Home & Family

We’ve had the ongoing project of installing a door under our stairs for oh, a couple of years now, I think.  I love the layout of our home, but its one weakness is its lack of storage space. 

So, we decided to make our own closet — take matters into our own hands.  The stairs had to be re-inforced and the doorway properly framed.  And, that’s about how far we made it before abandoning the project for many months — a doorless closet facing the front door. 

Well, good news, Isaac installed the door.  Yay!  And we picked up this fantastic glass doorknob (Anthropologie) to justify the visibility of our new junk repository — a bit o’ bling.  Now I wonder how long it’ll be before we install the doorknob. 

One day I’ll have funky doorknobs on every door.  One day.

I didn’t have a chance to watch the Academy Awards on Sunday night.  We were
busy celebrating my sister-in-law’s birthday and chatting-it-up with family.  But, I did record the event to keep me company during long stretches
of busywork this week.  Anyway, while watching a bit of the show
last night, I was reminded about my own Red Carpet experience – one of
the many odd, suppressed Hollywood memories I alluded to in my About
Page, but have never launched into here.

It was a dark and stormy night…  It was a long and taxing day…

…at the downtown Los Angeles library.  I had spent hours researching
patents for my hair accessory business (another story).  I was tired and hungry, but comfortably- dressed in some random assemblage of unremarkable lounge
clothing. Strapped with a messenger bag full of photocopies and
notes, I exited the library carrying a 12"-tall stack of hefty books.  When I called my husband to
report that the day’s work had been accomplished and I was heading
home, he replied, "Hey, you’re right next to the Oscars, you
should go have a look!"

Heather:  "How close is "right next to?"

Isaac:  "Oh, a couple of blocks."

Heather: "Uh…ok. Sure."

Isaac:  "Stay on the phone and I’ll tell you how to get there."

So, I headed to the right, tall stack of books in arms, instead of to the left, where the car was parked a few blocks away. 

— And let me just say here that everything looks smaller in a Thomas Guide — add to that a couple of wrong turns and we’re talking achey, shakey
arms, with a couple of blistered heels on the way —  By the time I made
my way to the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion, past the protester-packed
corners and the swarm of limousines stacked end-to-end along the road,
I was determined to see this tiresome adventure to some worthy end. Why turn around now, right?

So, I headed cautiously toward the back of the bleachers and the flurry
of activity that surrounded them.  I was certain that I’d be stopped
and questioned by the police at the street barracade or the security
guards peppered throughout the crowds, but I wasn’t going to turn back
until I was told, "Miss, this section is for VIPs," or "Tickets,
please," or the like.  No one stopped me.  No one was concerned.  Somehow, little innocent me, with my
conspicuous and dorky stack of patent books made it all the way to the
security station — you know, one of those metal-detector thingies you
have to walk through.  There I was at the end of the road.   

But, there was no one there.  No
one to ask, "How can I get into the bleachers?" or "When does this
thing end?" or "Where am I allowed to stand?"  So, I peeked my head
through the gateway to search for its manager.  No luck.  (But, no alarm
sounded either.)  So, what did this bedraggled young-lady-in need-of-adventure
do?  I walked on through, around a corner… and oops, right onto
The Red Carpet.  No, not the front-and-center part of The Red Carpet,
but The Red Carpet no less.  I stood there for a bit, awaiting my
security guard and getting the lay of the land, somewhat in shock at where I found myself and even more surprised by my brassy behavior.  I just stood there, bent
over with books, between the reporters and the tent full of dining
tables.  No one ever questioned me.  Nobody minded.

After a few minutes, I found my way up into the bleachers, stood in shock
a while longer, assessed my own mounting exhaustion, then promptly
headed out.  I was at the Oscars for all of ten minutes.  Sometimes I
wonder… should I have just kept walking, could I have made it into the
front row, would I have been awarded a gold statue of my own?

— Ok, that last line’s not true, but it makes the story sound more metaphorical, doesn’t it? —

The truth is, I had no
desire to make a name for myself as "The Library Girl" on international
news, nor interrupt the fashionable proceedings with my tennis shoes
and jeans.  By that point, I just wanted to put my books down and get my hands on
a tall glass of water. 

∆   ∆   ∆ 

One Hollywood story down, how many more to go? 
What did I call them in my little bio, "somewhat meaningless celebrity
encounters?"

Let’s see, there’s the time Cameron Diaz grabbed my arm,
and the night Claire Danes stepped on my foot, oh and the bomb-scare at
the grocery store with Christina Ricci (strange day, not scary). And several more — all meaningless, I assure you.  But, as a collection, they’re almost interesting.

(Footnote:  The photos are a re-enacted and the shoes are BC brand.)

I was going to tell you all about my Saturday at the Renaissance
Festival, my thoughts on hip-junk, and how we should all abandon our
purses for random draw-string baggies dangled from a belt. But, a deeper
study into the benefits of bag-free shoulders and the flirty
possibilities of shakin’ our hip-junk as we carry on about our daily
tasks just might threaten a revolution of modern accesorization.  So,
I’ll leave you to study out the possibilities in your own quiet moments.

Sparing you the details, my Renaissance experience boiled down to bright conversation
with good company, some mighty people-watching, cheering for medieval
Billy Idol on horseback, and witnessing Charlotte’s poignant first
encounter with her personal hero, Babe. 

Mark ten points in the Good Mama
column, cuz I’m gonna need ’em — this week’s going to be a
busy, work-filled one.

(And, no, we did not dress up.  That isn’t a photo of me.  I was hoping to take a whole series of hip-junk photos, but my camera ran out of batteries.)

Catch-up!  That’s right, catch-up.  Deadlines, promises, laundry, sleep.  Catch-up.

I had to stay in Chicago an extra night due to airport delays last
week.  So, far better than pulling an all-nighter at the airport, I had
a quiet meal at the Hyatt and a good night’s sleep.  Somehow, that
extra day of travelling compressed last week’s obligations into a mad
flurry of busy-busy. 

In Chicagoland, I met up with Hope Meng and Melissa Alvarado of
Stitch Lounge, Nicole Smith of Cutting Edge Magazine,  Simon Haskins
(designer and son/business partner of Jenny Haskins’), Anna Maria
Horner and several amazing folks from Bernina.  We ate delicious food
and chatted about one of my favorite subjects – sewing. 

I found that I was somewhat enchanted by the cold weather.  However,
if I had to clean a windshield, fill a tank with gas or buy groceries
in such weather, I’m sure it’d quickly lose its spell.  Thank you for
your foul-weather-warnings — you should have seen how many layers I
wore that first time out the door.

Oh ya, those photos up there… Seeing as tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, here’s a fun idea:  Customized Sweethearts.  All you need is a bit of clean sandpaper, a papertowel to brush off the dust and some edible markers.  No, you don’t eat the markers. 

And, finally, what happens if I don’t mention the studio photos?  Will you forget that I promised them last Wednesday?  Hopefully.  They’re still on Isaac’s laptop and I don’t have the nerve to ask him to do one more thing for me.  I hereby change my promise from "Wednesday" to "soon."

And check out this dress!

What a good guy.  Here’s my new green chandelier, painstakingly painted by my husband. (Those are not my man- hands.)  My only involvement was in art direction.  Make it green.  With green crystals too.  And yellow crystals mixed in.  And put these vintage brooches on there to boot.

I would have done it myself, but when the spouse is in a let’s-finish-this-room-up-right-now mood, who wouldn’t hand the paint over and say, "Go for it!"