KatSmack Interior Design Miami

When Yo Mama Dont Care, No One Does.

2011-09-03T14:30:00.004-04:00

There comes a time in everyone's life when they should have outgrown their invisible audience complex, right? Now as a ripened adult I realize that I don't give a hoot about what anyone else is doing, so by default they shouldn't give a hoot about me. Well... of that I'm not so certain.

My confusion lies not in whether or not people are consumed with my every action, wondering what I'm up to. Clearly they're not. I couldn't even coerce my mother, my own mother, to check her email for photos I sent her of the three month European jaunt my husband and I took this summer.

When yo Mama don't care, no one does.

The issue I have instead is that still, at 32, I get embarrassed by things that adults should no longer have the time for. My invisible audience complex is alive and well (thanks for asking) and I was reminded of just how "alive" it was one day in Spain while walking back from the grocery store.

For the summer, my husband and I had rented an apartment in Madrid in the poshest part of town. At the time we knew the area was nice, but not that it was Ritz-Carlton nice. We're not caviar people, we're Bumblebee Tuna people. Our first walk down the street while looking at store window fronts and passers by, I realized my accessorizing and makeup were going to have to be kicked up a bit if I wanted to be seen around those parts. Dresses, scarfs and well styled hair were the way things were done on Calle Serrano, not flip flops, ball caps and shorts. There we were, the wide-eyed Beverly Hillbillies, trudging by Louis Vuitton and Longchamps, squawking away in our loud Americanized English.

So no, we didn't entirely fit in but heck, we were staying a country for two months where our combined mastery of Spanish was a C+ at best; our fashion sensibilities or lack thereof where really the least of our problems. We also towered over everyone, men and women alike, by at least 8 inches. No one cared about our clothes; they were in utter awe of our Amazonian stature. I felt wildly aware of being different.

Calle Serrano was riddled with luxury store after luxury store, each one smarter than the next. In a city block one could find the likes of Cartier, Carolina Herrera and Manolo Blahnik; it is the Rodeo Drive of Madrid. During the day the street fluttered with activity as it not only housed the nicest retail stores but was also the financial artery of the city. Men wore full dark suits and ties at all times and at no time did we see a man walk down the street or sit at a restaurant without wearing a jacket, despite the pounding summer heat. Slacks, a long sleeved button down and a tie would have simply been too casual. Women were dressed to the nines in fitted dresses, closed-toed pumps, pantyhose and cardigans. On Calle Serrano, Madrileños knew how to dress and we could see them all bustling below from the sanctity of our fourth floor apartment.

One late afternoon as people were starting to leave their offices I was headed to "El Corte Ingles", a large department chain store in Spain, where one could find everything from groceries and clothing to books and electronics. I was dressed in a fitted cami and full leopard skirt, a pair of Roman sandals and a long, sparkling necklace. My hair was pulled back in a pony tail and I wore a pair of large tortoise shell Jackie O sunglasses. On my face, my makeup was summery and light but by no means natural looking; it was evident I had taken some time to put it on.

Here on Calle Serrano no one would recognize I was an outsider any longer... I thought.

The store was roughly 10 blocks (or a half a mile) from where we lived and we had grown accustomed to walking long distances to get from place to place. Miami by comparison is not a city built for pedestrians and the brutal summer humidity and rain storms would make it nearly impossible to walk anywhere but a front porch. But Madrid was mild and dry and we easily covered three to four miles per day on foot.

There was a small list of items to get at the supermarket namely coffee, a few vegetables and bar soap. Our parents were coming to visit in a few day and the apartment had already been well stocked for their upcoming arrival. I am the type of person however to always think we'll run out of something, such as food or liquor, so I tend to over compensate. Drastically Over Compensate. For example: There is an entire bathroom at my parents house that is full of cases upon cases of beer and wine left over from our wedding. The thought of running out of alcohol at our wedding admittedly caused us, (Read: me) to go a wee bit "crazy" at Costco. Most people would go to the store should they run out of something. Of course they would, that would be normal. But I always tend to see that mild inconvenience as an "End of Days" scenario.

I rummaged around the supermarket at El Corte Ingles, perusing the aisles for items that may have missed the list. It was in the toilet paper aisle that the light bulb went off in my head. While I thought that perhaps we had enough for our three additional guests, there would be nothing worse.... Nothing worse in the history of mankind, if we ran out

I eyed the packages critically, comparing each one to the next. We had a week and a half left in Madrid and would have three more people staying with us. By my calculations that could easily run into the thousands of rolls as far as I was concerned. I settled on just one package, the largest one, with 32 rolls in it. That should be safe, I thought.

The small groceries were bagged, all except the package of toilet paper, which was too enormous to fit in anything except a parachute. I rode the escalator up out of the store with my arms full of groceries and a haunting realization washed over me as I ascended. Emerging onto the sunny street above that I became fully aware of what was about to happen. There I stood in the blinding afternoon sun, fingers already pulsing from the strain of the bags, ready to embark on a half mile walk... Down the poshest street in Madrid.... Carrying an ultra-jumbo sized package of 32 rolls of toilet paper. This was going to be terrible.

At first I shook it off, reminding myself that no one cares about me and that this was only my invisible audience rising up, causing me to wince and sweat. Forcing me to shake and return me to a blubbering, whimpering 12 year old again. But, I'm an adult for Pete's sake! No one would notice a thing nor take a second glance in my direction. No one is consumed with my toilet paper because they're also adults and they know it's just a part of life. Don't they?

My chin was raised high, much higher than normal, as I paraded by Cartier with my goods, my full leopard skirt swung femininely from side to side as I whisked by Carolina Herrera. I weaved carelessly through throngs of people, nose in the air, occasionally knocking bystanders in the knees with the giant package. People looked back to see what hit them but I just kept walking, unapologetic.

My chin raised higher and higher towards the heavens but this time it was no longer to prove that I belonged on Calle Serrano. Clearly I did not. This time instead, I raised my chin to prevent myself from drowning in the surge of embarrassment that was starting to consume me.

Holy Hell! I was going to die of shame that afternoon. Strangled to death at the hands of my ever present invisible audience complex.

Why, I asked myself, was this becoming such a tedious walk? It's not a problem that I do use toilet paper after all. It would be a problem if I didn't! Surely anyone who may snicker at me was the real freak here, not me! But that wasn't it. The problem of course was that I had convinced myself, or rather my invisible audience had convinced me, that everyone I walked by was envisioning me sitting on the toilet. No longer was I a well dressed woman in a cute leopard skirt that fit in as one of "them". THEY wear full suits and drink wine at lunch. THEY have manicured nails and wear expensive watches. THEY don't buy jumbo toilet paper packages and THEY don't fumble down the street with it for all the world to see.

I was a shameless American butt wiper who didn't belong.

I lowered my eyes and dug my chin into my chest; I simply couldn't bare one more person staring at me. Thoughts of my butt wiping consumed me. A short half a mile was starting to feel like ten. Occasionally I had to stop to adjust the bags or shift the toilet paper package to my other hand. Every time I did, my self-esteem dropped another level.

By the time I reached Plaza de Colon I was skinning my toes quickly along the ground, trying to rush the remaining five blocks to our apartment. A man saw me juggling everything and asked if I needed help carrying it. "NO!" I belted back at him, yanking my bags out of his reach, too embarrassed to have any semblance of manners.

As he watched me rudely storm past, I could have sworn I heard him say, "Whatever... Butt Wiper"

The last five blocks were worse than the first, as all eye contact was interpreted in a negative way. "Everyone is looking at me!!" I thought " Everyone is imagining me on the toilet!!" As I neared my street there were two more restaurants full of diners yet to pass through. It would be the last leg of my journey and I feared that so much human contact would be the most humiliating thing in the world.

No longer could my fingers bear the weight of my bags. Every ten feet or so I stopped and put the groceries down, opening and closing my hands and allowing my red fingers to circulate blood. People huddled around one another with happy hour drinks in hand, blocking the sidewalks and leaving no room for passers by. I pushed my way through them and would stop periodically amongst them to put my bags down again. The crowd felt enormous, all-consuming. Women holding martinis eyed me from head to toe, their glances stopping at my package of toilet paper.

The green door to our apartment was a welcome sight and I let out a sigh of relief as I hobbled over to it, fumbling with the groceries. I perched one bag on a bent knee and feebly lifted my keys to the door before they slipped from my sweaty palms and fell to the ground. A group of business men walked by, impeccably dressed, and one bent over to pick up the dropped keys. As he came up he froze for a long moment and stared at the giant package of toilet paper. I stood there, holding my breath, with an outstretched hand. He looked back at me and a sly smile came across his lips.

"That's a lot of toilet paper you have there" he said as he slowly handed me the keys. A hot surge came across my face and as I opened my mouth to thank him, not a word came out. There I stood, mouth agape, facing a very, very visible audience. In my awkward silence he turned on his heel to leave, joining his friends. They all listened intently to what he had to say and in unison, looked down at my package of toilet paper. Some smiled, some raised their eyebrows in humored surprise.

And there I stood, the American Butt Wiper, in my full leopard skirt, swimming in a pool of my own self-pity. They strode away as the keys shook in my hands. I opened the door to the apartment building and silently rode the dark elevator up to the fourth floor, avoiding eye contact with it's mirrored walls. I couldn't bare to look at myself. As I walked in my husband greeted me at the door and took the bags of groceries from my pulsing hands.

"I thought you were getting toilet paper" he stated while rummaging through the bags, looking for it.
"I did" I said while sullenly walking to the living room, dragging my self-worth on a tattered rope behind me. "Well, where is it?" he asked while continuing to look around. "It's there" I said, pointing out the large glass door that lead to the balcony. He walked over, confused, and peered over the balcony to the street below.

And there, in the late afternoon sun on Calle Serrano, sat a brand new package of 32 rolls of toilet paper, ripe for the picking and worthy of someone who, unlike me, had outgrown their invisible audience complex long ago.

Barbarella, Unhinged

2011-08-30T17:19:00.002-04:00

Most people over the age of seven hate dressing up in a costume. I am that rare bird, the Peter Pan of pageantry if you will, that has never quite grown out of it. Both my birthday and Halloween are lumped harmoniously together in October, making the month a very egomaniacal time for me. Is there really anything better than being bathed in sequins while others congratulate you for it? Is there?

There is generally one, well two, rules that I adhere to while planning a costume. The first and most important is that I make it myself. If you are wondering about my sewing skills I will say in all honestly that they are, for a lack of a better word, nonexistent. There is a sewing machine on the top shelf of my closet that my mother gave me for Christmas a few years ago and while I want nothing more than to hold it in my arms and sing it a sweet lullaby, it scares me to death. I truly do love that sewing machine, so much in fact that there is even a picture my husband Reed took of me crying after she gave it to me, but all I'm saying is that I have a healthy respect for it. Like coming upon a Grizzly bear in the woods, I recognize it's greatness and stay away.

Making clothes without the ability to sew dates as far back as when I was a very young girl, dressing hourglass shaped Palmolive bottles in kitchen rags to make headless, derelict dolls. And no, if you're wondering, I didn't have any neighborhood friends to play with. Ours was the only house on the block and we lived on the end of quiet a cul-du-sac that no one drove around in west Miami. Our only neighbors were an elderly couple, the Days, who would shuffle over and hand me bruised starfruit that had fallen from a tree in their yard. But while I had no friends, I did have an army of soap bottles wrapped in burlap to talk to. Creativity is born of circumstances such as that. Creativity and insanity both.

Even at that age I found good use for the stapler, glue gun and some scotch tape. And you know what they say: If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Sure, staples running along the skin or piercing the butt cheeks may cause minor discomfort at the time, but it's a small price to pay for the effortlessness in which these costumes can be created. This ingenuity has no bounds and I have been known on many occasion to use regular household items in extraordinary ways. In college while dressed as Wonder Woman, my knee high "boots" were made of a pair of red soccer socks pulled over a pair of pumps. The heels pierced through the bottom of the socks and were wrapped in red electrical tape. If stuck on a desert island make no mistake about it, I would have the best looking indigenous garb made of palm fronds and fish parts.

My second rule to Halloween costumes is broader and left up to some debate, but I usually dress as an iconic screen or music diva from the 70's or before. Generally I prefer if only gay men and women over the age of 65 can identify me. This makes me feel cultured and superior, a perfectly good excuse to snub my nose at those who don't "get" my costume-making genius. Case in point, a few years ago I paraded through a party of on lookers in a long white skirt with slits up to my thighs, a shimmering crop top and a chieftan feathered headdress that dragged along the floor behind me. I towered over the crowd in a pair of sparkling silver stilettos. Throughout the night I was congratulated on my sexy "Indian Princess" ensemble.

Simpletons. Clearly I was Cher.

Of course that's why in 2004 I elected to dress as the ultimate 1960's Sci-Fi bombshell, Barbarella Queen of the Galaxy, played by the contessa of calisthenics herself, Ms. Jane Fonda. My fascination with all that is AMC stems from an upbringing where my parents kept on rotation a series of black and white westerns, Rodger and Hammerstein's musicals and Hitchcock thrillers. If it wasn't melodramatic, we weren't having it. Now they watch Fox News, so not much has changed.

