In the wise words of David Bowie, CH-CH-CH-CH-CHANGES…

This blog is moving to: http://releasethenouns.wordpress.com. You’ll find all the ReVeg posts on the new blog–as well as some new and never-before-seen content.

On a similar note, I have a new website, too. http://www.wordology.org

Onward to the next great adventure. I do hope you’ll come along.

No more, I say. It’s time to be your own guest.

Southern hospitality is no joke. And while my first year of living in the south may not have sold me on chitterlings, sweet tea or turnip greens, the great lengths that southern women go to in order to care for their homes and create welcoming spaces for guests (whether they’re staying an hour or a week) is near and dear to my heart.

If you’re anything like me, hostessing a house guest is an opportunity to tap into your Pinterest-loving, friend-and-family-spoiling, Martha Stewart-idoling inner core. In the days leading up to a house guest’s arrival, I find myself pressing linens and arranging fresh flowers while plotting flavored water recipes.

As is known to happen, after the guest leaves life returns to it’s regularly-scheduled, hectic pace. Linens get tossed in the dryer instead of line-dried. Flowers bloom and wither on the vine. Water is water.

This is the picture of insanity. Over the course of a year, I probably entertain house guests for an average of 20 cumulative days. That’s less than a month when all is said and done.  The other 11 months of the year, I live here. I know I’m not alone int this tendency. So what is it that compels us to care for our guests with such joy and enthusiasm during a brief stay, while we forgo the simple pleasure of a pampered life when it comes to our own daily lives?

No more, I say. It’s time to become your own house guest. Below you will find ten of my favorite, standard houseguest niceties. I hope you will treat yourself to one (or eleven) of these simple pleasures. They truly can make the difference between just getting through the day and savoring the little moments of life.

Lavender Water

I have noticed that most lavender waters sold online and in stores are often QUITE expensive. (Put anything in a glass bottle with a french name and I guess it gives them free reign to jack up the price.) Here is  a great recipe for an at-home DIY lavender water that is just as lovely as any you will find in the store. Your local Whole Foods is a great resource for reasonably priced lavender essential oil.

Quality Hand Soap

Sure, you can grab a bottle of hand soap at the local dollar store. It will clean your hands and get the job done, but will it invigorate your spirit? For whatever reason (call me a soap snob), I have found that investing in a quality hand soap is one of those unexpected opportunities for a little pick-me-up moment of invigoration. Two of my favorites hand soaps are Mrs. Meyers in Lemon Verbana and J.R. Watkins in Lavender.

A Cream-Colored Quilt

I will admit, I am a bit quilt-obsessed. There are few things as quintessentially American as being wrapped in a quilt on an autumn night. It feels like being hugged by history.

I know some people love to get crazy and colorful with their bed linens, but I tend to be more of a traditionalist, favoring the crisp, clean look of white linens topped with a cream-colored quilt. Not only does it conjure up a sense of B&B luxury, a cream quilt goes with everything and gives me the freedom to change accessories in the room without having to invest in a new set of sheets.

Here’s a beauty from Restoration Hardware

An Signature Scented Candle

Find a signature scented candle. Embrace it. Sprinkle it throughout your home. Breathe deeply throughout the day. Feel good about life. I can understand why some people balk at the thought of paying $30 for something you are going to burn, but I have noticed that Henri Bendel candles really do last forever. They claim to have a 60-hour burn time, and I have squeezed a year of fairly regular use (hour-long burning sessions) out of mine. Firewood is my signature scent. It’s like having an eternal autumn on speed-dial.

Another favorite candle brand: Linea’s Lights. Soy candles, cotton wicks, utterly amazing scents. I pray that they will bring Forest Fir back this Christmas, at which point I will be stocking up with enough to get me through the year.

Quality Stationary

Every woman needs a set (or two..or eighteen) of quality stationary on standby. My suggestion is:

• a set of personalized, blank stationary for formal correspondence
• a set of fun, blank stationary for casual correspondence
• a set of quality thank you notes (because, let’s be frank, most greeting cards sold on supermarket shelves are simply hideous)

Reading Material

Last year I went a little nuts with Amazon’s Christmas $5-$10 magazine special, and I must admit, opening the mailbox to discover a new glossy awaiting me still gives me a kid-on-Christmas thrill. Whether your vice is celebrity gossip, interior design or guns & ammo, go ahead and indulge in reading material for your bathtub bookshelf. Your secret is safe with me.

Line-dried Linens

Nothing smells more amazing that line-dried linens. And white linens bleached by the sun? Utter heaven. Do it. And while you’re at it, check out LaundryList.org.

