Thrift Store Thursday

Art at thrift stores is usually awful. There are a lot of bad landscapes. There are pastels of cats and dogs. Sometimes, there are clowns.

Only twice in my life of thrift-store shopping (a habit that started at 14) have I found art I actually *liked.* The first was the above poster, which is Rothko-esque. I don't think it's a poster of an actual Rothko painting, but I still dig it. A year or so later, shortly after Robert and I moved into our house, I found the painting below in a consignment shop. It might be an actual painting, it might be a clever laquered print. I'm not sure. But I do know: I LOVE it.

Why do I love abstract art? Because I just do. And I don't love all of it. A lot of times, I look at abstract art and think "That's ugly and ridiculous. Who are they trying to kid?" But other times, I'm just floored by it. Of all art, it's my very favorite. It's an intuitive thing. I've tried to explain it to the haters and failed. I just adore it. These two paintings in particular.

wellies

I'm going to Ireland! Is Ireland rainy in May? I've become convinced that I need wellies if I'm going to go to Ireland. Or perhaps I will call them "galoshes" because that's just such a great word. I love the vibe of Kiera Knightely and Sienna Miller in "The Edge of Love," the Dylan Thomas biopic. It's set in Wales, not Ireland, but I don't think that means I *don't* need wellies to go to Ireland.

What I really want are name-brand Hunter wellies that all the fab-welly-wearers wear. (Pictured below)

What I will probably get are these Target galoshes that are $100 cheaper than the fancypants Hunter wellies. They're still pretty fab.

Marrying him

Two years ago on my old blog I wrote about the dashing Robert Miller, who I'm going to all sorts of marry May 7.

To quote:

"I just had the following conversation with my lovely redheaded roommate:

'Mary, he likes Buffy!' -- me
'You have to marry him.' -- Mary
'I know!' -- me"

At the time, I didn't realize that he liked Joss Whedon, specifically Firefly, and wasn't a huge fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Nevertheless, it's still true: I have to marry him.

Yesterday...

Yesterday I was at a thrift store (of course), and I saw an older woman with a white/gray bob wearing a bright pink baby barrette. This made me happy.

Margot Tenenbaum

One probably shouldn't put a depressed, chain-smoking mope on a pedestal, but how can you not when the depressed, chain-smoking mope is Margot Tenenbaum as played by Gwenyth Paltrow? I love her thin, straight hair, her little baby barrette, her coal-lined eyes and her dour expression.

Look at her with her fur, Birkin bag and gloves. She's a chic young woman dressing like a little old lady, and I love it. Margot Tenenbaum is a beautiful, intelligent writer who is not afraid of bold fashion choices. Good for her. And while she's fabulous, I still think it would be best for her to go to a good psychiatrist, get on some antidepressants, try a little yoga and meditation and, perhaps, eat a cheeseburger.

The Big 3-0

I'm turning 30 tomorrow, people. THIRTY. Which is fine. I'm fine with it, really. Don't I seem fine? I seem fine because I am fine.

Just fine. Absoluuuutely fine.

As long as I can remember, I thought my 30s would be my prime. I still think it, actually. I mean, I did the things you were supposed to do in your 20s (or at least the things I think you're supposed to do in your 20s). I've traveled a lot. I'm officially over educated (but don't think that will stop me from becoming overly-over-educated). I've had great friendships, great relationships, great break ups. I've worn some short skirts. I've been in a lot of plays, gone out dancing, swam in "Snake Lake," which is not named for what it lacks.

I don't feel like I shouldn't be 30. I don't feel like I'm younger. I don't think "Where has my youth gone?!" I know where it went. I was there. It was fun. And sometimes it was awful. That's the way things are.

I actually felt older at 27. I was finishing up grad school, going through a terrible break up, and I was at a point where my age could be ROUNDED UP to 30. That was horrifying at the time. I wasn't ready for 30 yet.

Now, I am accepting 30 because what else is there to do?

A friend of mine once said that when you're in your 20s, things can be excused. You kissed a ridiculous person? Well, you're young. You over drafted your bank account? Ah well, lesson learned. You fell down in the street at the Cat Square Christmas Parade and/or danced provocatively to "Brick House" in the middle of a small town's downtown? You're in your 20s, man! That's what you're supposed to do!

But you know what? Being in your 30s doesn't mean you have to be a lame-o. It doesn't mean you have to stop dancing to terribly terrific songs. (Lady Gaga: I just want to take this moment to thank you for "Born This Way.") Age is just a number. It's a number that tells how many years you've been around not how mature you are or how boring or super-fantastic or anything else.

I talked to a woman this week who told me her son calls her "borderline insane," but I think she's one of the sanest people I've ever met. She's realized it's stupid to worry about what other people think. It's boring being inhibited. It's wonderful to live just the way you want to.

"So many people are afraid to act silly," she told me. "They’re sophisticated, and that’s really dull."

Being lame is what makes you lame. Getting older just makes you older. Did the fates send me her way or her my way this week because I'm turning the big 3-0? Perhaps. No matter what, I'm grateful for this energetic 79-year-old woman's words of wisdom (and seriously, she didn't look a day over 58).

"I’m having a really good time being old," she said. "If you were a dud at 35, you’re going to be a dud at 85. But if you’re cool, you’re going to be okay."

I think I'm going to be okay.