauty and celebrate love with them! It truly is a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The getting married part is – almost – the icing on the cake.

I went to the Brooklyn Flea last weekend, and nowhere is the Brooklyn aesthetic more more in effect. Besides old typewriters, they sell old frames, old paintings, old jewelry, old cloths, old furniture, old records, old junk. I understand that there are flea markets elsewhere that also sell old stuff, but there they sell it for cheap because its old. I also understand that some old stuff becomes more valuable either because it is especially well made, or exceedingly rare. In Brooklyn however, its more expensive because its old, no matter how mainstream or middling quality it originally was. Really its a goldmine for the vendors, who basically go pick up trash anywhere outside the City, bring it here, and watch it magically alchemize into cash.

So, I was wandering around the Flea, feeling somewhat nonplussed by the $100 old cowboy boots and $50 old (not good) paintings, when I saw a very strange sign. “2$” it said, and it was attached to a shelf of (yes) old little apothecary bottles. First of all, I was shocked that anything could be had at the Flea for $2, and that includes a bottle of water. Second, I was shocked because these were vintage, ie old, bottles. Right up the Brooklyn alley. Why wasn’t the vendor charging extortionary prices for them?? I looked around furtively to see if anybody else had seen the same sign I had. I quickly made my way over and examined the bottles more closely. Sweet little things, in a variety of sizes and shapes, the glass having taking on a variety of patinas over the years. One said “Listerine” in raised letters on the glass. They were beautiful by themselves, and several grouped together made a wonderful little collection. They reminded me of a set of vases I had put on my wedding registry, before the shop that sold them had gone out of business. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get them, and of course these were different, but they evoked the same feel. I felt that rush of discovering a true find. I selected a group of ten – altogether less than a single one of the vases on my registry. (Which is as it should be. Those were new.)

The vendor explained that these bottles were, indeed, trash. They had been thrown into a town dump in Pennsylvania sometime in the early 1900s, and were now being dug up and resold. What was literally one man’s trash, now, 80 years later, was my treasure. I had to laugh, half ironically and half gleefully, as I exited the Flea, cradling the bag with my find.

However, if you don’t have an iPhone, this is not some kind of insider, iPhone-crazy post designed to make you feel bad. Because the iPhone has an weak spot, as I have discovered, and its name is Liquid.

my third iPhone

I first had an iPhone 3g. It served me wonderfully, and I loved it dearly, until about 2 months ago when I went to get Mongolian barbecue for lunch. Looove the Mongolian barbecue. I eat it regularly, as its one of the few good lunch options near my work. However, on this particular day, I must have been making a call, must have picked up my Mongolian barbecue, and tossed the phone into the smiley-faced lunch bag when I was done… Well, when I removed the phone back at my desk, my own face was not so smiley. iPhone did not seem to be working properly. Sure, Mongolian BBQ juice had goozled onto it a bit, but hey, like, what’s the big deal?

Turns out it is a BIG deal. When Mr. Genius at the iPhone bar the next day opened up the phone, he drew for me with his finger the outline of the Mongolian BBQ juice inside the phone… Big goozle. iPhone no work-y. Darn.

Luckily however, I was due for an upgrade. It still cost me $200, but I walked away with a brand new iPhone 3gs. Happy-ish camper.

Until the other weekend. It has been incredibly hot on the East Coast for the past several weeks, and Saturday afternoon there was a glorious downpour. I happened to be caught out in it on my bike and was thinking, oh how wonderful, oh how glorious, the big, deep, raging summer rain. I peddled fast through the drops till I got home. And when I got home… big deep summer drops had permeated my purse, and apparently, permeated my new iPhone. This time my reaction was a lot more than “darn.” Two iPhones in two months is a bit much.

Let me just stop here and say that if this ever happens to you, drop that baby in a bag of rice as fast as you can say “Uncle Ben.” Apparently the rice helps dry it out. I didn’t know that, so I just propped it up, hoping the rain would drip out of it. No such luck. Over the next day it progressed from dying to dead.