I had seen the movie Barbarella a host of times and knew the plot, or what there was of one, well. Based on a French comic, it was translated into a pretty wretched film by most standards, in a completely and utterly amazing way. But the real fascination with this cult classic had nothing to do with the acting and everything to do with the over the top sets and scandalous fashion. Does it really matter if an actor doesn't give an Oscar worthy performance when they're wearing a fishnet onesie? No, no it doesn't. So my mind was made up, the costume was kitschy and iconic and could only be identified by gay men and women over 65. In other words, it was perfect.

The first challenge was having the nerve to wear a unitard. The last one I had sported was a few years before in college when I was in a J-Lo phase, when J-Lo was still called Jennifer Lopez and I was still as thin as a rail. The unitard I donned before that was when I was 8 years old in drama camp, learning the lines for an Oscar Meyer commercial that never aired. Now, with a more womanly figure, it would take a deep breath and a lot of detoxing to feel comfortable in so much shiny lycra. I certainly didn't want someone recognizing me as "Barbarella....only fat".

My hair was naturally blonde at the time and was long, Crystal Gayle long, so there was no need for a wig. There was of course need for a lot of Aussie Mega Hold hairspray and an obscene amount of teasing as I've always had a limp and bodiless coiffure. But as far as length and color was concerned, we were good to go. I began practicing the perfect hairstyle months before, usually at 3 am after a few drinks and would often wake up with a mangled birds nest atop my head in the morning. But it was all in the name of the consummate Halloween costume so I acquiesced, for who am I to stand in the way of perfection?

The accessories were purchased and spruced up from a whole slue of different stores. I made a fitted body shield that slipped over my head and was worn as "armor" out of a set of cheap white plastic blinds from Home Depot that I cut to fit, then spray painted silver. The knee high boots were bought at Flamingo Plaza, a strip mall of second-hand and dollar stores in Herpes-lia, I mean Hialeah, a sticky suburb north of Miami. I spray painted them, as a well as the rest of my "weapons" (namely water guns and frisbees) with the same silver paint. A red bikini bottom was slipped over my unitard , accentuated with a silver chain link belt, also from my J-Lo 2001 collection.

When Halloween finally rolled around after months of tireless preparation, my schedule at work had me closing the store at 11:00 pm. Obviously my boss at Anthropologie had no concept of how wildly important this day was for me. I tried desperately to switch with someone else, work an extra shift, anything to buy a few more hours to tease my hair. But no one budged and I was left impatiently tapping my foot at 10:45, shoving the remaining customers out the door early so that I could race home and change.

My friends, in their ramshackle costumes, were already at my apartment and had raided my refrigerator for beer and vodka. I pushed through them, saying impatient and hurried "hello's", making my way to the bathroom to start on my hair and makeup. In the meantime they poured me drinks that I took down with the fury that only raging alcoholic, or Nick Nolte, would do. I had a lot of catching up to do and very little time to do it. The clocked ticked along and there was a lot at stake, my Barbarella costume that had taken months of planning and execution, and she was about to finally make her debut. The pressure simply became too much.

My friends and I hailed a cab and headed over to Purdy Lounge, a dark local hangout with strong drinks and good music that we used to frequent. I pranced like a pony down the street getting stares of admiration and confusion alike, as my silver boots glistened in the street lights. "Who are you?!" people asked excitedly. I puffed and paraded by, leaving them in a fog of hairspray, wondering. They wouldn't understand anyways.

Only one man recognized who I was. "Gorgeousss! Geniussss!" he hissed, spitting glitter at all in his wake, his crop top as luminous as my shield, his leather pants as tight as my unitard.

Then it all started to go terribly wrong. There was something so very basic, so very important that I had forgotten to do which changed the course of the entire night. In the teasing frenzy, between large gulps of vodka and cranberry juice, I had skipped dinner. Anything would have helped, a crouton or some shaved ice even, but there was nothing whatsoever in my stomach, nothing but the gurgling, churning acid of overly sweet cranberry juice and cheap vodka.

I held it together, loosely, as we waited on the line outside of Purdy Lounge. By the time I staggered to the front door, a wave of smoke, lights and crashing, sweaty bodies poured outside. We pushed our way through the hoards of pimps, naughty nurses and hippies and there I swayed, Barbarella, Queen of the Galaxy, with my giant bouffant, trying desperately to not vomit all over my armor.

The next day I awoke to find my unitard in a wrinkled heap on the floor next to the bed. My chain link belt lay on top of it, having never been unhooked. How I got it off my body I still wonder to this day. One silver boot was found behind the toilet, the other one was never found at all. As I made my way to the bathroom, squinting in the late morning light, I caught sight of a familiar face. There she stood, staring back at in the mirror, a haggard, weathered Barbarella with a full face of smeared makeup. A mangled bird nest lay fuzzy and lopsided, atop her head.

One Too Many Balls In The Face

2011-08-29T19:40:00.001-04:00

"Caleb is SO constipated" Liz said as I plopped myself down at the table, sweaty and wobble-kneed. I had spent the past ten minutes walking through a giant parking lot, juggling tile samples, design binders and a bag full of wallpaper. I looked and felt like a pack mule in sausage encasing, dressed in a fitted pencil skirt that was one size too small.

I hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by her garish declaration."Oh. Oh he is? That's too bad." I said in response, choking back a mouthful of vomit. How does one respond to a statement such as that? Why people feel they must tell you about their child's bowel movements is beyond me. There is not one iota of interest I have with that information. My hope one day when I become a parent is that I can continue to have interesting adult conversations that don't solely revolve around my child's ability, or lack thereof, to poop.

Liz had called 10 minutes before our meeting to see if I could meet her and her two four year twins at Gymboree instead of her house as we had planned. We were supposed to review the design concepts my partner and I had been working on for her home, where we usually had meetings. From past experience I had learned that when the kids were around, nothing got done.

In my head I told her what I really felt: "No way, I can't meet at Gymboree. I'm a designer, not a clown" but instead, out of my mouth came an overly agreeable "of COURSE!!". That has always been my problem, I'm just a girl who can't say no.

So there I found myself, breathing heavily from carrying twenty pounds of samples, and listening to story after story about the trials and tribulations of being a parent trying to coax a child to drop the load. I suggested we move inside out of the sun to review the project. I wasn't getting paid nearly enough to listen to any more of that...crap.

Have you ever had a meeting in Gymboree? If not, it's ridiculous. You should try it. There we sat on tiny bleachers made for children, my legs twisted beneath me, trying to review marble and wall paper samples for her master bathroom. I pulled out photos of chandeliers and sconces from my bag of tricks as Liz belted out desperate commands to her kids who were way too distracted by colorful objects to listen to her. "Careful, Caleb!" she yelped, "Kelly, don't do that!". I tried to laugh it off in the guise of being a good sport, my hollow nonchalance reading: "Oh yeah, it's cool. I love having meetings in playgrounds". Forty five minutes went by and nothing was getting accomplished.

After one too many potential injuries, Liz called Caleb over to play directly in front of where we were sitting. She thought, of course, that his proximity would control the situation better. He belly flopped repeatedly into a giant pit full of red, yellow and blue plastic balls as Liz watched. I remember that same liberating feeling when I was little. There was nothing better than hurling yourself face first into the pool of balls then digging deep below the surface, only to burst out in a fit of hysterics, balls a flyin', a moment later. I wonder if my mom ever tried to conduct business while watching me do that. I doubt it. She's the type of woman that's never afraid to say no.

It was only a matter of time, of course, before Caleb became bored with playing alone. There are only so many times one can throw themselves down before it starts to get old. The next logical thing was to lure me and Liz into his web of fun. It started innocently enough with one ball being listlessly tossed our way. He smiled coquettishly. But you know how it goes, give a kid an inch and they take a football field. Liz threw it back to him, smiling, as I held the pen poised for taking notes, watching them both with a hesitated, creeping fear. Then came another ball. Then another.

Each toss was made with more gusto than the one before and within minutes I found myself shielding my face and legs from getting pelted by a flurry of stinging balls. Caleb laughed manically, like Chucky, as I tried to avoid getting a black eye or a chipped tooth. Not the face! If I'm going to ruin my money maker, it's going to be doing something fun like moshing in the rain at Lollapalooza or bungee jumping in Brazil. It's not looking at wall paper samples in Gymboree.

As the balls rained down upon us, Liz futilely begged him to stop. She whimpered while trying to block herself with flailing arms. But we both knew it. We were utterly defeated by a four year old boy. It was then, cowering under my notebook, that I saw what my life had become.

You've heard about those moments of reckoning, of clarity. People usually have it while praying on the mountains of Tibet, others have it right after they give birth to a child. But here I was experiencing a profound moment of understanding while trying desperately to be respected as a professional, avoid being taken down by a deluge of plastic balls, sitting on children's bleachers, sausaged in tight clothes, swimming under a sea of architectural plans, and talking to a client who wasn't listening. This was my life, right here, in Gymboree. No one can prepare you for that. Design icon Dorothy Draper never found herself in that situation, that's for damn sure.

I only lasted a few moments before choking down my last piece of humble pie. I packed up my wares and left that one horse town, wobbling back to the car in high heeled stilettos, makeup melting off my face onto my collared shirt. After sitting for a moment of much needed silence, I started the car and put it into reverse as a wave of sweltering air came out of the a.c. The phone rang. It was my partner.

"How did it go?" she asked. I paused for a moment.

"Caleb's constipated", I said.

Don't Touch My Tortellini: Lucca and Cinque Terre, Italy

2011-08-12T13:54:00.000-04:00

Maybe I've seen the movie "French Kiss" one too many times but I always kind of expect train rides through Europe have a picturesque view of rolling hills with old stone houses and wild vineyards. Lies. I have found instead that trains oftentimes run through the 'rougher' (toothless) parts of towns, through walls of graffiti with views of dingy underwear hanging on clotheslines.

A friend who had visited Europe a few months ago had recommended we visit the provincial town of Lucca in Tuscany. We took a high speed train across Italy from Venice and arrived a short 2 hours later in Florence, where we would take another train to Lucca. I was writing like a maniac on the train so I missed much of the view but from what I did see, it was quite industrial and really nothing at all like the movies. Plus there where undies far as the eye could see. Look at me thinking life is like the movies.

!Americanos!

As soon as we got off the train we asked a man in uniform when the next train for Lucca was leaving and he pointed to one parked with blinking lights, meaning it was about to leave. We sprinted across the aisle with bouncing rolling bags and were sitting panting in the train a moment later, high-fiveing each other with our awesome train-hopping abilities. About a half an hour into our ride Reed realized we had our first casualty of war: his Hugo Boss jacket. It must have been flung off our luggage during the mad dash and I'm certain it is now being worn by a stinky backpacker with dreadlocks and a dirty, loose wife-beater. I hate to sound so callous, but backpackers are a dime a dozen around here and my experience thus far is that they do, for the most part, smell.

We pulled into Lucca around 1 in the afternoon and were checking in to the bed and breakfast, Al Tondone, a few minutes later. The gregarious owner, Anna, was every bit the Italian bed and breakfast hostess you could imagine. She had short salt and pepper hair, a robust frame and spoke with a thick, sweet accent. She may have even been wearing an apron and holding a rolling pin but I'm not certain. Our room, on the second floor, was bright and cute and immaculately kept. The bathroom was also large and clean, a very nice change from the Hepatitis Hotel we had stayed at in Venice.

Anna's husband had built their house by hand and they have been servicing guests with a Bed and Breakfast for 12 years. I can't imagine having people in and out of my home like that, it sounds kind of awful honestly, but I'm sure it's also entertaining at times. When we gave her a pile of our dirty, Venice-covered laundry I'm certain she was less than enthralled with her guests from Miami.

!Americanos!

She showed us the back garage where a rack of 10 bicycles were free for guests to use. I hadn't realized when I booked the place that it was quite far outside of town so the bikes came in handy (as my soon very sore butt would attest to). But what the Bed and Breakfast lacked in location it certainly made up for in charm and if we were to ever return to Lucca we would stay there again.

We peddled off to town through several residential neighborhoods, a bit lost but knowing the general direction. Reed took the lead as I screamed "CAR!!!!!" every few minutes like a total lunatic. For someone as comfortable on a bike as I am you would never know it with the amount that my handlebar shakes and jerks around cars; it's like watching a drunk. It truly is amazing to me that I haven't caused an accident or found myself face planted in the bushes yet.

Lucca is a small old Roman city surrounded by a large brick wall, built like a fortress with accessible gates at several different points around the wall. Very few cars are allowed in and are blocked from most of the streets making it very pedestrian and bike friendly. Suburbs have been built around the outer wall of the city but everything else contained within the walls looks pretty much how it did centuries ago, I suppose.

