The end of February

Today, February 28th, marks my emotional end of winter. Sure March and even April can be misery to the extreme but for now, I'm rejoicing in rain. Real, proper, flood your house when you leave the windows open even in February rain. Yes, I do. (Heating be damned.)
Winter has been treating me better than even my seasonal affective disorder could have hoped for. Begonia's bloomed and I've been downing 3 shot lattes twice daily thanks to theee most useful christmas present ever gifted by a human. A week ago a surprise heart appeared in my morning foam. A sign? I'll take it.

A eulogy for ranunculus

Any florist worth her salt could talk about dying flowers for days. We all pretty much do anyways, because flowers are at their most intoxicatingly potent a day after their prime. The painterly bend, the crinkle, the fade. Flower drunk- most of us girls have been there. It's almost to the point of trite to talk about the ephemeral beauty of these things but watching a flower open, then open more, then open so wide its petals have nowhere to go but backwards is basically everything.
I've developed a habit of buying non-work flowers for my apartment. Shoved willy-nilly in an old vase, no fussing with frogs or foam or even making proper arrangements. It feels almost embarrassingly decadent, even more so because I'm such a proponent of others having flowers in their homes.  Finally practicing what I preach? For the sake of genuine floral authenticity, my dedication knows no bounds.

Visiting the Met

Generally relegated to my annual trip above 59th street or as a backdrop for sweet but awkward dates, the Met is my one that got away. I've lived here for 9 years now and I'm sure I haven't been in as many times. Since my 9-5 life faded to black in September, I've been wanting to go for an afternoon but nothing is as easy to put off as 3 hours of getting lost in thought uptown. I finally went in search of inspiration of the floral variety, found some, ate a macaroon and pondered the peculiars of solo museum scouting.

Changing out of one's slobby real-life clothes is a necessity. The Met is packed with out-of-towners, so a little extra eccentric goes a long way in keeping you and the camera clobbering masses apart, never mind the fact that you are also camera clobbering and just as prone to wearing ripped jeans.  A lady doesn't pay the full suggested admission but she doesn't pay a quarter, either. While you're at it, if you're going to be walking on fancy floors, you might as well wear fancy shoes. A hat works wonders as does wandering aimlessly. I stayed until a handsome security guard needed to escort me out of the visual storage section and then stumbled to the subway through central park, eyes glazed over in an unmistakable painting coma. It was delicious.

Conscientious objector

So yesterday was the day everyone couldn't stop talking about except for me. I worked until 9 o'clock on a living in post about my favorite criminal couple but I took a break in the afternoon to go buy myself some fancy flowers. Even if, no, especially if you work with flowers- it's nice to get some that are non-work related.  Nicolette had a charming flower stand on Bedford Ave but I just missed her so I took my $20 bill and found a massive floral painting at a junk shop around the corner. Everlasting flowers for valentine's day? I'm pretty taken with it.

I also squeezed in some victorian flower girl scraps and made do with my two week old 'nations above. They've become my dirty little floral secret- they last until the end of time and are just as cheap and ruffly as can be. I've been listening to love songs in the manner of Sam Cooke when I'm feeling happy and Patsy Cline when I'm feeling sad. I'm working on making peace with romance, even if it's the Estella from Great Expectations sort. A boy who is both straight and not a family member cooked me dinner recently and I didn't even flinch. Baby steps.

Floral antidepressants

February is a month generally know for misery of the acutest kind. Snow no longer causes squeals and the act of putting on a winter coat becomes self-torture. Then there's Valentines Day, which elicits a big old yawn but secretly makes you want to buy yourself this expensive and long lasting bouquet of rosy goodness to cope. Someone's gotta take care of my needs, huh? Filling the house with flowers helps, as does getting long emails from my flower farmer soulmate and wearing red lipstick while mopping the floor. (This last one is my key to self-esteem, otherwise I am a shame spiral of dirt.)

These photos are from a project I worked on about flowers for Valentine's Day, many more await if you take a peak at the post on design*sponge. There are some juicy tidbits, as usual, along with tips and rambling tangents. So even if words have been few and far between here, I'm saying it now with flowers and you should, too.


I've become hopelessly speechless. The thought of clicking the shutter or penning a word seems like a huge commitment. I've been ignoring my inbox, even if it contains mostly thoughtful emails from you. Overwhelmed with life, in the truest of senses. I've been hiding my head under a blanket this past week and I'm not sure I'm ready to resurface.

But I have, even if only for the afternoon, to show you this video. My mother recently got our family's super 8 movies transferred to dvd and I've been slowly going through the clips. This is  my mom at 27 or 28, with her horse Maximilien. I wanted to save it for a special occasion because it is really the most favorite and cherished thing I've ever posted, but I couldn't. When words fail, I think I'll just let beautiful things speak for themselves.