Thursday, April 12, 2007
Dear Marc, or rather dear people who read this, whoever you are, wherever you are and whatever your reason for reading the random ramblings of this beer slut on this page,
I'm taking a break.
Feel free to mail me at email@example.com if you'd like a mail whenever there's something to read here or somewhere else.
I'm walking into the world as a new woman as I'm shedding the responsibility of writing hundreds of meaningless letters to a celebrated man of fashion.
What next? Who knows? Suggestions are most welcome.
Mark your mail with letsmeetupforscones in the subject line.
That would make me feel great, almost popular.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Dear Marc, my readers of your letters keep sending me news from your life.
I loved the suits you designed for Will Ferrell's sons demi-Swedish sons Magnus and Mattias.
And your workspace looks great too. Thanks to the web pages of NY Mag, we can all pretend we're sitting by your desk, sharing a joke or two with Robert Duffy.
Your desk seems so clean, clutter free and organized compared to that of Lewis Kornhaus, NYU School of Law Professor.
Mom, see this? You have nothing to worry about! The NY Mag mentions a new book written for you, Kornhauser and myself.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Dear Marc, yesterday I was a very fat woman.
I wasn't any bigger than usual, but my heart went out to the overweight fashion lovers of the world.
What we see and love we can not have.
Our bodies stop us from it.
See these platforms? Know how great they look with yellow socks and a blue gingham halterneck dress? And perhaps a little scarf casually tied around my flowing hair?
I might buy them anyway, in the hope that they'll fit post-surgery.
What size should one buy when planning to remove large pieces of bone from the feet?
Should I just buy them and love them for their beauty?
Like the gold and white Marc Jacobs I treat just like real babies?
You tell me!
You reading this, tell me what to do.
This is what they tell me is OK prior to surgery. Not the same, I tell you, not the same.
am dreaming about this, which is way too expensive for me, but will look ok with clogs or barefoot.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Dear Marc, this is letter 400. I hope that's ok by you.
By me, it's fine too, only thing is I don't have a single important thing to say to mark such an important day.
This is my life today:
Must write draft for web campaign.
Must find important background on sweet smelling body lotions.
Must remember my brother's upcoming b-day.
Must set date for return to Sweden.
Must finish work to be able to spend an hour in the sun with my man.
I will smell great, but perhaps not exactly the way he'd wish.
The other day, I visited a Bonpoint-store and since Joel wrecked half the store, I felt obliged to buy something, as a gesture of my peaceful nature and mature standing.
I looked around but could only find delicate, expensive pieces of clothing calm (or wheelbound) children might wear without spoiling.
I might as well eat my pounds with a little ketchup on.
In the end though, I found an item that an adult could use, although the bottle stated in contained perfume pour enfants.
It was such an insane thought, I had to buy it. Besides, in the store it had that perfect lemon drop scent I've tried to find for years. But as we returned home, it turned out to smell very much like the Annick Goutal scents I already have. And sure enough, she was the creator of this scent too! Turns out she's the sister of the Bonpoint founders or something like that.
I'll never forget the first time I wore Annick Goutal's Eau de Sud. Anders looked all confused and said "what's that smell? it smells just like that stuff they use to clean the men's room."
Not the reaction you hope for after shelling out whatever you pay for a bottle of French perfume.
And now I've done it again.
I'd better just start cutting a lemon in half and rub myself with it.
And if you run into urinal smelling kids, don't be alarmed. They're probably mine, freshly sprayed with baby cologne to take away that adorable smell of babysoft skin, silky hair and overall goodness that goes with childhood. Who'd want that? Not the French!