40 slotted clothespins for $2.30

A beautiful, signature tumbler

A special, pretty tumbler, all my own, makes me want to drink more water throughout the day. Or lemonade. Or mojito.

Yummy Bath Products

What pampering list would be complete without a little tub-side luxury? I realize the above photo looks like a jellyroll gone awry, but trust me on this. Lush has THE MOST amazing bath products ever. And while they’re far from cheap, they are worth every penny. And the cost of shipping. And the wait time as they slowly travel down from Canada. Try the bubble bar in Karma. Bathtime will never be the same.

Note: I slice off half-dollar size pieces of the bubble bars to extend their life (and help my wallet.) While you won’t get a bubble extravaganza from such a small piece, it is more than enough to scent the water, your skin and bathroom.

Fruit Infused Elixirs

I always get a kick out of the spa waiting area. Admid the zen waterfall and mood lighting, women chug down thimble-sized cupfuls of spa elixir (fruit infused water.) The possibilities here are endless. I like to pull from my garden. Play around until you find a combination that makes your taste buds cheer.

A few options…

• Citrus fruits (lemon, lime, orange, grapefruit)
• Berries (raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries)
• Cucumber slices
• Ginger
• Herbs (basil, mint)

Now, go forth and spoil thyself. Happy living!

xo,

Amy

I sometimes think colorful rubber flipflops are the sexiest thing a woman can wear. They’re unpretentious. They come with their own sound effects. They bask in the sunshine. Simply put, they are the footwear of happy souls (and happy soles) with nothing to hide.

Tonight I was watching a documentary called “Enlighten Up!” It’s about a skeptic’s journey into the world of yoga. I am not a yoga person. I can’t stand on my head. I have issues with spandex clothing. The thought of being trapped in a hot room with a bunch of sweaty, stinky strangers in a room is pretty much my worst nightmare. I do, however, recognize a good piece of advice when I hear one.

A quote from the almost-end of the movie, when our protagonist has a sit down chat with an Indian guru.

‎“You could have come by cycle, you could have come by car, you could have come by elephant, you could have come by foot. To reach here, there are so many directions. That depends on where you are at present. You are the most important person under the sun. What is east? From where does east begin? You are the center point. From you, this is east. For me, east would be different. That point could be west to you. You are the most important person under the sun. It’s not important what you are doing. It’s important why you are doing. You can prepare food for just consuming. You can prepare food for somebody you love. You can prepare food for The Lord. The action will be the same, physically, but inside it will be different. If you are forced to do cooking for somebody you don’t like, you will do it, you will cook. But you won’t enjoy it. Everything depends on you, hangs on you. So you should feel the importance of yourself. You are the most important person.” 

[A letter to someone who made me a better writer...and introduced me to the best version of myself.] 

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I’ve only been there once.

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I won’t tell you the name, because it’s not important. But it’s there, believe me. High above the hustle and bustle of a street named after a state, some of the most world’s most talented musicians have met their destiny.

It is more treasure chest than shop. A landing pad where string instruments arrive like long-awaited foreign dignitaries with names like Francois and Annalinda. Some of them are named after artists or constellations, others named after lovers lost between the pages of the world’s greatest unwritten love stories. Each one has a history. Many of them, if not most, are centuries old. One sat in the corner, listening to gossip at Marie Antoinette’s ball. One recalls the first breath of fresh air after years passed hiding in Amsterdam. One of the youngest is rumored to have a distant cousin that continued playing as the ship went down that night.

When you meet the dignitaries your instinct is to hush. You want to believe they will whisper their stories if you can be quiet enough.

The dignitaries do not know how to whisper, but if you are lucky they will sing for you.

There is a sadness to the dignitaries. They have lost – and survived – everyone they ever loved and every hand that ever loved them. They have lived a series of lives, a constant reincarnation marked by the passing of time and a ticking clock. Dutifully, they have sung again and again under aging hands, having lost as soon as they are found. They serve faithfully. They endure knowing others cannot. The dignitaries mourn. You can hear it if you listen. Like putting a seashell to your ear. Every last breath, final farewell and swan song captured in the grooves and swirls of their scrolls.

The people who buy the dignitaries spend a small fortune. At times, the price of a modest home. It seems unfathomable, but once you’ve heard them sing, you understand they’re not buying an instrument, they’re liberating a legend and pressing a thumbprint into a legacy.