What hasn't ceased to amaze me since we've been here is how amazing I find it that these old buildings are completely utilitarian still. It seems that in Miami if something is older than 50 years, it is slapped with a "historic" sticker and we can no longer use it for anything other than a photo op. In Europe however, if the building still stands it's going to be put to good use. Last night for example we saw a Salvatore Ferragamo clothing and shoe store on the bottom floor of a centuries old historic, riverfront mansion. In Miami, that same home would have been roped off to be used for expensive weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

We tooled around the town until settling upon a restaurant called Locanda S. Andrea that was built in the shadows of a 600 year old church. Several times I found myself looking up from my creamy ravioli in awe of the structure we were sitting beneath. The town of Lucca did not appear to have the lavish or ornate building styles that can be found in other parts of Europe. It was a rather simple, provincial town with buildings made mostly of bricks and stones.

The town catered entirely to tourists which was kind of surprising as I thought Lucca was a little more off the beaten track than it ended up being. What should have tipped me off was the family of four in Tevas and fanny packs reading a "Fodors Guide To Tuscany" on the train earlier. Droves of tourists hobbled around the cobblestones with bottles of overpriced grappa for their loved ones back home. In the town square, street musicians were playing the "Catanooga Choo Choo".

Reed and I found the large cathedral which was quite ornate despite the towns modest appearance and it was yet another reminder of the church's former power and wealth despite the clear poverty of the surrounding areas. We took pictures and laughed in the face of their strict "no pictures" policy. I'm becoming quite the expert at pulling the "naive traveler" card when necessary. "Oh, I didn't know you couldn't take pictures, tee hee!". It's amazing what a set of big blue eyes and a shrug of the shoulders can get you.

!Americanos!

On our way out of town we stumbled upon a woman and her two grandsons attempting to change a flat tire on their car. Poor lady was wearing white jeans, she needed some help! My main concern or course was her outfit but Reed always wins the 'good manners' award, so he stopped to help her fix it. The young boys watched, mesmerized, as she gushed in gratitude. Reed bounced on the wrench, jacked the car up, sullied his white shorts, became covered in black grease and finally changed the tire. Ten minutes later we were back on our way but not after her insistence that he wear a pair of laytex gloves. To not dirty the bike. Uhhh, what?

That's right, Reed rode all the way home in a pair of white rubber gloves looking like a complete pervert or psychopath, or combination of the two.

We went back to the Bed and Breakfast in the late afternoon to freshen up for dinner and brought a bottle of red wine and a giant bottle of water back with us, jostling around in the basket the whole time. I have had a severe case of dehydration since Venice as I've been petrified to drink anything but bottled water. One mishap in El Salvador a few years ago has left me with a very regrettable understanding of Montezuma's (or in this case 'Michelangelo's') revenge. When I saw a host of girls happily splashing their feet in one of the Venetian canals I almost stormed down the bridge to give them a good, stern talking to. Don't they know that sewage has spilled into that pretty green water for centuries? Have we no respect for dysentery, people?

Back at the Bed and Breakfast, Reed and I were able to enjoy our bottle of wine sitting in the front yard alone, under large trees and listening to the sound of crickets and classical music. It was hands down one of my favorite moments of our trip so far and I wish I could have bottled that feeling up to bring it out on a rainy day. It was simply perfect.

The next morning we rode the bikes over to the station to catch an early train for Cinque Terre, a string of five small coastal towns that are only accessible by walking, train or boat. I honestly wish we had places like that in the US, where monster gas guzzling Escalades and soccer moms are not allowed.

We had heard about Cinque Terre from friends in Miami who had been a few years ago and after reading online that the train ride was just a little over and hour from Lucca, we thought it would be a great field trip for the day. Once again I was reminded not to trust everything you read online. Had I read the fine print I would have learned that there are no direct trains to Cinque Terre from Lucca but instead there are two additional stations to switch trains at. We realized that of course once it was too late and we found ourselves in Via Reggio having just missed our train by two measly minutes. The next train wasn't for another two and a half hours. To say that I had a bratty hissy fit in the Via Reggio station would have been an understatement. I believe the words "what are we going to do in this dump?!" followed by a foot stomp may have been (exactly) what happened.

What should have taken a little over one hour actually took four and I have learned an invaluable lesson about the Italian railway system: it makes no sense. At no point do our tickets explain the times, station names or stops we must change at but rather they merely state our destination. The tickets are generally not checked by conductors and are left open ended for two months. We could have probably ridden the entire way there and back for free and if the conductor asked us for a ticket I could just widen my eyes and shrug again, acting dumb.

!Americanos!

A few trial and errors later we finally arrived in Vernazza, a town that was in the middle of the Cinque Terre. It was a small piling of colorful homes and a stone castle built into the side of a mountain. You know those pictures you see in a magazine that make you squeal in envy "I wanna go there!!"? Well "there" we were.

There was a small beach full of sunbathers with painted wooden rowboats bobbing in the clear water. Up the side of the steep hills were rows of flowering fruit trees and old stone walls that lead up into the thick clouds. If ever I've been in a picturesque place, that was it.

We ate foccacia on the rocks and watched swimmers and small boats pull in and out of the harbor then we went to the top of the castle and sat there for an hour in the sun eating fruit and watching seagulls. The stores below on the narrow streets were touristy but high up in the small castle, the only sounds were wind and water.

A five minute train ride brought us from Vernazza to the town of Corniglia where we opted not to take the bus up the hill but rather to walk to town. Halfway through, after sweating profusely and heaving our way up a steep winding road, I was wondering if perhaps the bus would have been a good idea. Turning back with my sweat mustache splattering about I caught a glimpse of Reed, the Italian Stallion, with his entire shirt unbuttoned letting his pups breathe. We're a class act, us HORTHS.

But the view was breathtaking (of Reed's chest) and never before in one place have I seen so many different types of fruit trees. There were peaches, grapes, figs, raspberries, blackberries and lemons in the backyards of the town residents. I tried of course to steal some grapes (like a good Catholic) and found myself covered in some type of agent-orange powder. Doesn't make for good eating methinks so I threw them away. Should I start developing some strange symptoms within the next few days, you'll know what it's from. Well that, or the residual effects of our "Venereal Venetian Vacation".

We stopped at a few stores to browse around and had a chocolate gelato (which after years of living an an ignorant fog I have come to learn is simply "icecream" with a fancy name). If you should ever find yourself in Corniglia, I would not recommend getting an appetizer at a place called Ristorante Cicio. For it is here that you will find after sitting that they charge a "cover charge" of 2.50 Euro per person if you want to use silverware and that will not bring you what you order but will still include the forgotten items on the bill. Scalding Katsmack review? Why yes, yes indeed. Hiiiissssssssssss!!!!

We took the stairs back down to the train station and decided to go to one more town before attempting to figure out our way back to Lucca. The town of Manarola was clustered once again in the hills but was built around an inlet of large piles of boulders that swimmers were jumping off into the clear water below. I had some serious bathing suit envy as I had forgotten to bring my cute little red ruffled bikini. But who am I kidding? As a true blue Miamian, that water would have been a bit too frigid for this thin skin. I'm more of a "hang out on shore wearing gold bangles" type.

We watched as people plunged from 20 feet high and came up laughing and gasping for air. The boulders that the town was built on were black and veined with white marble and fishermen puttered around the rocks on their little boats with fishing lines dragging loosely behind. Backpackers huddled around eating sandwiches and it began to cool down as the sun started to fall a bit in the sky. We sat by the water, quiet for a while, and watched the waves lull before deciding to leave Cinque Terre and head back home.

After mastering the Italian railway system that day, we rode a packed and sticky train quite easily back to Lucca. It's amazing that you can find yourself lost in the serenity of the Mediterranean sea and then 10 minutes later find yourself staring, uncomfortably close, into the mouth of a toothless, smiling gypsy.

Oh Italy, you dirty, magical place.

A Wicked Case of the Itchy Scratchies: Venice, Italy

2011-08-10T12:18:00.000-04:00

We left Portugal the morning of the 4th and took a flight to Venice by way of Paris, having a layover in Charles du Gaulle airport. Having not spent much time in that airport before I think the best way to describe it is that it's so..... French. I was starving and shaky by that point having had nothing more than a cup of coffee in the six hours since waking up. Can't this cracka get hers a sandwich?

The shops that surrounded our gate were reminiscent of ritzy Bal Harbour shops on Miami Beach. I could buy a Hermes bathing suit but couldn't get a piece of bread. There were expensive cheese and wine shops, chocolateries and candle boutiques, but nowhere insight was there a bag of chips. When options are slim it's amazing what you'll eat, right? I finally settled on a ham, cheese and butter sandwich, because clearly the high saturated fat in take of ham and cheese without the butter wasn't enough.

Our plane to Venice out of Paris took off a bit late which was probably better because there was a major lapse in communication between the airline and the bus driver that took us out to the tarmac. We drove in circles passing the same planes and baggage handlers for about twenty minutes before he finally found it. The Asians on the bus we're getting visibly stressed. I mean it's a airplane we're looking for, not the Holy Grail. How hard can it be? Hard, apparently.

We sat in the last seats on the plane and flew over the snow capped Alps before landing in Venice at dusk. My fear for over a month had been that our bags would get lost in the transfer from Lisbon to Paris or from Paris to Venice. Considering we only have two nights in each place for the next 10 days, it doesn't leave much room for error. There would be a whole lot of caca face if I were forced to wear the same underoos for a week straight, ya hear? Needless to say when our overstuffed carry-ons bounced their way out of the baggage claim I wanted to jump for joy. Chiseling away at my Type A tendencies, one trip at a time.

We took a water bus over to the island of Venice as the airport is on the mainland. Approximately an hour after arriving by plane we were chugging off to our stop at "Fondamente Nuovo" which is on the north and more quiet side of the island. The water taxi service in Venice is quite the racket. While our tickets were a mere 15 Euro each (roughly 45 dollars total), there was another option to take a private taxi for 100 Euro each per person (300 dollars total for 2 people) for a 20 minute ride. Let me be frank, If I'm going to pay 300 big ones for a boat ride, I better be getting dinner, a show and a goody bag with the full line of MACs winter 2011 eyeshadow line.

And a Hermes bathing suit.

While I've always been aware of Venice being on the water, I've never really fully grasped that absolutely everything there is done by boat. There are no cars nor any car accessible streets anywhere. We saw ambulances and cops buzz by with sirens wailing as they ripped through the water. Small children were zipping on boats through the canals and main waterways and we watched seasoned boat drivers whip into docks and spaces with a quickness and efficiency that was beyond impressive. Forget it sinking naturally, I could personally take down the entire city of Venice in one fell swoop if put behind the wheel of a boat and left to my own maniacal devices.

We were dropped off at our stop and were met by Chris, the landlord and owner of the apartment we were renting. He had the personality of a piece of cardboard. We had rented from him as the options for affordable lodging was much slimmer in Venice than anywhere else we're visiting and he came recommended by a Bed and Breakfast I had found online. He walked us to the apartment, gave us a few pointers and left. I will say this, you get what you pay for.

While the previous photos I had seen of the apartment were (ehh) alright, it should have tipped me off that there were no pictures of the bathroom. The two foot by two foot shower had no door. No, it's not that the door didn't work, it's that there simply wasn't one. The bathroom smelled somewhat of mildew and urine the entire time and there was a thin film of Venice on everything. That is not a compliment. There was no air conditioning, which is common in Europe, but Chris noted it was safe to keep the windows open because there were bars on them. Oh, much better. I like bars on windows. It makes me feel like I'm in Hialeah. Or in jail.

Reed is convinced after a number of welts we both have on our arms and legs that we have contracted scurvy or another 18th century disease from that apartment. I think they're from the swarm of mosquitoes that managed to squeeeeeeze through those safety bars but I'm no doctor. On a more positive note however, the apartment was large, had a few amenities (specifically a bowl) and was located in a quiet residential area of Venice, which we found to be charming.

As it was already late we ordered two pizzas at a neighborhood restaurant and took one of them home for lunch the next day. As we learned in Spain, taking food to go is one of those grotesque American idiosyncrasies that we are made fun of relentlessly for in Europe. The waiter had a good laugh at us when we asked for a box. Hey buddy, this Americana is in on the joke but I still want my pizza to go, grazie.

We dropped our shameful pizza back in the apartment and shoved it in the small fridge that was propped up on the kitchen counter. The fridge in fact was a freezer we later found out after our groceries (including a block of mozzarella cheese and a giant tomato) were frozen solid the next day. I have never eaten a frozen tomato before, have you? It tasted like a tomato flavored slushy... in other words deeeelicious!

We walked around Venice that night to explore as we had every desire to hit the streets and no desire to stay in the apartment. Who wants to hang out in the hotel anyways when you're in such a magical place? We meandered around with a useless map in tow and eventually came upon the Grand Canal and Rialto Bridge. The grande dame of bridges in Venice, Rialto was definitely, in a former life, quite a good looking gal. Today she has been abused by graffiti and is piled high with cheesy souvenir shops but in her old bones you can still imagine the uproarious Renaissance hoards and general debauchery piling over her in the Venice of centuries ago.