I took it to the Genius Bar again. I got a very nice genius, at the VERY crowded Fifth Avenue store (I think the Apple store must be one of New York’s biggest tourist destinations.) I told him what had happened, and he said, “You know that liquid voids the warranty?” I had suspected as much. He peered into its orifices with a bright light. He tried to restart it with mega-voltages. It remained in the next world. He peered into its orifices with the bright light again, and then looked at me furtively. Apparently the iPhone has built in liquid detectors – two of them. On my phone, one was tripped and the other one wasn’t. Company policy he told me, is that if one is tripped, they ask the customer, “has this phone gotten wet?” If the customer says yes, warranty is voided. If the customer says no, it is covered by warranty. He kindly suggested I take that info with me, and make another appointment, at another Genius Bar. I skedaddled away, carefully holding my phone upright, lest the water drip around inside and trip the second sensor.

Next morning, I had an appointment at the Soho Genius Bar, bright and early. I got a kindly looking genius, and was somewhat encouraged that perhaps he’d “work with me”. He took the phone into the back for what seemed a very long time. Finally when he reappeared, he said, “This phone has been wet.” No ifs, ands or buts. No one-sensor-has-been-wet-but-the-other-hasn’t. I tried to prompt him. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Is that really the case, that if one sensor is wet, the warranty is voided?” He wasn’t budging. I could try AT&T he told me. I could make another appointment with another Genius, he told me. But he wasn’t budging. I left disheartened, cradling my dead phone.

One way or another, I needed a working phone. After trying AT&T, who fobbed me off on the Cellphone Exchange re-sellers down the street, where sketchy guys were selling “extra” Blackberries and iPhones, and they wanted $345 for a used iPhone anyway, I realized that Apple’s $200 replacement fee was the best deal I was going to get.

I made another appointment at the Genius Bar, back at Fifth Ave again. When I got there after work, it was crowded again. “We’re running 20 minutes late,” the greeter told me. I sat down dejected and nervous, carrying my dead phone, feeling tired of this whole pursuit of a free replacement. Half an hour went by, and I tried to distract myself, unsure of my communications strategy should be. To maintain the pretense that it hadn’t gotten wet, it had just dies, I reasoned I should act clueless as to what the problem could be, indignant that this new phone had broken, and confident that they they would replace it. However, I finally got called by a very no-nonsense-looking female Genius. “Oh great,” I thought, “She’s never going to give me a break.” All of my will for this issue gone, I communicated the my phone had stopped working in as nervous and guilty a tone as could be.

But she was busy. She didn’t even ask me what happened. She peered quickly in the phone’s orifices. Then she did something amazing: she walked to a drawer, pulled out a replacement phone box, opened it, scanned it, replaced my SIM card, printed out some paperwork, and handed me a new phone. “Your phone got wet,” she said. “I’m giving you a replacement one for free today. Be very careful with it – these phones are very sensitive to water.”

I don’t know why she did it – maybe just to get me out of there? – but I was grateful. And I am now going to travel with a ziplock baggie for my iPhone.

Sephora eye liner

How it happened was this: I was sitting in Union Square one fine warm evening this week, enjoying a delicious fallafel salad bowl from the oh-so-fun and oh-so-Amsterdammy Maoz, when I got chased away by a trio of crack-ed out street folks. Perhaps “inspired to leave” is a better way to phrase it. However, I should really thank them, because I then felt inspired to go look in Sephora, which I had originally passed by with the very strange thought, “I don’t really need anything from Sephora right now.” However, my slightly raving street friends encouraged me to reconsider, and I realized “Well, don’t I *always* need something from Sephora?” So I passed through the stripey facade in search of what it was that I needed without knowing it.

It didn’t take long for the fog in my head to clear, and for me to realize – duh! – exactly what I needed: a new blue-green eyeliner. I have a peacock blue liquid liner from Mac that always gets rave reviews, but it is a bit much for every day. I also have a greenish blue pencil liner from NARS, but I am saddened to report that it doesn’t work very well. For one thing, it seems like the sharp woody bits of the pencil start sticking up and practically tearing my eyelids off almost the day after I sharpen it. And for another, it is a pretty hard, dry consistency, and I basically have to stretch my eyelids to my ear, and/or press super heard to get it to mark at all. Ouch! I feel like I get a new wrinkle every time I use it. Which I am surprised about, frankly, form NARS, who is generally my favorite cosmetics company.

