have you met my baby…

…baby brother that is.

Today I feel like I have been gifted with the older sister keys to the kingdom. Yesterday I got this gem from my aunt, by way of my mother.

Brief background, my brother moved back to LA at the end of August for school. He is living with my aunt, uncle, and 9-year old and 6-year old cousins. He loves it. This is about to be proven.



I’m not quite sure what is more insane:

  1. having 4 family members staying in my house that I hadn’t met before yesterday
  2. the arrival of the greek/british cousins (2 of them)
  3. a surprise visit from my late grandfather’s 72 year old sister, who by the way…only speaks greek

This is where we note that I still haven’t gotten the much needed nap, and that the count in the house is up to eleven.

Moving + Fashionista Moment

I’ve been in the process of moving. Today is the big day, and I seriously am a tad paranoid. But with that said I haven’t provided a blog post since the beginning on the week…so without further ado I give a post that I wrote for the District Whisks blog (brain child of one JM and HF).


One night in college, at the bar around the corner from my house, I was hanging out with friends getting a drink, eating dinner, chatting with the bartenders and enjoying my favorite section of the bar. A guy walks up with a friend and proceeds to ask me to move to my purse, perched next to me, by using the line “umm, can I sit here or does your purse get it’s own stool.” It won’t surprise those who know me to learn that I didn’t really give much of a vocal answer answer, I instead looked at him…then my purse, raised an eyebrow and he sat somewhere else. End of story.

So I may sound like a fashionista snob, and maybe sometimes I am, but I stumbled across this article in New York Magazine about purses and restaurants.

While the article was more a review on two NYC restaurants that cater to clientele obessed with their handbags, it began with the line:

When Alain Ducasse opened at the Essex House in 2000, not only was it an important culinary moment for the city, it was a great day for handbags. In his quest to civilize an unruly New York dining public, the detail-obsessed restaurateur had equipped each table with a red-velvet-upholstered footstool upon which women could give their precious clutches a proper stage, rather than just dump them on the floor like an old Duane Reade shopping bag.

Dumping a purse on the floor is well…not okay at all. I mean your shoes, which touch the street are the only other things that have frequent contact with said floor space.

I’m not asking for every restaurant/bar to bring me a footstool for my bag, but I would like a eyebrow not to raise when I use the extra chair besides me. I love my handbags. I mean Kate and I (Kate Spade that is) go back to high school when I would stalk ebay for gently used bags in my price -range. My not so small collection of them all have dust bags to keep them clean and would never be stored with a stray pen that could leak.

For said reason, when you see me in a bar, purse on the stool beside me…think twice before asking me to move it to the gross bar floor or to the actual bar top where the drunken guy next to me will soon spill his beer, all over my nice jeans and my beautiful handbag.

local farms, the new hip thing

My mother has always jumped on the cause bandwagon, and being from a conservative family means I have seen some great ones, but when it came down to it no cause was ever important enough to earn a bumper sticker. Bumper stickers were for crazy people with crazy causes. So let’s imagine my surprise when I arrived home to find a “No Farms, No Food” bumper sticker on the kitchen counter courtesy of the American Farmland Trust.

There is a reason for her new love, and it’s a combination garden + vineyard:

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