The next morning we woke up early to walk to Venice Biennale, a large art show and a big part of the reason we came to Venice in the first place. The show was split between two different areas: the Gardens and the abandoned Arsenal buildings. The exhibits were a short walk from our apartment and without a cloud in the sky, I insisted we replace our sunblock which had been confiscated by security at the Paris airport the day before. As the airport security guard snooped around, disemboweling my carry-on, he threw out my sunblock and a tub of body cream. Are they for real? How can you look at a woman in a leopard print skirt with a zebra print pillow in tow and possibly find her SPF 30 to be a threat to airplane security? (He also looked at me questionably after finding a small volcanic rock I had stowed in my bag from Islas Canarias. Yes, I'm a rock hoarder. Always have been.) I drew the line however when he tried to confiscate my American deodorant because it was too many milligrams over weight. Sometimes you've got to stand up for your rights people and deodorant from the U S of A is one of dem rights.

Wow. I don't seem to like it when people mess with my toiletries one bit.
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Back in Venice, we stopped at the "Coop" which is a national chain supermarket in Italy and much like grocery stores we have in the States, but with a significantly larger mortadella section. We were able to find sunscreen, or "latte solare" which translates to "sun milk", or so I thought. Condensed milk is more like it. The chain of mountainous pimples that has sprung up across my face is an impressive sight indeed.

After a short stop for espresso we were able to wind our way through the streets and over canals, walking through quiet narrow streets. If you ever have the desire to visit in Venice, I would highly recommend staying in a residential neighborhood. It gave us an entirely different experience than shoving through droves of gawking tourists. There is a serenity and a sweetness being around people who have shuffled through those streets carrying groceries their entire lives. Staying in that area made Venice a very palpable and personal place.

Roughly 20 minutes later we found the art exhibit at the Garden and paid a nominal fee to get in.
In hindsight we should have gone to the Arsenal exhibit first as it is more along the lines of what we do. As Reed is in art sales, he naturally looks for the market and saleability of works. The Garden exhibit was instead a large number of installation works which are intended to create an interaction between the viewer and the art but I found the line to be very blurred between what was clever and what was absurd. Rock crystals taped to old tv sets and mannequins? Eer OK... I guess.

We walked from room to room seeing everything from play dough lined walls to videos of men in tutus, none of which we could show to our clients. Though entertaining, it was clear that the Garden exhibit wasn't for us.

The Arsenale exhibition was much more our speed. While there was a fair share of installation art, there were also a number of great paintings, photographs and sculptures. One of the most interesting and well executed pieces was an ode to Gianbologna's "The Rape of the Sabine Women", a marble sculpture that we will be seeing within the next few days in Florence. This artists interpretation however, was a life-sized wax replica that was slowly burning to the ground through the use of candles. Imagine burning a piece like that to the ground. I found the building itself to be a great backdrop for the exhibition as it is a series of brick and concrete archways and rusty steel buttresses.

We had expected to spend the entire day at Biennale but as the exhibition did not have galleries or artists present, we didn't have any schmoozing to do. When life hands you lemons, make lemoncello!

We spent the rest of the day twisting and turning through the warm streets of Venice. Maybe it's from too many romanticized movies but I always imagine the islands the way they were portrayed from 300 years ago: wild parties at night, women in lavish silk and lace gowns, masquerades, flowing wine, unadulterated gluttony and lots of fireworks. That seems like a life I could enjoy very, very much.

We had a chance to experience two very different sides of the same city. The packed streets of tourists stumbling into shops, waving their dollars with gondoliers sitting around idly for the next group of tourists to ask for a ride. Then we saw the side where neighbors meet in the street to chat and people leave their trash by the door and hang their clothes out to dry. I'm sure it's all very magical because it's very foreign. An out-of-towner visiting Miami may find it quaint and charming when I flick them off on US1 then write all about it in their blog, who knows. But put me in a back alley any day of the week, I always prefer to be off the beaten trail even if my lodging leaves me with an incurable and embarrassing skin disease.

By the end of the day we had weaved in and out through countless streets, stopped at several stores, had gelato, took jump shots and marched with wreckless abandon over bridges and up and down stairs. We came across a church whose art exhibit of a giant Christ made out of painted eggs was one of the eeriest and most beautiful representations of Jesus that I've ever seen in my life. The music in the dark church was also the stuff of nightmares which undoubtedly added to the allure. And for dinner we had another....drumroll please....pizza! When we get back to Miami at the end of the month I'm going to be a fat, very pimply redhead. Excited?

The next morning we waited at the water bus stop to access the train to Lucca which is on the Western side of Italy in Tuscany. The traveling was once again hiccup free, which oddly never ceases to amaze me. People can figure out how to do things like load luggage and drive a water bus without my input and supervision? What?! Without previously looking at the train schedule or buying tickets, we were able to board the high speed train and zip out of Venice without any issues. I've started to learn by sheer necessity to roll with the punches, have a little faith and to try and loose the reins from my kung-foo grip just a bit. The most fun we've had has been unexpected and unplanned exploration. Order and schedules are generally how I like to operate but it seems this fluidity suits me, but not my skin or waistline, well.

The Secrets to Learning Portuguese Revealed

2011-08-08T10:40:00.000-04:00

Renting a car in a foreign country is just asking for trouble, is it not? I mean here you are, tearing around a place like a maniac where you don't know where you're going, don't know the rules of the road, can't read the road signs and sometimes, can't figure out basic functions of the car. Have you ever tried to turn a stick shift car around on a winding road high in the mountains and not know how to put the car in reverse? One month ago in the Canary Islands I had the pleasure of experiencing just that, high on the cliffs. A three point turn? Try a ten point turn. There is not one ounce of awesome in that.

That particular day Bri and Jack were renting a car and we were taking a day trip with them along the coast of Portugal. After getting the car at the airport they were going to drop us off at the train station at the end of the day in Sintra and drive up north to Porto. Had we had another day in Portugal I would have loved to have gone there. We've heard from several people that Porto is really incredible and is the birthplace of Port Wine, which is clearly why we'll be visiting there in the future.

Picking up the rental car was smooth sailing and as luck would have it, the car was not a mini and actually had a trunk. A trunk may not seem like a big deal (because it isn't) but European cars oftentimes either don't have them or if they do, they can carry approximately one makeup case. Reed and I waited in the garage learning Portuguese phrases from a book while Bri and Jack went downstairs to get a map. After careful review of the language for five minutes I am proud to say that we're now fluent. How's that you wonder? Well, it appears in fact that Portuguese is really Spanish spoken with a Russian accent, with a lisp. When all else fails add an "sh" indiscriminately and you're good to go. Case closed, consider yourself fluent, you're welcome.

We buzzed out of the garage as Bri and I sat in the back, letting the guys take the lead reading the map to the coastal town of Cascais. I'm starting to think that my outspoken nature may make me an irritating travel partner when it comes to looking at maps. Much to Reed's dismay (and his insistence that we at least try to "blend in"), I've found myself standing in the middle of plazas wildly shaking a map and pointing aimlessly this way and that. You know those tourists that are prime targets for pick pockets? Why hello there, nice to meet you, that would be me. So a bit of deference may well be the (very, very unnatural) role I take.

According to the Encyclopedia BRI-tannica, the Portuguese were known for their cartography skills, though she has no shame mentioning that now they're quite terrible at making maps. We ended up using signs on the highway to find our way to the town and it was surprisingly easy. There was a life before GPS and it required one skill: a brain.

We buzzed through Cascais and only stopped the car once to get out and take a look at the ocean as we had heard it was a very touristy, though beautiful place. We opted instead to drive north along the coast through another town Guincho and a short thirty minutes to Cabo da Roca which according to the Portuguese is the most western point in all of Europe. Not according to the world map at least, where it's appears that Ireland is clearly in the lead. Once again, please refer to Bri's previous comment about Portuguese cartography skills.

Whether or not Cabo da Roca is the western most point of Europe or not, it was spectacular. We parked the car and walked toward the cliff where the wind was howling there and the clouds tore by, roughly 50 feet above our heads. A small wooden fence, which we easily hopped over for a dangerous jump shot, was all that kept us from tumbling down a million(ish) foot drop into the churning Atlantic Ocean below. Jack told us later after he had taken our picture that he was scared that one brisk wind would have been all it would have taken to blow us off sheer off the cliff. Yes, it would have been the last one ever, but that jump shot would have been really awesome.

After looking at a sight like that and attempting to wrap my brain around the enormity of the Atlantic Ocean, I couldn't help but respect the cojones it took explorers centuries ago to get on a rickety wooden boat and head out into the deep blue sea. If it were up to me to get anything done, I would still be bent over two sticks trying to start a fire.

We left Cabo da Roca very humbled. After standing there with your hair tossing about, you are reminded of just how small and insignificant you are. On our honeymoon in Curacao, Reed and I rented a kayak and skirted along the western, most desolate, side of the island. I distinctly remember looking out into the ocean without another soul in sight and not a sound besides the lapping of water against the boat and being completely and totally in awe. Isn't that why we travel anyways? To gain a sense of humility and perspective and remember that while our lives and the lives of our loved ones are very important to us, we are a mere blip of the timeline of mankind and nothing more than a small grain of temporary sand on this earth. How depressing, right?

Hunger struck again as we drove south down the coast towards Sintra. After stopping at several beach side restaurants, we decided to keep driving until we found a place that looked more appetizing. A lot of the restaurants we had seen were for kids or drunkards, with a menu that consisted of hamburgers, cheese fries and greasy, unsanitary bar food. The general rule (though certainly not always) is that I need to either be wearing a jersey and holding a koozie or it needs to be 3 a.m for me to fully embrace a menu like that. My last hotdog was the year before in New York with Bri, of course. We went to a bar late night and after finding out that they were served for free, I participated in a hotdog eating contest... with myself. Five hotdogs later I won the contest, but lost every ounce of self respect I had.

We eventually found a restaurant that everyone could agree on. Parked outside was a silver classic Porsche and honestly, I'm quite surprised Reed came inside at all. I half expected him to stay with the car, hugging and caressing it while whispering sweet nothings into its carburetor. For me, a car is either used for transportation or as a old coffee cup receptacle. I could give three hoots what it looks like as long as it runs. Well, let me clarify, as long as it runs and can be put into reverse.

The restaurant called Monte Mar was lovely and had outdoor seating that looked to the ocean beyond. Their menu was mainly seafood and the prices were based on kilograms. I generally don't like seafood or prices based on kilograms. This was the type of place that brings you the fish, precooked, to impress you with it's freshness. Something they don't know about me is that I can't even tolerate walking through the seafood section of a supermarket. Usually Reed does the dirty work.

The waiter brought Bri a floppy silver fish with eyeballs a bulgin' as she squealed in delight. They brought me a giant tiger shrimp and as his frozen black eyes pierced into my soul I started to sweat profusely. Some people are foodies made for fancy restaurants and the full dining experience. I am not one of them. Give me mac and cheese any day.

But Monte Mar exceeded any and all expectations we had. Bri and Jack ordered a salted fish which they de-skinned and served steaming in front of us. Even for someone as finicky as me, the presentation was amazing. Reed ordered "bacalao" which is cod fish and the Portuguese national dish. It was soaked it butter and grilled onions and surrounded by steaming white potatoes covered in coarse sea salt. My poor shrimp, splayed over a bed of white rice and butter lemon sauce, was as delicious as he had whispered to me that he would be, right before they whisked him away to be boiled.

Fat and happy we drove down the coast and followed the signs to Sintra which was a sunny thirty minute drive from where we were. We easily found the station and while pulling in to park to say our goodbyes we were met by many disapproving and disappointed shakes of the head. Bus drivers, passengers and cops alike did not approve of us accidentally pulling onto the 'bus only' road. We were pulled over and reprimanded briefly until the cop took notice of Jack's baby face. He claims he has never gotten a ticket because of it and you know what, I believe him. The cop was mesmerized. So was I.

We said our sad goodbyes there in the Sintra parking lot and promised to see one another soon. Bri is one of those few people in life that I can spend an obscene amount of time with and not grow bored of or annoyed with. The ultimate test of course was college where we learned very early one where one anothers strengths and weaknesses lie. I was a good social coordinator, spiffy dresser and miserable beast in the morning. She was great at rallying the troops, winning beer chugging contests against 300 lb men and taking exams without any studying. Most of the uproarious belly laughs I've ever had in my life have been with her. I know we're only a short plane ride away from one another but saying goodbye always makes me so sad. Despite numerous futile attempts to lure her into living in Miami, I'm very happy to say that in her life right now, I've never been more certain that she's exactly where she needs to be.

Reed and I took the train back to Lisbon and were met with a barrage of work hiccups. This is of course what happens when you're in a foreign country. We spent the rest of evening in the apartment trying to tie up loose ends before heading off to the airport for an early flight the next day. We had a home-cooked pasta meal and both banged away at the keyboard late into the night. Reed has often said "there is no such thing as an art emergency" and he's right. But on a night like that when you're internet and phone capabilities will be slim to none in the next coming days, it's time to hustle. We kept the windows opened and listened to a mixture of classical music and a heated fight from the bar below. I took our damp clothes off the swinging clothes line and we packed our dense bags. Within the next 24 hours we would be walking through the narrow, crumbling streets of Venice and I couldn't wait.