Anyway, this time I was looking for cheap and cheerful. I wanted a quick, summery make-up fix, not the heavy-duty image investment that so much of make-up, and most certainly anything that could be called skincare or a ‘cosmaceutical’, requires these days. I headed back to the Sephora house brand section, where I have had good luck with the occassional party color before. There is was, a perfect green amidst the broken testers and smeared pigments. I bought it untested, and my gamble was rewarded. The color is perfect for everyday – a a gray-ish green that mellows into a amazonian smokey seduction. The best part, however, is the texture – creamy and effortless as it glides on, it is also waterproof, which means it sticks there a bit longer than average. Often I believe you get what you pay for, but some lucky times, you just get more. Between Sephora and the crackheads, the stars were in alignment.

John Robshaw sheets from Anthropologie

I am realizing two things as I write this. One, there must be some extra level that he is adding in terms of curatorial eye and production quality, because even though you see other Indian-produced or Indian-inspired things around, they are generally not done as well. Either the quality isn’t as good, or the line isn’t as extensive and consistent. Or, they are even *more* expensive, like this precious little boutique not far from my house. As obvious as it seems it should be, doing a good job at any business is not all that common. Maybe its not actually necessary to be innovative, its only necessary to be competent.

Two, the fact that his products *look* Indian is probably contributing to my annoyance by making me think they should be cheaper. The fact is, just about everything I buy is probably produced for pennies in a country like India or China, and then marked up as far as the company can possibly manage before they sell it to me. But when a design looks more ‘Western’ or modern, it doesn’t remind me that it was produced somewhere else, and thus doesn’t remind me how much extra I am paying.

Three, maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I should be traveling around the world and sourcing lovely home products. Yup, that’s probably it. His fey, self-satisfied product notes don’t help. For example “Crisp and graphic blocks still remind me of mountains and fruit orchards of Uzbekistan and my last trip spent working with the weavers. – John Robshaw” sort of makes me want to barf. Its like he wants to be a BBC correspondent or something.

Anyway, I recently acquired a set of his sheets from Anthropologie, for about half what they would go for direct from him. I also have 2 pillowcases, bought off Gilt.com at a similar mark-down. Every them I look at them I have mixed feelings. I love the colors, patterns, and warm, hand-made feel. And I am still annoyed at John.

From that exchange until last weekend, I maintained the impression that my sweetie was a little weird and overzealous on the topic of blenders (actually kitchen stuff in general, but I can leave that for another post). It didn’t stop me from loving him or agreeing to marry him, but it did get filed away in that mental drawer where we all keep of secret judgements about the strange little quirks of others.

His error in strategy, I now realize, was announcing his blender asset in the middle of winter, when there wasn’t so much of interest to blend. Last weekend however, when he suggested that we could make frozen strawberry margaritas in his excellent blender, all of a sudden my attention for his appliance skyrocketed. “Frozen strawberry magaritas!!!” I thought, “I’ve never heard of such a genius idea!”

We went to the supermarket and got the ingredients: a big bag of frozen strawberries, a can of Limeaid, and a bottle of Jose Cuervo’s medecino. (We discovered while enjoying his elixir, that Jose Cuervo’s name in English would translate to “Joe Crow”… somehow not as flattering). That’s it: toss these things in the blender with some ice, and fire that baby up. This, then, is where the great blender becomes relevant. If you have one, such as Matt’s Hamilton Beach, after a few minutes all those icy ingredients will smooth out into one fine, slushy, slurpy, heavenly strawberry slurry. If your blender is not quite so great, well, after a few minutes you may have nothing more than some pathetically chipped frozen chunks and that unmistakable eau de motor burn-out. I’m sure you’ll agree that chunky, unblended summer drinks are just about as much of a buzz-kill as sunburn and sand in the bikini.

So that’s it – my purchase this week was summertime joy in a glass. All it took was three simple ingredients, and a guy with a great blender.