There are families that bring small children to meet the dignitaries. And though the children do not know it, their families have also brought them to meet their destiny. The children politely bow and greet the dignitaries. One by one, down the line, they raise their tiny fingers and tiny hands until they stand before the one singing in their native tongue. And in a split second, a path is cleared through the brush and a golden light momentarily shines brighter through the 48,000 crystals hanging from the ceiling of a sacred hall in New York City.

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. You would never find it were you not looking. It’s through a door with a brass handle and across a marble floor to an ancient elevator, the kind you see in old movies. A black man with kind eyes will help you now. He’ll pull aside a brass gate and ask which floor you’re headed to. Going up. Tell him the 6th floor or maybe the 8th. It could have even been the 9th, I can’t quite recall. Then down a short hallway, take a right to the long corridor. If you hit the water fountain you’ve gone too far. Now is the time to stop, look and listen.

To your right you will see a series of leaded glass windows. Some will be propped open. Step toward them, take a deep breath and see - really see. In the middle of this building in the middle of concrete, nine stories below there is a garden thriving in a city. Almost nobody knows. But now you do.

Take a seat on the old wooden bench worn from years of visitors coming and going and close your eyes. Somewhere in the distance the click of a woman’s high heeled shoes on the worn tile floor coming nearer, then further away from you. The gentle jostling of an ancient glass doorknob turning – just a little bit rickety.

It’s quiet now and you are aware of the sound of your breathing and heartbeating high above a city that does not know of courtyard gardens or dignitaries or of your existence. Nor does it care.

At the end of the hall there is an arched doorway. You can see it from where you sit. A single, short step leads up to an arched doorway and an old wooden door. Light escapes through a crack between the floor and the base of the door. Beyond the door you hear voices, muffled but jovial. Then the click of a door beyond the door.

And then the singing begins.

You are hearing a familiar song as though it were the first time. Every memory rushes back to you. Discovering toes. The comfort of being tucked into bed as a child. The infinite weightlessness soaring through the air on a tire swing. The touch of your grandfather’s hand patting your back. The smell of July at 10:30 p.m. The feel of a paintbrush in your hand. The taste of vanilla ice cream and South Carolina peaches. The exquisite sensation of slipping beneath the surface of the water in a swimming pool. The exact moment a ride on a bike with no training wheels finally makes sense. The electricity of the first kiss. The rebellion of the first beer. The people you know and knew are laughing and smiling and waving as they go sailing by on a brilliantly colored carousel. Every dream, every hope, every wish is coming back to you now. Each one a lady bug landing gently. Feel the flicker and tickle of their wings on your skin.

Open your eyes.

Stand up.

Turn away from the arched doorway. Walk down the long corridor. Take your time. Turn left down the short hallway. You’ll find the elevator and your friend waiting to return you to the lobby from the 6th or the 8th or the 9th floor. He’s quieter this time.

When the elevator stops and the doors open, step out and cross the marble floor. Relish the feeling of a cool brass handle in the palm of your hand.

Pull open the door and step outside. Let the sunlight envelope you as you squint upward seeing only white light.

To your left, a yellow taxi paused at stoplight. A child passing through the crosswalk leading a yellow balloon.

High above a bow is lifted from strings.

And a familiar life begins again on the sidewalks of Chicago.

]]> http://revegofthenerd.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/the-sidewalks-of-chicago/feed/ 4 Amy yellow balloons chicago http://revegofthenerd.wordpress.com/2012/04/01/oh-sheet-your-dryer-sheets-could-be-killing-you/ http://revegofthenerd.wordpress.com/2012/04/01/oh-sheet-your-dryer-sheets-could-be-killing-you/#comments Mon, 02 Apr 2012 01:47:08 +0000 Amy T. http://revegofthenerd.wordpress.com/?p=479 ]]>

• Benzyl acetate: Linked to pancreatic cancer
• Benzyl Alcohol: Upper respiratory tract irritant
• Ethanol: On the Environmental Protection Agency’s (EPA) Hazardous Waste list and can cause central nervous system disorders
• Limonene: Known carcinogen
• A-Terpineol: Can cause respiratory problems, including fatal edema, and central nervous system damage
• Ethyl Acetate: A narcotic on the EPA’s Hazardous Waste list
• Camphor: Causes central nervous system disorders
• Chloroform: Neurotoxic, anesthetic and carcinogenic
• Linalool: A narcotic that causes central nervous system disorders
• Pentane: A chemical known to be harmful if inhaled

If that’s not bad enough, dryer sheets are made of FIBERGLASS. I don’t know about you, that will give me pause to reconsider before I toss another dryer sheet in with a load of panties in the future.

So what’s a girl to do? Bid farewell to fluffy towels? No way. There are plenty of wonderful, natural alternatives to chemical-laden dryer sheets. They are easy to make, use ingredients you probably already have in your cupboard and cost next to nothing.