The Quickest Way to A Firm Tush: Sintra, Portugal

2011-08-05T09:45:00.002-04:00

Besides barely remembering that Lisbon is the capital of Portugal, I had done absolutely no research about the city we were about to spend four days in. When the plane landed it was for the most part, all news to me. I looked out the window, saw a large body of water and in the recesses of my mind remembered that maybe, possibly, Portugal hugged the Atlantic Ocean. Yes, I sound like a complete geographical louse and you know what? That statement would be accurate. For example, on a map of the United States I can point out Florida (where I was born), Texas (because it's TEXAS) and Hawaii (eer, maybe). One can imagine that a map of Europe resembles, in my mind at least, a heap of play-dough.

When most people travel through Europe they make painstaking plans and itineraries, actually researching what they want to see and do. They do that, of course, because it makes complete and total sense. Reed and I, to date, haven't taken a stab at well executed traveling. We're more of those "wing and a prayer" types. Airline tickets and lodging are sadly the extent of our planning. Optimizing time somewhere? No sirree, not us. We like to waste as much time meandering in a haze as possible.

For our second day in Portugal we were going to take a train to a town called Sintra which is an hour outside of Lisbon. My impression of Portugal thus far is that it resembles an aged beauty queen who at one point was quite the looker, but after a string of bad relationships and too much boozing, left our lady tired and haggard. There was a charm, don't get me wrong, much like the large mansion that was used in the movie "Great Expectations". A beautiful, overgrown shell of a former, more luxurious life. So as far as great expectations, I had none.

We met Bri and Jack at the bar that we had shut down the night before. No, it was a bit too early for a drink and already by this time of the morning I had already taken 3 Excedrine Migraines and had 2 cups of coffee. Caffeine, high blood pressure or a combination of both would do away with my green wine hangover if it killed me. There was at least some consolation in knowing that everyone felt the same. That's what happens when you see your college roommate after a long time apart, you mistakenly think you're in college again.

The Fearless Four took a cab to the train station and made a pit stop in Starbucks. I've started to grow an unfortunate disdain for the brand. Sure, I like a 2000 calorie liquid lard just like the next gal but I always kind of feel that a bit more of my soul is chiseled away in there, don't you?

The free WiFi however is the bomb.

We shuffled out with almond croissants and venti lattes in tow and headed up the escalator to the ticket booth. Considering Sintra was on a direct train line from Lisbon the effort put in to purchase tickets should have been minimal. I would be remiss if I didn't add that between the four of us we have several advanced college degrees, are fierce competitors at Scrabble, have mastered the art of flip cup and can give your average Joe an embarrassing beat down in Trivial Pursuit. None of these skills come in handy however when it comes to purchasing train tickets from an automated teller in Portuguese. Twenty five minutes later, two go arounds on the same line, one rejection from a security guard, one lost train and four too many tickets purchased, Team Awesome was on their way.

The train ride was painless and we arrived in Sintra a mere hour later. Exiting the station was, at least for us, just as confusing as entering. Do you ever have this moments of self-reflection when you wonder how you've made it into adulthood alive and without any major disfigurements? I do. All the time.

Finally at street level and lollygagging around too much, Reed made an executive decision to head us in some sort of direction. We ended up in a plaza where the consensus was that we were hungry again. I've found, through careful examination of our financial records and photos, that most of our disposable income in spent on food. It appears we lead a life of nomads wandering from place to place in search of something more to shovel in our mouths. Nom, nom, nom.

We stopped at a restaurant with a menu full of laminated photographs of food. I shamefully like those kind of places. No ambiguity, no confusion, just point at what you want and a few minutes later something that doesn't at all resemble the photo arrives. Perfect. The food was brought to our table in four minute increments. Mine came first followed by Reed's then Bri's and finally Jack's. In the US it's good manners to wait until everyone has their dish but I'm not are the same rule applies in Europe.

An hour after we sat down for lunch, we were finally on our way. There is a real beauty to slow restaurant service, though it's something that usually aggravates Americans. We're used to efficiency (banging fist) and live by the clock (tapping watch); a slow kitchen is infuriating. But when you have no choice but to sit and wait, it's amazing how rich (or twisted) the conversation can become. We covered religion, politics and all sorts of taboo shop talk as we ate a cold, yet surprisingly delicious lunch.

Usually in a group there is one person who grabs the reigns and leads the way but without a game plan we all looked at one another, our fingers up our nose, for some sort of guidance. Somehow through our fog of ambivalence we mutually decided to visit the most inaccessible and physically demanding attractions of Sintra: the Moorish castle. Located at the top of a very large hill, up in the clouds, were the very intact remains of Castelo dos Mouros, a UNESCO World Heritage Site dating back to the 9th and 10th centuries There was no direct route nor the convenience of a cable car. Instead there was a narrow cobblestone street that wound backwards and forth through the hills.

At this point I should mention that I had brought a leather jacket with me as our travels towards the end of August take us as far north as Amsterdam. If there is a miserable wimp in cold weather, it's me. Lisbon, though running along a similar longitudinal line as Madrid and only a sort 50 minute plane ride away, could not have more disparate weather. The wind, heavy clouds and high humidity in Portugal make the country quite cool at times. Not two hours before, I made the bold statement to the group that my jacket was ideal as it kept me "warm in the cold but cool in the warmth". What a load. Sometimes I wonder why anyone listens to me. Roughly three minutes after our ascent into the hills, I was cursing that jacket and had it tied obnoxiously high around my waist.

No amount of walking the streets of Madrid could have prepared me for that trek. The gradual and perpetual incline of hills and stairs combined with a beating sun, ill conceived outfit, flimsy footwear and a belly full of steak had me heaving and panting at each turn. At times each one of us would barrel past the others with a crazy look in our eye, blazing the trail in a futile attempt to be the bearer of good news: "There it is!!!". We were passed by decrepit old men, women in platform shoes and four year old children. If ever there was an embarrassing display of physical fortitude, this was it.

Roughly forty minutes after starting, we came upon a forest, the likes of which I had never seen. Bri had mentioned earlier that morning that Lord Byron had written that Sintra was like the Garden of Eden. Though his name rings a bell, I sadly have not the slightest clue who Lord Byron is, but it was right as we entered the forest that I understood what he meant. The woods were full of tall hovering trees and green moss covered stones. The sunlight that sparkled though the leaves was a misty teal blue and there was a slight, almost indiscernible fog.

And SLUGS. Big, black, slugs absolutely everywhere. Bri was horrified. The good Lord Byron hadn't prepared her for that.

After feeling as if we had climbed Machu Pichu we came upon the first sign that an ancient civilization had lived there long ago. A roofless stone church alongside a small watchtower built around 1100 a.d sat virtually intact in the middle of the woods. It was an eerie yet beautiful sight. Reed and I wobbled, knock-kneed and winded up the narrow steps of the tower for a photo op. Between the two of us we are like a big, Anglo version of a snap-happy Japanese tourist. Finally we were able to both be in photos together instead of the solitary or close-up shots we had been taking for the past two months in Spain. We had our own personal camera crew, at least according to me, and their names were Bri and Jack.

Slightly beyond the church we could see an excavation site and behind that, the ticket booth. You don't just get to see ancient ruins for free, you know. The way Jack explained it, they could have charged any amount they wanted and most people would pay. You don't huff and puff up that kind of an incline, followed by that many stairs, only to get cheap at the ticket booth then turn on your heel and leave. After that haul I would have paid anything. I just want to see a damn castle.

You know those moments after something grueling like a project, exam or a marathon perhaps, when you are able to stop wishing you we dead and start reveling in your accomplishments? Well in that moment of clarity it's good to be standing in a castle. What an incredible testament to the abilities of mankind that structure was.

And at this moment I would like to give a shout out to the Moors. When my ancestors were picking dirt out of their toenails, they were, amongst many other things, developing advanced algebraic equations. And what thanks do they get ? (Well none from me in high school, as math and I agree to disagree). They get excised from their homes, expelled from their countries and to add insult to injury are depicted as nothing more than clothed animals in Gothic and Renaissance paintings.
Kat Barrow-Horth, standing up for the under appreciated Moors of yesteryear.

The next hour or so we perused the ruins going up and down stairs, along narrow catwalks and under small door frames. The sheer size of the stones they built with is impressive considering the size these people must have been. I'm once again reminded in Portugal that all the Velveeta I grew up eating really effected my stature, or at least the size of my forehead. Bri and Jack are no different as they too have joined the ranks of the vertically elite. The four of us ducked low under every doorway as we explored the castle.

The view of the town below and the countryside was incredible as we walked from one tower to the next. A smattering of white and pink buildings with terracotta roofs, peppered throughout green rolling hills with the ocean hazy in the distance. I had a chance to sit alone in one of the towers for a moment and look up at the clouds whizzing by. They wind was incredibly strong at the top of the hill as the town is right off the Atlantic ocean. Once again I was glad I brought that blasted leather jacket. If there is one thing I'm fairly certain of after returning to Miami, I will promptly be giving my wee little suitcase, with all its contents, a Viking funeral. It's not the first time that will have happened.

We started down the hill again and found that the decline was almost as demanding as coming up the hill had been. Bri and I stumbled along, she slipping along in her black ballet flats and stumbling down steps in strappy Roman sandals. Had I met my maker falling down those steps it would not have been that I died in vain but rather that I died because I'm vain. Sneakers and shorts would have been appropriate here, of course. But what did I wear? A wrap dress, pashmina, Jackie O sunglasses and sandals. Then I demanded my picture was taken everywhere. What an ass.

After arriving once again in the town of Sintra we were all utterly exhausted but not yet ready to leave. We found a cafe and ordered an icy green wine sangria filled with slices of oranges, lemons and cinnamon sticks. We were not disappointed by the food or drinks in Portugal. Reed gave a good, stern (and terribly awkward) talking to an oblivious dog owner with a belligerent Beagle. While we very much appreciate our own two dogs (especially when they're quiet), barking is, for the both of us, like nails on a chalkboard. Yes, we are that terribly judgmental and anal-retentive couple that criticizes how other people control their dogs and their kids. You know that means, of course. We're going to be blessed with a beautiful blue-eyed baby who acts like the son of Satan, throwing entire handfuls of spaghetti in restaurants right before collapsing on the floor in a screaming, horrid hissy fit. We'll get our comeuppance, of that I'm quite certain.

We took the train back to Lisbon and then split up to rest for a few hours. As this is a working vacation, 'resting' by definition entails emailing follow-up to clients, dealing with customs and import issues in Lebanon and making numerous phone calls on Skype to the US and Spain. By the time we met up for dinner in the Barrio Alto, Reed and I were both spent.

Once again, none of us had opinions on where to eat. Everyone dragged along stating with minimal effort "that place looks good", or "I'll eat there". We looked like a bunch of wet mops sweeping along the dirty Lisbon streets. It was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday night at 10:00. I suppose Lisbon is much like Madrid, people appreciate a very late and very active social life. Feeling rather amoebic and non-commital, I half-suggested an Argentinean steakhouse (because clearly the steak I had for lunch and the one for dinner the night before were not enough). I attribute this necessity to eat red meat as a rejection of everything that is pork. Spaniards love those little piggies on a very visceral level and for the past two months we've eaten some sort of pork product for virtually every meal. A ban on all things pig starts today.

The dinner was very good in fact. We all had salted beef with chimichurri sauce and a loaded, buttery baked potato. You know, a very heart-healthy diet. Shortly after dinner and coffee, Reed and I went back home, completely spent, and left Bri and Jack to explore the Barrio Alto. That's the thing about a trip, you want to do a million things and the thought of wasting your time by napping is completely out of the question. Who is going to take a nap when they're halfway around the world for only a short time? Famous last words. When we get back to Miami, I will certainly be hibernating for a week straight, probably with a wad of pork in my mouth.

We took a kamikaze cab ride back home and after a few minutes I whispered to Reed to put on his seat belt. Perhaps it was only exhausted delusions, but I would swear the driver was speeding around hairpin turns down narrow streets on only two wheels. A heavy foot and a propensity to stomp unexpectedly on the breaks, part of me wondered if we were on some hidden camera show. No one drives like that for real, right? He threw us out of the car a few blocks from our house (I'm not sure the car was even stopped) and sped away through the night cackling, just like the mailman in the Chevy Chase comedy "Funny Farm".

Grateful to come out unscathed, our one minor run-in was with a man urinating on the hood of a car roughly two feet from where we walked. Oh Lisbon, you so crazy.

And that wrapped up another successful day in picturesque Portugal. We crawled up the narrow stairs into our apartment and I was asleep within five minutes, snoring loudly, face down in my Roman sandals.

Welcome to Lisbon! (Where nothing is built to code)

2011-08-03T17:53:00.000-04:00

We arrived in Lisbon, the first stop on our 27 day tour of Europe, and as we got off the plane I was immediately reminded of something I try generally to ignore: my husband and I are built like Vikings. Now don't get me wrong, usually I revel in my height as I not only consider it my defining feature but it also places me at an advantage reaching items in the supermarket and generally dominating people through my pure physical prowess. But if I had to sum up my first impression of Lisbon it would have to be "not made for people our size".