Yes, the week at the spa was divine. And then it drew to a close. I found myself in the San Diego airport, a little peckish. The options, as I looked around at the vinyl airport chairs and the gray utility carpet, seemed to be old tortilla chips with fake orange cheese, and the plastic baggied, slightly soggy sandwiches they now peddle at Starbucks. I felt sad. And the thought of returning to my life in New York made me sad too. Of course good fresh food and produce exists in New York, but it didn’t exist so very consistently in my life. I used to go to Whole Paycheck pretty regularly, but then I changed jobs and no longer work or live near one. I could go to the Farmers’ Market at Prospect Park on Saturdays, it is true, but I never seem to make it. The fast food options near my work tend more toward street meat than biodynamic. As I mentally surveyed the state of my food life in New York City, I could feel my cells shriveling, the energy depleting, and the chemicals pooling. My color fell and my skin sagged thinking about it.

Never one to resign myself without a fight, I looked into my options first thing when I arrived back on the Right Coast. Being the bobo place that it is, CSAs are quite popular in Brooklyn, and at first I thought this was the thing to do. I came close to signing up for one, but then I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to go pick it up during the 6-10pm window on Thursdays when it has to be fetched, and thus would waste my bounty. In the end I settled on Urban Organic. Unlike a CSA, they are not tied to one farm. They buy a selections of things that are in season (all organic) put ‘em in a box and – here is the key – deliver it to you. I was sold.

I get a box every two weeks. It is usually waiting outside my door when I get home from work on Mondays, filled with a friendly crew of things like chard, cabbage, tangellos, potatoes, etc. Some are more exotic than others, some I like more than others, but all of them provide that vital nutrient I was craving: the goodness for body and soul of well raised food.

I need the carpet for my living room, and it has to go with a very specific color: my couch is a surprisingly difficult to replicate eggplant-y, gray-ish brown. Or perhaps its more purple-y, brown-ish gray. Or if I were J. Crew, I might call it something like “Polluted Midnight” or – I know – “Oilspill.”

Finding a color that compliments that couch, as well as the light gray floor, and my bright pink chairs, is the order. It also needs to be neutral – there’s a lot of other action in the space. And it must be cool. I’m over shag rugs, I think most modern carpets with designs are trying too hard, and then there is just a whole world of “classic” designs that really should be called “tacky” and not even allowed through Homeland Security.

I started out not thinking much of this carpet-buying task, but this turned out to be a serious underestimation. I have come to long for a local souk to ply me with tea and apply minor torture until I have purchased several carpets. I will spare you the painful details of all the websites searched and the samples ordered, but I will tell you what I now know: stores have plenty of browns, and grays, and a few aubergines, but they do not have brown-y, grayish purple.

I finally did find one with the right colors, but it was way too expensive – $1500. Really? For a girl who is just graduating from Ikea that’s a bit much. So I kept on looking. And kept on, and nothing showed up.

After a few years (ok, it couldn’t have been years, I realize, but it felt like it) I decided to bite the bullet and buy the expensive carpet. I didn’t tell Matt the pricetag, since he was dubious about the look of it anyway. I put it on my credit card and eagerly awaited to carpet that was so dear, yet so perfectly colored.

Finally it arrived. We unwrapped it, unrolled it, adjusted the placement just so, and stood back to survey it. And it was… ok. It was fine. Nice even. Just not the perfect wow I was hoping for. Eh.

What to do? I lived with it for a week or two. Matt actually liked it. A two-year old narrowly missed dousing with o.j. Then my credit card bill came. The $1500 extra dollars sat rather heavily on that bottom line. I took a gulp, wrapped it up, and trundled it back to UPS. Maybe one day it won’t have to be perfect for $1500, but today it does.

The old Ikea shag that was acting as a placeholder is back on duty. I was dispirited for a while, but now I am back on the horse. There is a carpet out there that will be just right, I have faith. I am considering felt. I will let you know how it goes.

The next evening, the scenario repeated itself. Different dress, but Gillian liked it also (she’s very kind), and lo-and-behold, that one came from GILT too. I felt a little sheepish for some reason – actually, the same guilt I feel at work each time the mail guys come in with a new personal package for me… from GILT. Thank goodness the boxes are not overtly marked (like exterminator vans and porno magazines) but really the trained eye knows a GILT box when they see one, and I think my colleagues and the mail guys are starting to catch on.

But anyway, back to our story: by Sunday of the wedding weekend, Gillian assumed that my entire wardrobe was from GILT. At the beach, she looked at my bathing suit and said, “GILT?”  (It was not, actually).