THE REMEDY

FOR SOFTNESS (IN THE WASH)
Vinegar (among all the other amazing things it can do) is a natural fabric softener. It also removes soap residue, neutralizes tough odors and reduces dryer static. You can add vinegar directly to laundry during the rinse cycle or pour vinegar into the fabric softener dispenser (or fabric softener ball if your machine is dispenserless) of your washing machine.

FOR SOFTNESS AND SCENT (IN THE DRYER)
Grab and old, cotton washcloth that is ready for retirement. Add 3-5 drops of essential oil of your choice (Whole Food’s 365 eucalyptus oil is my favorite – and very affordable!) to your cloth and throw it in the dryer with a load. Replenish cloth with 3-5 drops between each dryer load.

If you’re seeking something with even more wrinkle-release power, check out Mister Steamy, a non-chemical fabric softener/wrinkle release ball that depends on the power of steam to whip your laundry into shape.

CHIME IN: What are your favorite alternative, green or natural laundry tips? 

I’m interested to see what combination of search terms will bring people to this post. And how many will end up here hoping for something much more scandalous that they are going to find. In any case, welcome to those of you who found this post by searching “naked” or “nude.” Alas, it’s not really going to be that kind of blog post.

It seems spring has sprung here in lovely South Carolina. The daffodils have come and gone, the bees are a abuzz and my neighbors have returned to their porches to sip sweet tea (or spiked lemonade, depending on the time of day…) If you’re a nerd like me, this can only mean one thing: spring cleaning season has arrived! Here is your excuse to run to the store and stock up on buckets and gloves, sponges and spray bottles.

Before I get to the list of a few of my favorite (cleaning) things, I need to make a confession. I fully subscribe to the theory that you cannot get a tub/shower clean if you don’t get in it…nude. Yep. That’s right. I clean my bathroom naked. Oh the (in)humanity! I used to clean the bathroom fully clothed, but in my junkiest clothes, I found myself hesitating to really get in there to spray and scrub like a tub needs to be cleaned. I avoided product (bleach stains, hello!) and didn’t want to walk around in wet clothing. So that left me with one option. Strip down and get to work.

It’s actually a fairly genius system. I can scrub and spray to my heart’s content. When I’m done, I just rinse off. No bleach stains. No drippy clothing. Just a sparkling clean tub – and body.

I have a standard cleaning kit I use for the bathroom. Below you shall find a few of my favorite products…

Method Flushable Tub-n-Tile Wipes

Ever feel like certain people using your toilet could use a little…coaching? Practice? Aim? Set this hardworking package of our flushable wipes nearby, and you (or, ahem, he) can wipe and flush at any moment for an instant clean. Great for clean-ups all over the bathroom — sinks, countertops, faucets and tile — and they’re always septic tank friendly. Plus they smell like eucalyptus mmmmint. 

Boston Warehouse Glamour Glove Set in Pink

I have a unique set of gloves for dishes, kitchen cleaning and bathroom cleaning. Call it OCD if you must, but quirky pairs like these ensure that the gloves for the toilet bowl are never confused with the gloves for the salad bowl. And that means we’ll all live to see another day. 

Alessi’s Merdolino Toilet Brush

With a name like “Merdolino” (which I am pretty sure roughly translates to something along the lines of “lil turd”) how could you NOT love this unforgettable toilet brush work of art. Alessi’s take on toilet cleaning is an interjection of style fit for any throne, and far surpasses the crappy (pardon the pun) toilet brushes of yore. Style, however, does not come cheap. This brush will set you back $55. 

Barkeeper’s Friend

You are probably looking at this packaging and thinking, “Egads! Their branding doesn’t look like it has changed a bit since the 1970s.” I wasn’t alive in the 70s, but I suspect you are right. And that is probably because it was just as awesome in 1978 as it is in 2012. Actually I just did a google search, and it turns out Barkeeper’s Friend has been around since 1882. I guess that means they’re doing something right. Hit up your local dollar store and stock up. 

Poo-Pouri

What more can be said?

Squirt & Mop Hard Floor Cleaner

Another gem from Method. I love this product because my dog has yet to learn how to put on a pair of shoes. I feel better knowing his paw pads aren’t being exposed to harsh, toxic chemicals. Now if only I could figure out a way to talk him into doing the mopping….

So what’s in your cleaning arsenal? Has your cleaning routine gone green? Do you have a cleaning recipe for success? Share your tips in the comment section below, or send me a photo of your recent before and after cleaning job. Spring cleaning geeks unite! 