The flight landed on time, our bags were some of the first off baggage claim, the taxi driver spoke perfect English and we arrived at the apartment we're renting for our four days here without a hitch. There is nothing better than glitch-free traveling. As I've planned this "backpacking" trip (with rolling suitcases and nice lodging, that is), every possible "what if" has run through my head. Fears of losing luggage or "the bible" (our folder with all pertinent information) has been a reoccurring nightmare, causing me to awake in cold sweats for the past month. If anything bad can happen I've already thought of it and come up with a contingency plan. Doom and gloomers like me are good like that.

What I didn't plan for however was what our neighborhood looked like. As the benevolent taxi driver who had filled us in on interesting tidbits and loaded us up with maps pulled the car to a halt he said, in an unusually upbeat manner, "you're staying in a very typical Portuguese neighborhood". I looked to the left and looked to the right and panic stuck. By "typical" he surely meant "ghetto". With haphazardly narrow streets, moldy building facades with peeling paint and a couple unsavory characters stumbling around, my mind started racing. "How could I make this mistake? I read all the reviews, this apartment is supposed to be great, right? We're going to be robbed! We're going to be kidnapped! I'm going to DIE in Lisbon!!!"

Never one to hide my emotions Reed immediately sensed the panic in my eyes. As we stood plopped in the middle of the neighborhood, perfect sniper targets the cleanest people in sight, he insisted we sit in the small neighborhood restaurant up the block and have a glass of wine as we waited for the apartment manager to let us in and give us the keys. When all else fails, wine is generally a good course of action in life I've found. Reed after all is the voice of reason and I, most defiantly, am not. But what started as sheer panic became hysterically funny 15 minutes later. That tends to happen with a bit of imbibing of course but our position at at outdoor table caused us to be nearly hit by three different cars squeezing through the narrow streets. One of the drivers even insisted that Reed stand up, push in his chair and physically move our bags to let them pass. I sat frozen in my seat as the driver nudged my carry-on and slid by, no more than an inch from my toes. Where the hell were we?

Miguel, the sprightly apartment manager at www.travelingtolisbon.com arrived as we were halfway through our wine and as he reached out to formally introduce himself, Reed frankly stated, in the most stoic fashion imaginable, "I would shake your hand, but a bird just shit on it". As he offered Miguel a limp hand I looked down hoping he was kidding. Gracing his knuckles and our spiffy computer bag was a healthy, moist splattering of greenish-white bird dung. The waitress brought us a dirty towel for Reed to "clean" himself and left the check. Total was roughly $2.50. I could already tell this was going to be a great trip.

Miguel brought us up the narrowest staircase I've ever been on, with handrails so low neither of us could reach them comfortably. The treads on the stairs were not made for our Sasquatch feet so we both walked at an angle up the stairs balancing on our toes. The height of the ceiling in the kitchen we soon found out is around 6'-4" high (I know this for a fact actually, because as Reed walked though it, his hair gently grazed it). Miguel walked us through the ins and outs of the apartment, assured us that despite appearances Portugal is a safe place, then handed us a a chilled bottle of green wine and was on his way to help tenants that had called him in a panic unable to turn on their stove.

The apartment was quite cute actually (for a hobbit) and was well stocked with all the essentials. We have found that renting an apartment is the best way to travel. A former hotel Interior Designer I know that if it isn't a new, immaculate hotel, the chances of contracting herpangina (aka foot and mouth disease) from touching bed covers is very high. And let's be honest, Reed and I need the extra space. We are the type of people that make a place "home" within the first five minutes of being there. By the time we were locking up the apartment to head out the door for dinner I took a gander at the mess we had made and it already looked like the place had been ransacked.

We left the building with directions on how to get to the restaurant where we were meeting one of my best friends Bri and her boyfriend Jack. They had been in Portugal for the past two days and had recommended meeting for dinner at a place that had received good reviews and was close to where we were staying. The "directions" were entirely futile, printed on yahoo maps the day before, and were a circuitous route intended for a car. We were most certainly going by foot as this isn't exactly the type of neighborhood where taxis are idly waiting.

As we walked up the steep hills and attempted to follow the map, Reed said on more than one occasion "I hope we can find our way back". Crap. Me too. This place is an absolute labyrinth of twisting and turning streets with hand painted and haphazard street signs. Not one to be deterred from talking to strangers, I asked every single, solitary person we came across if we were headed in the right direction. Reed marched ahead, mortified, as I attempted to communicate with Portuguese people in Spanish. Hey, the language is almost identical (except it's entirely different). But you know what, it worked. A mere 15 minutes after we left the apartment we arrived at the restaurant "Resto do Chapito".

The entrance of the restaurant felt like being in an Escher drawing with it's myriad staircases going every which way yet seemingly going nowhere. While bracing myself for any impending falls, I had a brief chance to look around and notice that it was quite charming despite it's utter lack of ADA compliance (you can take the designer out of the USA, but you can't take the USA out of the designer). A mix of outdoor picnic tables with thatched roofs and indoor dining, there wasn't much time to soak up the environment before I saw Bri tearing down a flight of stairs and waving maniacally.

There is always a slight chaos factor to how she operates.She is after all the very person who, on a company "team building" exercise in Denver, turned her ankle while harnessed to a bungee chord racing coworkers in a bounce house. She's 32 years old. Her ankle swelled to the size of a paper towel roll yet she was still the first person on the dance floor of a wedding a few days later, hobbling around on one foot and fist pumping with a crutch. I don't think I've ever known a person to fall as much as her. Despite dramatic bounce house debacles, she has been known to have her full body topple over at a complete stand-still and take an entire convenience store display with her. She's a rock star like that.

After a few minutes of catching up on gossip, I did a shoddy translation for everyone regarding the menu (I repeat: I do not speak Portuguese). Jack and I both ordered a filet and Bri and Reed ordered a giant shrimp and swordfish risotto dish. We left the restaurant stuffed and headed off in search for another bar.

We finally found a place that was open and we plopped ourselves down. We were, most definitely, the loud, belligerent Americans (hangs head in shame). The four of us probably screeched at each other for another 2 hours or so. A series of unfortunate videos and pictures were taken and we decided to call it a night before embarrassing ourselves further. It was clearly time for us to attempt to find our way back home so we split up, they headed up one hill and us down another.

There was not a soul in the streets nor a light on anywhere. I have no idea what time it was but without even the sound of a car in the distance, I haven't experienced that type of silence in a very long time. Having spent the past two months in Madrid listening to the constant whiz of traffic, horns and sirens, I was reveling in the quiet. We made our way back to the apartment unscathed and as we stood in our seedy neighborhood, unlocking the door to our apartment, it became very clear: I love this place.

Give Me Drama or Give Me Death!

2011-05-26T12:39:00.000-04:00

Drama is not for me...but other people's drama? Nothing better. A fight between patrons in a bar would cause me to drop my drink and push old ladies and children out of the way to get a better look. In fact, other people's drama is a multi-million dollar enterprise called "Reality TV" and I happen to adore those smutty shows with contrived cat fights and crocodile tears like nobody's business. That's why it's a crock that we don't have a TV in our house (because we think we're awesome) and I'm forced to watch reruns on my tiny computer screen from the internets, alone, at 1 in the morning. A Jersery Shore marathon for 12 hours? Sounds uh-MAZE-innngggg.

But drama in my house? No way, Juan Carlos. We like smoooooth seas over here, and when there aren't smooth seas (like when my husband Reed had a cameo on Real Housewives of Miami and got caught between a fight that amounted to nothing more than a whirlwind of badly spoken English, see photo below), we tend to look like this:

No, not ole crazy eyes on the left. Reed is the guy in the pink shirt, looming in the background, confused, bewildered and dumbfounded. Actually, that face is more...frozen... than anything. How would one describe that look? Kind of like an Easter Island head I guess. (Want some drama in your life, see the "fight" here)

So because drama (thankfully) doesn't fly around in my house, I have to search it out elsewhere like celebrity gossip blogs, reality TV or my tried and true Interior Design sources. So today's blog post will be shorter and sweeter and more to the point than most of the maze-like explosion of fun I usually write.

More empty threats.

It's impossible for me to EVER keep it short and to the point.

On my computer and splattered throughout my house there are files and folders and binders and tear sheets and cut outs and fragments of design inspirations; interiors I just love to love. I am all Edward Scissorhands up in this place when it comes to shredding design magazines. Here is a compilation of photos of dramatic rooms that I've hoarded. What runs true in all of them? Drama mama walls. Dark blues, blacks, browns and grays.

But before I show you anything, we need to have a talk.

Seriously peeps, there are some of you out there (and you know who you are) who are deathly afraid of dark walls. Whyyyy??? Were you ever mauled by a dark wall in the middle of the night? Did a dark wall ever post incriminating pictures of you on Facebook that went viral? If I hear one more person tell me that "dark walls make a space feel small", I will have a hissy-fit befitting a 3 year old, pointy toes and all...

Trust me, I don't have a mug that looks good like that.

So now that I've yelled at you enough (sorry about that, too much coffee today!) let's check out some examples of dramatic walls that don't make the room look small, but rather they make the room look AWETTHHOME!

And if I were not an Interior Design hoarder but instead a decent, upstanding citizen, I would know who designed all these spaces (because I certainly didn't) and who took the photos (because once again, I certainly didn't), but I appreciate their talent and integrity (you see, this is me trying avoid copyright infringement like the plague).

So here goes:

Elegance, you are this room.

Black high gloss, tell me that's not awesome...

Shiny and good-timey:

Even a dark ceiling, you see?! You're not being swallowed alive by this room...

Love the simplicity and the color. This room still looks light and airy despite the color of the walls.

Lovely, monochromatic, DARK

Such a fun space with great splashes of aqua, a rustic ceiling texture and if you're into that sort of thing (which I am not) a kitten photo. But admittedly it works here, though I'm certain they must have watched Kittens, Inspired by Kittens a few too many times.

Yes, that is glamour. GLAMOUR with a capital G. Why oh why are you out of publication Metropolitan Home? I cry for yooouuuuu!

Seriously if Elle Decor goes out of print I will be a lost soul with no purpose whatsoever in life. (Or maybe I'll just snag and drag photos from online). But is anyone else really sad that the "age of print" is dead? I mean, will it like totally die? No, right? Because then what on EARTH would I do when we're waiting on line in the grocery store? That's where I find out all the great tidbits of celebrity gossip that I lust over. Ugh, I can't even think about that possibility any longer.

What am I doing here? Ah yes, dramatic walls...
Umm, helllloooo I love you so much. I don't know, I've been digging brass lately which may be scary.

This is such a great dude room, right? I could live without the Napoleonic bust in the corner but...no wait...I kind of love it. Or do I? Yes, I think I do. It's awesome, nevermind.

Ohhh you so shiny! Honestly, this is my fave. And you have to have some serious gonads (and walls that are as smooth as a baby's butt) to pull off this sheen:

Some hotel, somewhere.

Would I mind washing my face in milk and honey here? Then bathing in lavender scented oil and being fanned by a man in a loin cloth. Err...I mean, fanned by REED in a loin cloth...

Why no, no I wouldn't.

Oh, hai...
Great detailing on the ceiling, love the blue velvet chairs, I think it needs a heftier chandelier but honestly, this is just so purdy!

Another masculine man room:

Yes, I could live here. Is that an uber tall baseboard or a wee bitty wainscot?

Who cares, I love it.

And no, I couldn't live here, but it's very cool nonetheless...

Oh my. Oooh my. Where my marshmallows for roasting at? Makes me want to roll around on that rug and rub s'mores all over my face.

Perfect for curling up with a good book and an even better martini.

So there, proved my point (according to me). Dark walls are the bomb diggity! Let's all join hands and say "NO!" to propagating that old-timey rumor that dark walls make everything look small.

And if a room gets painted dark and looks a little small, just splash up your interiors. After all it's not the size that counts it's always the motion of the ocean.

Rock Out With Your Wok Out

2011-05-24T16:00:00.001-04:00

Why is it that the men in my life have information readily available to them yet make me hunt it out just on principal? When I was a kid, my dad who was the mastermind of all things grammatical, would always tell me to "look it up" if I didn't know how to spell something. This was probably his way of ensuring he had an hour of peace as I thumbed through the dictionary looking for a word I couldn't identify in the first place. I had almost forgotten how frequently he did that until and it all came flooding back to me this morning when, upon asking my husband Reed how to work the new computer scanner, he said "Figure it out. You're smart".

This must have something to do with the old Chinese proverb "Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime". Or rather "Scan a document for Kat and she'll ask you again in ten minutes. Make Kat figure it out herself and she'll give you evil-eye, do it reluctantly, then think she's the wunderkind of all things computer."

I'm not of that mindset, however. At least I don't think I am. If you need information that I have, I will give it to you freely (then prance around like a pony feeling tremendously awesome about myself.) If you're wondering if I learned how to use the scanner, I did...all by myself like a big girl.

Then shouted "I'm queen of the wooooorrrlllddd" for the rest of the day.

