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Monday, February 27, 2012


I'm not really a big fan of the Oscars. Mostly because we never see movies in theatre and therefore have no idea what's current, and also because I think most people in Hollywood are batshit crazy. So today I will give awards (aka my praise) to a few random favorites. Some of these categories are feeling a little fifth grade to me, but still, it's fun and I'm going with it.

So here goes! The Awards go to the following favorite...


There are loads of gorgeous flowers out there. Calla lillies, roses, peonies, amaryllis, hydrangeas. But there is something about the stark simplicity and elegance of a white tulip that gets to me. French tulips are lovely too but are so fragile. I really prefer the standard tulips shown in the picture above. Something about that vivid green with that dainty white. It settles my soul in a happy place, and to me they look very chic in an unassuming, frank sort of way, in a clear vase on a dark wood table. Plus, there's a heavy dose of Spring in their countenance that tickles my fancy and makes me want to sit in an open bay window to feel cool breezes and warm sun on my face.


The high school Jil would have thrown up all over herself to find out that the 32 year old Jil would finally get the courage to admit it. I'll be honest, I love all colors. They all have so many wonderful qualities. But when Todd pulled Alexandra out of my body and I knew I had a girl, some part of me squealed with joy because I saw a lot of pink in my future. A favorite nail polish I have from OPI is called Inka-dinka-pink. Almost all shades of pink look good on me, it makes me happy and serene, it's a fun word to say, and thanks to Sophia Ford Coppola who recently stated in Vanity Fair that her favorite color was hot pink, I now have the courage to open up about my love for pink.


I love these berries so much I even wrote a poem about them that came out only somewhat unintentionally semi-erotic.  Now, I can eat a carton of any berry in one sitting; hell, less than one sitting since I like to sit around a lot and I can wolf down 6oz of berries in like five minutes. But blackberries... I don't know what it is about them. Raspberries are more titillating; strawberries are sweeter; blueberries, the good ones, are tart and addictive. But blackberries... Mmm. Even with that slightly bitter finish, they will always reign supreme in my heart and my belly. And considering how quickly Alexandra hoovered the blackberries at my parents' house yesterday, I'd say that preference has been passed down.


I hate coffee. Let me rephrase that: I love the smell of coffee but the taste leaves me sorely disappointed and not just a little suspicious of mankind and the world in general. The difference between smell and taste is so shockingly great that I honestly feel as if someone has played a practical joke on me, every time I take a sip. But mama's got to get her caffeine somewhere, and since soda is as hard on the liver as an alcoholic drink, and is also gross in the morning unless you're hung over, in steps tea. I don't mean to make tea sound third best, because I absolutely adore tea. And Earl Grey is, as you probably gathered by now, my all time favorite. I've talked about tea before and I think I might have shared this story before, but until Todd and I were in Venice on our honeymoon, Earl Grey was always a little too bitterly perfumey to me. But in Venice, room service set our breakfast, and my tea, up to us with honey and milk. I added them to my cuppa and behold, a new love and addiction was born. God bless you, Earl Grey.


Humina humina humina, drooooooool, pant-pant-pant, arooooooooo! That is how much I love pasta. In fact yesterday morning, which was my time for my cheat breakfast (instead of yogurt or a smoothie) I was legitimately torn between a breakfast burrito and a double serving size of pasta with butter and parmesan. It took several seconds to reluctantly choose what is typically considered to be my second favorite food, the breakfast burrito. I think it was mildly affronted. I have loved pasta since I can remember. But not just any pasta. For it to be absolutely perfect, it requires butter or olive oil (NO SAUCE), garlic powder and a dash of oregano and a grotesque amount of cheese. Don't get me wrong, pasta with sauce is great. But I am talking about the ultimate bowl of comfort and delight, here. If you want to get really orgasmic though, after you boil and drain your noodles, heat some butter or oil in a skillet and then saute your pasta until it gets crunchy. This works best with leftover spaghetti that you reheat in the skillet. Oh my word. THAT is heaven.


I don't know, man. I guess it's because the number five, to me, seems like a great building block.  Also, and this comes across as weird but if you think about it, it makes sense: Five feels both even and odd. When you look at a die, and see the little dots, three on the bottom and two on top, perfectly spaced, it just feels so even but it's also odd. There's more to how five comes across to me as both even and odd. I think it's because when you double it, it's 10, that magical roundness, that ethereal unit of numbers. I've never been good with numbers though, and if you showed me four pencils in one box and five pencils in another, it would take me a couple of seconds to tell you the exact amount in each group. But still. Five is a great number, man.


Foxes were always pretty cool to me as a child; cute and totes adorbs, but also wily, fiercely protective of family and clearly possessive of a sense of humor. Foxes always seem to garner the sympathy too when one thinks of a British fox hunt. But that might be due to the fact that the hunters didn't saddle their horses, put their own boots on, or even flush out the fox themselves. I could be sensitive due to the fact that we watched the first episode of Downton Abbey last night, though. Anyways, one night over the phone my dear long distance friend Susane pulled my American Indian Spirit Animal card (hahahah, we were seventeen), and it happened to be a fox. I was a horse lover then, moreso than I am now, and so at first I was confused, but as she read the meaning, I appreciated it even more. And then I meet, fall in love with and marry Todd, whose name is Middle English for Fox. Well! That drove it home, right there Foxes seem to represent a lot for me: cleverness, humor, family, love and loyalty. There's nothing wrong with any of that.

Gemstone: A tie!

Pearls! This is another one that sort of came out of left field and then slowly grew on me over time. I owe most of it to my first anniversary present from Todd, which I am wearing as I type: A gorgeous strand of freshwater pearls, each a slightly different shade, ranging from white, to pink and peach to a dusky purple. It's absolutely exquisite and it completely surprised me. I'd never considered pearls before, but holding that necklace in my hands for the first time, I fell a little bit in love. A few years later, I scored four pairs of freshwater pearl earrings, again in different colors: White, peach, pink and black. Heaven!

Amber! I've always loved amber, ever since my father bought me a pendant in Mexico. It's warm, earthy, ancient and a little mysterious.  I have just a few other pieces, including one that could be synthetic, but I don't care, because it has a bug in it and it is super cool. I've got a pair of little dangly earrings too, with tiny pieces ranging from almost clear to a ruddy black. It's almost as if amber represents regular old me, and pearls represent dressed up me. In fact, I was going to go with pearls until I realized my other love, that of amber, and I couldn't move on without giving amber a little love, too.


See, you can like pink AND bugs. Although the bug I like is basically a butterfly in winter clothes. I love moths. I think they're absolute angels. They're mysterious and a little moody depending on their outfit (the moth above is called a Luna moth, and we used to see them from time to time back in Nashville). Some of their patterns are absolutely breath-taking, even if they're not lime green and tinged with electric violet. But they're also insanely fragile. I find it hauntingly telling that a human being's fingertips is the only surface in the world that can remove the dust on a moth's wings, rendering it incapable of flight. Which is why you must be extremely careful when getting one out of the house. If you're not careful, I will come and kick your ass.

I could on and on forever, but I think I'll stop with this gorgeous creature right here. Have a happy Monday everyone!

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