My great uncle Mutt passed away last week. And the world is a little less of a place this week as a result.

This is a letter I sent to a friend in 2010. I remember the day vividly.

Saturday May 30, 2010

My Great Uncle Mutt’s real name is Ivan.  Save for the mail on his kitchen counter, I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to him as “Ivan.”

Unlike the majority of relatives on my Mom’s side of the family, my Uncle Mutt did not live in Wichita until very recently.  My mom used to tell me how Mutt was a former beatnik.  For the longest time, I had no idea what that meant, but I knew it made him fascinating in a way that always made me want to sit by him at family gatherings. Even as a small child I remember feeling transfixed by Mutt.  He is the type of old, gentle soul who walks into a room and people just want to know him. They want to be liked by him. And when everyone else in the world would say to me “Amy, you are your father’s daughter,” Mutt would walk through the door and marvel “Amy, you remind me so much of  your mother.”

It was only around the age of 15 or so that I finally realized Mutt’s companion Terry was more than a roommate.  It never phased me before that…or after. I loved Uncle Mutt for his knowledge of art and film and the intricacies of cultures of countries I had never even heard of.  I loved that in a sea of chattering loud women, Mutt, a former social worker, could sit quietly and soak in every tidbit of the conversation going on (verbal and nonverbal.) I loved that his coffee table wasn’t a coffee table, rather some sort of refurbished door from an old Italian villa. And whenever I visited, he took the time to tell me about the art on the wall. 

Of all the conversations with Uncle Mutt, the one I remember the most is the day he declared “Fresh flowers are as essential to life as food.”

He isn’t just a man who speaks it, he is a man who lives it.

Mutt isn’t doing well.  His health has been in rapid decline since Terry passed several years ago. I often wonder if his condition is tied to true malady  or a truly broken heart. You see, it turns out not all the art and films and Italian doors in the world cannot compete with the love of your life. You can buy more everything, but you can’t buy more love. 

We went to visit Uncle Mutt today. I noticed that he has a picture of Chihuly’s glass ceiling at the Bellagio framed on his kitchen counter. He obviously loves it, as people only take the time to frame the things they truly adore.  That ceiling is my favorite thing in Vegas, competing only with the water show outside, which gives me goosebumps and makes me leak from the eyes. I remember the first time I saw this particular show, I was in awe. It seemed all of Vegas was left speechless, too. From the smallest children to the drunkest drunks, it made people stop. On the sidewalks. On the streets. It hushed the crowd and captivated everyone.

If the flashes of light people talk about when they return from the brink are real, I have to imagine that passing from this life into another is not unlike “Time to Say Goodbye” at the Bellagio Fountains. All the madness and chaos and multi-million dollars of the surrounding hotels and casinos fading into the background. Time stops as a life gently folds in on itself, and a soul is escorted from this place in one final, golden show.

We have a huge Chihuly installation at the Franklin Park Conservatory in town.  I think next weekend I will dust off my camera and go to the conservatory to take pictures of our Chihuly to mail to Mutt.

——————————–

Wherever you are now, dear Uncle Mutt, I hope you have a Chihuly garden to call your own.

[A letter: December 2010]

The art of losing, they say, isn’t very hard to master. And just like every person on this planet I have lost something; people and places and memories that certain smells and seasons and dates unexpectedly return to me. I traded and bartered parts of who I am and who I was for bits and pieces of the people and places and memories I wanted to keep. Just like every person on this planet I have been dented and dinged and bruised somehow. Smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to do better, because I believed and hoped and dreamed. And believers and hopers and dreamers are the exact kinds of people who push themselves too close to the edge of a high shelf just to take in the view. We’re never concerned with the fall. We are reckless people, fearless in the face of fear. We gamble, punch drunkenly, and take chances despite the odds. We spin madly out of control with our heads thrown back, laughing wildly.

Just like every person on this planet I am learning how to forgive and remember that every person here has a heart and wishes and desires and wants, too.

There is a box on the shelf of me somewhere. Its contents? Nine yellow balloons. Two magnets. A field sunflowers happy anywhere but the vase. A once upon a time flying jellyfish waiting to transport us to lunch or float us away into outer space.

Today I have returned the pixie dust to the proper jar. The spines of books and thoughts color-coded and realigned. Bedtime precedes the lavender hour these days. Before voices soften and the first morning birds begin to sing.

If once upon a time, someone would have told me, in a certain tone of voice, “Some people will change you without your permission,”  I would still have done it all the same.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

No one lives (or loves) to tell the story of the almost us.