So since we're sort-of on the Chinese proverb thing, today's info I'm going to enlighten you with is about "Chinoiserie" which is a fancy French word for "Chinese-esque" which is another fancy word for "Chinese-like". And because I won't make you look it up, here's the phonetic pronunciation: "Sheen-Waaah-Zer-Eeee".

Wear a beret and twist your mustache while saying it for optimum results.

And here are my efforts to teach you how to fish: If you can't pronounce something, say "fooey" to the phonetical spelling and go straight to dictionary.com where you will find a little megaphone icon. If you press that button - like magic - you'll hear the word spoken aloud. I like to type vulgar words, turn the volume way up and press that little megaphone over and over and over again. It's jolly good times.

So not to bore you but to give you a brief history lesson, Chinoiserie is a type of Chinese-influenced ornamentation that was very popular in Europe in the 17th and 18th centuries. You know that gilded wallcovering with branches and birds and little guys canoeing all over the place in boats? That's Chinoiserie.

Or those classic blue and white ginger jars from Williams Sonoma? Yep. Chinoiserie.

This style hit it's pinnacle in popularity in the mid 18th century because it could blend easily with the highly ornamental Rococo period then lost it's oompf when people started to scratch their heads and think that all these Asian baubles didn't quite fit in with the more popular Neoclassical styles of the day. But for now I'm going to stop pretending that I'm not getting all of this information from the ever-trustworthy Wikipedia and
fast forward to today, where Chinoiserie has spread from Asia like the Avian flu. And since people don't really read blogs to read words but rather to look at pictures, let me give my mind and fingers a rest and we can take a gander at what I'm talking about here:

This home was designed by Honey Collins whose name, let's face it, is much cooler than mine. While not a bombardment of Chinoiserie, the way the designer threw in those yummy orange accents is kind of like the hibachi chefs throwing around shrimp tails in Benihana.

Hi-yaaaah!

Design icon Barbara Barry is rocking out with her wok out for her Indochine line for Kravet shown here:

Design divas Kelly Wearstler and Celerie Kembel are not about to miss the Chinoiserie Express. Check out their fabric and wallcovering lines at Schumacher:

Speaking of Schumacher, here is a room designed by Christopher Kennedy using Schumacher's "Chiang Mai Dragon" wallpaper.

You can find little do-dads on Etsy like this "Speak no Evil" giclee monkey...

Or this Chinese-inspired occasional table...

Here are some goodies from 1st Dibs:

Not cheap, but authentic...

And of course no one is going to leave Horchow out of the party. Here's the creatively named "Pagoda" mirror:

And an ode to faux bamboo everywhere, the pretty little Macau dining chair from Ballard Designs:

But don't say I didn't warn you: Too much Chinoiserie in a space is like too many chili peppers in a Kung Pao chicken dish. Use sparingly for a tasty kick, or you may end up living with the China Pavilion at Epcot.

Bigger is Better: Feet, Photos & Other Things That Start With "F"

2011-05-23T18:45:00.000-04:00

"How big ARE your feet?" I was asked by another designer the other day when we stopped talking shop and started talking shoes.

Gulp... Red face.

You know that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" when the Dorothy's house falls on the Wicked Witch of the East and her feet shrivel and roll up, turning into stumps with striped socks? Well, I was kind of wishing at that moment that my feet would do the same, you know, without the help of a falling house.

I mean my feet are admittedly big, but as my 3rd grade teacher Mrs.Gram told me after she read my letter to Santa requesting smaller feet, I need big feet to keep my even bigger body from toppling over itself. While I'm certain a half a size smaller wouldn't cause me to do a face plant, Mrs. Gram was very wise in the ways of the force and she Jedi-Mind-Tricked me that day. I still wonder if she may have shed a little tear after reading that while the other kids wanted Cabbage Patch Kid dolls and He-Man figurines for Christmas, all I wanted was smaller cloppers.

Let's all take a moment sob a little, shall we?

So I understand and appreciate BIG, it's simply the way I live. That's one of the many reasons I am seriously digging Sharon Raoli's photography. A childhood friend who also got hit by the tall stick, I saw her work originally on Facebook when she was posting shots of her various vacations. Sharon was not only going to amazing places but she was documenting them well.... REALLY well. I mean, these were not the blurry, close-up shots with a finger in front of the lens that I was taking on weekend trips. They were gorgeous, artsy photos.

Whoa man! Raoli's got some serious talent!

She went to the Everglades and found my future favorite purse...

How you make a vulture look beautiful I'll never know but Sharon captures it here, in an ominously foreboding and morbidly sinister I'm-going-to-have-nightmares-about-this-forever kind of way.

She took this shot in Africa and I just loooooove the muted colors of this giraffe

A door somewhere in Tuscany....Where I am not presently.

Rome. Also, where I also am not.

An iguana eye taken in her backyard.

I mean, you don't take pictures like this in your backyard, do you? Me neither.
Pink, fuzzy, grassy stuff...

Her dog

Sharon obviously specializes in nature photography but I strong-armed her into taking our engagement shots. She obviously rocks at that too....

I like to rest on comfortable rock walls while Reed examines my teeth

This one I LOVE, it's THE RING and my horse Barbary (not "Barbara" like the kids at the barn like to call him).

This is the only recorded photo of us where we are not making horribly deformed faces

And the grand finale, this is actually the picture that captures us the best. I love how absolutely dorky it is:

OK, no more about me for once...

Then we had this photo of hers called "Mother's Eye" blown up and mounted under frameless plexiglass and gave to to a client as a gift. It was gorgeous in the modern frame, blown up large.

The clients loved it so much they hung it next to an Andy Warhol.

Booo-yaaaa!

Which brings me to my point.... As a designer, oftentimes I find it hard to locate a large piece of artwork that hits as many points as Sharon's work does: scale, texture, color and theme. They can be blown up BIG (even bigger than my feet if you can imagine that). Can't you just imagine her photos in a mucho posh restaurant or hip hotel? I'm thinking something like this... Here is a photo of Katsuya at LA LIVE (Los Angeles) which was designed by Philippe Starck. Notice the uber-large photo of a geisha.

Me Love You for a Seriously Long Time

Clearly I'm a biased fan; I think that Sharon is the mastermind of photography and that her work should be plastered everywhere. So to wow you with my (not so) amazing Photoshop skillzzz, here is some of her work superimposed in situ:

BAM!!

YOZERS!

See what I mean? You need so few things in a room when you have such awesome LARGE art. And pretty please don't let anyone else fool you, size certainly does matter (says the woman who has spent her life wearing Ronald McDonald shoes.)

*Want to see more of her images or find out about pricing contact info@robinrile.com or go to www.robinrile.com

You Fancy, Huh? A Tryst With the W Hotel

2011-05-17T15:24:00.001-04:00

So the other day I'm all mindin' my own business Facebook stalking a few people, no biggie, and my husband Reed asks me "When did you pay $24 on valet at the W Hotel?!"

Silence.

Long, awful, sweat-inducing silence.

After about 4 minutes of me contorting my face in every unflattering way, saying non-words like, "eeerrrr, uuummmm, hmmmmm" he couldn't tolerate my bumbling any more.

"Well?" he said all attitudey, like Naomi Campbell (ok, Reed is more like the Dalai Lama sailing on a placid sea but don't you just kind of love the visual of Miss Naomi getting all craaaazy grabbing people by the hair and yanking them around like it's just a Monday afternoon in the office?)

See at this point, I'm starting to actually think that I paid $24 for parking which makes no sense whatsoever because I don't pay $24 for anything. I am the definition of cheap. Miserly, even. Drop $24 for some dingleberry kid to zip off in my car only to park it a measly 10' away from me and not r.e.s.p.e.c.t the fact that my little car is about 4 inches off the ground and the bumper will scrape off like a crusty scab in a brisk wind? No siree! Not me. If someone is telling me to pay $24 for valet, my butt will park 24 blocks away and walk. Walk long and walk hard. And complain. The entire way.

"The W Hotel?" I said, baffled. "When did I go to the W Hotel?" And seriously, I was not trying to buy time here, I really don't know.

More silence.

"WAIT!!! The W South Beach with the AWESOME art? Where we went to the South Beach Food and Wine festival seminar?!" I said.

Then a light bulb went off and his head sunk down a bit, kind of like a turtle.

"Oh yeah" he said, trying to slink away. And then I morph into a self-righteous peacock reminding him that I would "neeever consent to $24 on valet" and that "I wanted to park somewhere else!" and that I'm all awesome and stuff and that heeee's the one that wanted to park there because he doesn't have the patience to hunt for parking like I do and yadda yadda more monotonous nagging. You see, people don't seem to grasp this concept well, but when you say "I do", you Damn... Well... Better... Mean... It.

It's crystal clear what I'm going to be like in 50 years...

A real charmer.

Then after I felt like the most SUPERIOR being of LIFE my mind drifted off to that day at the W Hotel. It was a great day. We had just gotten back from our honeymoon after our 1920's themed wedding and we felt a profoundly spiritual connection to the "Prohibition Cocktails" seminar we were about to go to. It didn't start off too well as Reed didn't want to look for parking and I didn't want to fork over cold hard cash, but after listening to my nasally, repetitive squawking for about 3 minutes he made the executive decision to valet. That's how it's done in our house. Decisions are made and implemented. And this time I was the one who was forced to reluctantly wave a white, tattered flag. So we handed the keys to some nose-picking 14 year old and bombarded into the hotel like wild animals.

HOT. DAMN!!

WHOOOOAAAAA!!!

CAN WE DISCUSS, PLEEEASE?

I mean, I had no idea that this place was such a serious eye-candy all you can eat buffet! Reed and I parted ways as the door as I was sniffing around the glorious stonework that ran up the columns like a maniacal bloodhound in pumps, and he was gawking at the art. Between the both of us, it looked like it was the first day we were allowed off a leash.

And let me mention, the W Hotel has got them a fo-shizzy art collection. As this debonaire husband o' mine is an art dealer / historian and over all smarty-pants about all things art, he was rattling off about this and that because as we found out that afternoon, these here walls are graced by the works of Andy Warhol, Damien Hirst, George Condo, another Hirst, another Warhol, etc. This is no mom and pop art collection.

I mean to me, this looks like camo stretched over a canvas, am I right? Nope. It's an Andy Warhol and is probably valued around a half a million bucks.

Betta recognize!

But siggghhhh...Lights, fabulous furniture, rich finishes and decadent fabrics are my Achilles heel. And this place is seriously beautiful. I would love to give a hefty pat on the back to the designers of this hotel. I take off my hat to you.

And unlike me, The W Hotel ain't cheap. They went all out on these finishes...

Hellloooooooo, lobby!

Hellloooooooo, conference room!

I have to use this shower? Oh noooo!

You want me to have a cocktail here? Poor me!

So let's do it, because you know you should, let's give an uproarious "BRAAVOOOO!" (in British accents) to those masterminds who put it all together. And maybe, if you feel so inclined to gawk at a design job well done, you can take a quick drive over to the beach and take a look for yourself. But bring a pair of walking shoes because when you pull up to the valet feelin' like you're too cool for school, don't act surprised when they ask you to hand over both your keys and your first born child. Or, you can walk.

I Don't Eat Glands (And Other Tasty Design Morsels)

2011-05-16T17:51:00.002-04:00

Me and sweetbreads don't mix. I don't eat thymus. I eat cheese pizzas and plain pasta and of that aforementioned pasta only two shapes are allowed: shells and elbows. Yes, I'm a seven year old. OK, it's not that bad (yes it is), I exaggerate to make a joke (no I don't). Being a picky eater is real.

Real annoying.

So that's why it's strange that I was raised by a mother with the nickname "The Warden". I'm assuming there is no explanation necessary as to why she has that name. You would think a parent who took no guff about anything would never cave when their child pitched a fit about marinara sauce touching pasta, but for some reason my mom tolerated my antics about food. Don't get me wrong, she didn't tolerate anything else, but she would always wash off the pasta and cut the crust off my bread and do a whole host of other things to get me to shut up and eat. My beastliness defeated her. "Your daughter is under weight!", "Your daughter is iron deficient!" the doctors would scream "OF COURSE SHE IS!!" the Warden would whip right back "THE KID WILL ONLY EAT AIR!"

And Doritos. And Pepsi. Oh to be a child of the 70's...

Most people aren't such a pain about eating, take my husband Reed for example. On one of our first dates he told me that he had once eaten a live octopus. You read correctly. LIVE. OCTOPUS.

uhhh WHAT?!?!

His other anecdotes must have had me in a rapturous flurry because he gained some serious "nasty" points with that one. He told me that story 5 years ago and it still makes me sweat.

But it appears there is a whole world of adventurous eaters out there and for them I would like to stand up and give a roaring round of applause. They are the true survivors and the only reason mankind has come as far as we have. If I were one of the first of our species to walk the earth, we would have been wiped out long ago and Armageddon would have come at the moment someone asked me to skin a fish.