GILT is not news at this point, but it is interesting for me to realize that, over a year into my association with GILT, it has truly transformed the way I shop. I pass brick and mortar boutiques these days and think, “Oh god, who would ever buy something at full price??” and also, “Well, that looks cute, but I don’t have any money left b/c I already bought two things on GILT this month…” I do feel sorry for the demise of local fashion retailers… and yet GILT is just an unbeatable combination for me. It my guilty habit.

Here are the reasons its got me hooked:
1. Discounts. Here I have to say that I don’t actually spend less money by shopping on GILT, I just buy things that had a higher price to begin with. Are they better? Are the prices listed actually prices, or were they just inflated to be discounted? I can’t say for sure… but it does make me feel like I’m getting a bargain. (Which means that I’m actually being frugal… right??)

2. Timing. It pops into my inbox every day at approximately 11:50 a.m. I am almost invariably feeling slightly bored and disenchanted with work (the nature of the beast), and welcome the escape. It is a small diversion, a bit of effervescence. Shopping is the opportunity to imagine myself and my life transformed into the fantasy of the person who would wear that thing. Work turns out to be the place where that fantasy is direly needed.

3. Variety. J.Crew and Urban Outfitters regularly pop into my inbox announcing sales also, but I almost never even open those messages. Part of the appeal of GILT is that its got different designers everyday. No annoying self-promotion, no flogging of the same tired pony.

That’s it, the 1-2-3 killer combination. The product itself is almost secondary. It is exciting when a box arrives, but in most cases I’ve practically forgotten about it by that point. The joy is mainly in the envisioning.

What are the results of my association with GILT? For one, my wardrobe has gotten better. For two, I spend almost no time shopping anymore (umm, at least not outside of my lunch hour…) But for three, I have an increased level of shopping anxiety. Or should we say guilt. I live with a faint but perceptible worry that I will be tempted by something in the day’s email.

However, this anxiety has not proven enough to make me cancel my membership. For now at least, the thrill of the occasional jewel/ bargain is worth the demon of constant temptation.

Gillian emailed me a few days later to report that GILT does indeed ship to London. Her first purchase was on its way.

My seed packets

Fast forward 2 months, and sappy as it sounds, it turns out that sometimes when you face your fears and take ownership of a situation, life really does spring up to meet you (literally in this case) in wonderful ways. Left with no choice, I decided that I would indeed take on the garden task, and a whole new world opened up to me. Problem No. 1 of the urban gardener, no car, was temporarily fixed the following weekend, when Matt and I had a car rented for another purpose. A Home Depot magically sprung up on our route, and I discovered to my delight a whole section not only full of plants of wondrous variety, but also big bags of dirt and even pots. Who knew?! One hour and $130 later, we had the beginnings of a respectable patio garden: a reddish tree that we thought was a Japanese Maple, but have since discovered is not, and still remains unidentified; several creeping Phlox fillers for the planter with bright purple flowers; and a spunky Persian Lilac. As we pulled the old grass and filled the box with rich new soil and blooming plants, I felt terribly earthy and rooted to Life, and I understood for the first time the appeal of dirt under my fingertips.

This exercise would have been enough to stave off garden guilt – my planters were full of living vegetable matter. However, a funny thing happened: I kept going. I got some Clymatis vines for the roof; the Brooklyn Botanic Garden had their annual plant sale, and I came home with a Violet, and a Jasmine, and an happy light green plant with little purple flowers, and an evergreen with pink flowers; my brother came to visit, and gave me hanging plant with bright pink flowers; while at the local hardware store, I picked up some seeds for Cosmos and Morning Glory, and I planted those; another time I got a Dahlia bulb, and put that in a pot too (upside down, I believe). I turned pots (so expensive!!) into an arts and crafts projects and now have an lovely, eclectic collection of multi-color spray-painted pots.

Each evening when I come home, I check in and water the plants. The slow steady progress is incredibly soothing and fulfilling. The plants that have come up from seed are especially thrilling, but even coaxing a bloom out of a pre-grown plant is pride-inducing. Hell, just keeping them alive makes me feel good. This all probably sounds like ‘duh’ to people who’ve been gardening for years, but hey, now I get it. Better late than never to the garden party?