So it's for this reason I won't even consider eating half of the things on the menu at "Sustain", a restaurant in Midtown Miami. Don't get me wrong, my friends love the place. Their concept is very chic and L.A (food is grown within a 50 mile radius and is all organic), an upscale "farmers market" if you will. Way too cool for Miami if you ask me. We're simple folk here. If it sparkles, we like it. If it has shiny rims, we like it. If it has an unnatural color, is found at Gilbert's Bakery and a gelatinous outer layer, we call it "dessert" and we like it. Bone Marrow with Oxtail Marmalade? Whoa, Nelly! That's a little complex for us.

But let me stop hemming and hawing about the food because in all fairness, I hear it's quite good. And it's clearly not them, it's me. So as I could never critique food that I couldn't even fathom eating, I'm not really even that concerned about the gastronomy of this restaurant. Why? Because I would rather gush about something I'm really into, the design of the place.

I just hearty heart heart it here! The delectable mix of reclaimed wood and metal accents makes it modern and warm. While I want nothing to do with eating the innards of a whale, there is something so deliciously Moby Dick about this wall, right?

While looking up, it is as if you are in a canopy of woven aluminum clees (cloud-trees) and the way the light and shadows form though them is really quite magical.

Behold:

And in order to bring the outside in, these wozer-yozer airplant installations by Pots and Plants (a local Miami company) are scattered throughout the space.

So no, I won't eat anything here because frankly, I'm not mature enough. But while I'm sitting at the bar nursing a "Serpentine Cocktail" or "Elixir Magnifique" (with the garnish on the side, of course) I will be reveling a design job very, very well done.

Then driving home shoveling Doritos down my gullet, of course.

The Devil Didn't Go Down To Georgia After All

2011-05-14T18:02:00.000-04:00

I'm convinced that our home office was the gateway to Hell. If Gozer the Gozerian from "Ghostbusters" had the option to reside there instead of Sigourney Weaver's refrigerator, he would have...with a stealthy quickness.

Any time I would walk by the doorway an unnatural chill would go up my spine-- fo reals-- that place was haunted. Between the dingy paint color and the disorganized chaos of a prolific book collection, I was having this sinking suspicion that an episode of "Hoarders" was not so far off in our future.

So I decided to take action after being inspired by this photo in on the Wisteria website:

That paint color sent my heart in a tizzying pitter patter of excitement so after buying a gallon of Behr paint, aptly named "Intellectual" (as we are a very intellectual crew in my house, of course), we got to work.

First thing was to remove all the books which was a feat in and of itself. Before this endeavor I used to like art books, but not so much anymore. Moving them is pure misery. I'm convinced that if prisoners were forced to rearrange art libraries, they would clean up their acts and the world would be a much safer place. It's not reading art books that would keep people off the streets---it's the fear of moving them that would.

Next thing we did was to consolidate all of the bookshelves onto one wall instead of the 3 walls they were originally on. We pitched the redundancies and impedimenta (three copies of "Smart Women Finish Rich", really?) and lost 20 lbs of dust and debris in the process. We then painted, arranged a few photos and called it a day. The whole process took about 8 hours, every one of them well spent.

Now we have a masculine looking office that, though it is much darker than the original cream colored walls, appears to be twice the size. Don't let anyone tell you that painting a room dark will make it appear tiny, that's bologna. I find that it's how the furniture is arranged and the amount of natural light in the room that affects the appearance of size (that's what she said!). Dark walls define the space more than light walls do, but that doesn't make it a bad thing. We'll be adding a zebra skin rug and a few more white accents that really pop against such dark grey but our office no longer inspires me to seriously consider having an exorcism performed.

If we were really ambitious--which we aren't --it may be fun to do something like this on one wall:

It's the office space of one of my favorite online design publications, Lonny Mag. They painted a section of the wall with magnetic primer and then two coats of chalkboard paint and now use that wall as a giant inspiration board. In the magazine they did an entire spread of their office and it looked like such a funky, fun place to work and though it is an office, was full of interesting residential pieces. I could be a little more jealous, just not sure how.

But hey, you won't find me complaining. I consider it a victory that I no longer feel like the devil himself will be using my office as a gateway to channel any poor, unfortunate souls... least of all, Us!

It's a Wicked Case of Smoke and Mirrors: Memorias of a Gringa Confundida

2011-05-12T14:23:00.000-04:00

I've somehow managed to trick a lot of people for a long time with my self-proclaimed "fluency" in Spanish. Maybe it's because I don't sound like a total redneck when I speak but it's certainly not because I have a good vocabulary or good grammar. Say for example if I was trying to tell someone how much I love the Prado Museum, it would probably translate into something like this:

"Much fun-ness has me to walking on top of those museum". Fo shiz. It's no good.

So you can imagine my concern that I have somehow convinced my husband that we should spend the summer in Spain because "don't worry, I got the whole Spanish thing down". Like I'm the big expert over here. Truthfully, compared to him I'm a poet laureate of all things Castilian--he has pretty much learned one phrase, which he says with an Italian accent, "estoy aprendiendo Espanol" ("I'm learning Spanish"). Any time anyone asks him if he's speaks Spanish that's his go-to phrase, so everyone claps and smiles and pats him on the back. It's admittedly endearing and as he's generally brilliant at everything, so he'll pick it up quickly...I think...but because of my over-confident request, we're heading over the great wide ocean like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb and I'm a little scared. Or should I say mucho scared.

But just for good measure, I thought maybe if I brushed up a bit by reading a novel In Spanish my mind would somehow switch on and all those rusty-dusty years of majoring in Spanish would come flooding back. So I bought a book. Only it's not by a famous Spanish writer like Isabel Allende or Gabriel Garcia Lorca. No, it's by Gregory Maguire and it's called "Wicked". That's right. I'm reading "Wicked: Memorias de Una Bruja Mala" in Spanish.

Ridiculous. You don't have to tell me.

So far I'm halfway through "Chapter 1: Los Munchkins" and while I made the asinine assumption it was about the Munchkins, I unfortunately don't have a clue what's going on. Seriously. Nothing. But how could this be?!? I'm scary obsessed with this story and know it like the back of my hand.

I am clearly a fan! (And Reed is clearly a good sport). Behold our Halloween costumes this year:

I know all the songs from the play and sing them at the top of my lungs at least eighteen times a week!

I sobbed like a snotty, slobbery baby during "Defying Gravity"!

Of those 1,228,907 views on YouTube for "Popular", 1,228,906 are mine!

So you can just imagine how wildly deflating it is to take a stab at reading a novel I just love to love and not have a clue what's going on. I sit there, whimpering, with a highlighter in one hand and my Spanish/English dictionary in the other.

But not one to throw in the towel easily, my ridiculous self is going to finish this ridiculous book before we leave if it kills me. I figure it this way, I've learned at least one word since I started: "Munchkins".

But sadly, I don't think it means what I think it means.

Ev'rting you want....

2011-05-11T13:10:00.002-04:00

The other day I was talking shop with a prospective client when he asked, "What's your look?".
Let's be blunt here, I hate that question. Mainly because I feel they're asking for a finite answer like "Retro all the way, baaaby" or "I like my interiors like I like my men: cream and two sugars".

Well that's just not me, ever. Take my closet for example. I got me some sparkly shoes, some leather shoes, some mini skirts, some long dresses, some loose things, some sausage casings...And when it comes to Interior Design, it's not my "look" it's the look the client wants that's important. My "look" isn't even in my own home. Don't get me wrong, I love my house but if I had 10 more to decorate they would all look different. Until someone thinks they should pay me a Brazilian dollars to brand myself and create a look a la Jonathan Adler, I'm flexible. But if and when they do I'll come up with something and promptly and skippity-do-dah all the way to the bank. But no one has come a knockin' yet with that offer.

But don't think I'm not waiting. Patiently.

So my response to his query was my usual snake-oil salesman pitch, "Oh, it's all about what you want, I'm very adaptable. You want modern? I'll give you modern. You want country? I'll give you country....yadda yadda".

But after my spiel? Crickets.

While I don't really think he knew how to process my answer, or possibly the bewilderment of my arms flailing caught him off guard, but I stand by what I said. My job is to pull everything together wisely and harmoniously, regardless of style. And I believe a good designer needs to be able to do that. Wow. Did I beat a dead horse enough? Thought so. Moving along...

On a current project I'm working on, the "look" that this particular client wanted was pretty simple(ish): "Beachy (but not a Key Largo explosion of shells and starfish), Feminine (but not too frilly, lacy, girly or over the top!), Clean lines (but not modern!), Light (but not too much white, the dogs!!), Neutral (but not too neutral, I need some color!)".

Simple, right?

Right! So here is the concept I designed for her and * hip, hip, hooray there is a God! * she loved it. Which of course makes me love it even more because let's be real, I'm easy like that.

Six measly weeks until everything comes in and she will be catching her zzzz's in her new "Beachy, Feminine, Clean-lined, Airy"(ish) bedroom.

So what's my "look"? In the future I'm thinking the conversation should go more along the lines of this infamous scene from the movie "Full Metal Jacket". That's right, you know the one:

Vietnamese Strumpet (aka Kat): : I give you ev'ryting.
Private Joker (aka client): Everything?!
Vietnamese Strumpet (aka Kat): Ev'ryting you want.

No? Ok, I'll work on it.

Have you *hugged* your Interior Designer today?

Buy yourself a gift...or two....or three

2010-11-05T08:25:00.000-04:00

I recently went to a business seminar, which is usually the type of thing that would make me want to gouge my eyes out. Seminars in general are kind of the worst. It's like the adult version of being a kid and taking a field trip to Epcot Center where they don't let you ride the cool rides, but instead force you to troll around on that slow boat in the agriculture ride learning about sprinkler systems and squash.

So this is kind of what I was expecting; some wet noodle on stage spewing facts and figures I couldn't--or wouldn't--wrap my brain around.

But he was no noodle, this Brad Sugars. In fact he was a vivacious, multibazillionaire business coach with an accent right out of the Outback and a watch so sparkly I could see it from across the room. As he spoke I scribbled notes like a crazy person and at the end of the two hours, I left with an empowerment that hasn't been felt in a long time.

One of the nuggets of wisdom that Mr. Sugars passed along was the age-old and oft forgotten habit of rewarding yourself on a job well done. He, for example, always buys himself a fancy car each year. I of course, had my last car for 10 years, so that is probably not the route I'm going to take. But I do like that whole "rewarding yourself" concept....a lot.

Now I usually reward myself, quite extensively actually. Signing a new contract generally entitles me to three new outfits: two that I can wear to meetings and one where I can freely be the Liberace I want to be.

But this month was a little different. I decided that instead of sprucing up my closet, I would dedicate a little TLC to my house. Believe it or not, Interior Design projects for other people sometimes cause me to neglect my own little sanctum sanctorum. And as Hispanic octogenarians and Spanish 101 teachers like to say "en casa de herrero, cuchillo de palo" (very roughly translating to: In the Interior Designers house, the chic is looking mighty shabby).

I had noticed my white linen armchair had been a bit bereft recently, so I thought one of these throw pillows from "The Home Centric" on Etsy may cheer her up. Boy did they work, my girl just needed a bit of bling!

And my end table lamp was looking rather drab so I replaced her with this aptly named "Trophy Lamp". Yes, I have a weakness for metal shades...and linen shades...and silk shades...and....

I thought a new area rug was a good idea, given the dogs have claimed ownership over the last rug in every appalling way imaginable, so here she is. So soft under foot and sure to last a whole 3 weeks in my house:

So it would seem that Mr. Brad Sugars and I agree, we both like to treat ourselves on a job well done (or in my case,...anything done).

So what are you waiting for? I'm sure you've done something-- anything really-- that you can justify throwing down a little change for!

Have you *hugged* your cash-happy Interior Designer today?

It's Like Birthing A Baby.......Kind Of

2010-08-03T17:47:00.001-04:00

Hold your breath no longer, the moment you've all been waiting for has finally arrived! That's right, it's photos of the office space that Donanne Ramos and I designed for a wealth management company in Plantation, Florida.

Are you so excited or what!?!

The concept behind the design of this office was to be relatively modern with a few transitional touches, but overall sleek, masculine and simple. We also worked on strrreeeeeeeetching the dollar if you know what I mean. One of these days I'll have a budgetless project, but alas, today is not that day.

Here are a few photos of the space.

This is the conference room where we used a walnut floor and table finish as well as white leather & chrome chairs, a custom built-in cabinet and Robert Abbey light fixture.

Here is the reception area. The wallcovering is a semi-metallic grasscloth by Phillip Jefferies which installed is just gorgeous! I mean, handsome. It's handsome. This is a man's office. Macho, manly, full of testosterone, handsome.

And the chrome and glass nesting table was split up to make a coffee & end table. Why pay for two things when you've technically got three things that make one thing that can make two things?

I know, I lost myself too.

Here is the other view:

All told, this space was designed and installed in a flash, which is oftentimes the case with commercial projects. There is rarely the luxury to ooooh and aaaah over every little fabric and paint sample and not to gender stereotype--but I'm gonna--finance men usually don't want to spend hours analyzing a bunch of wallpaper. They want to make money, and the market waits for no one, honey! We chose items that were in stock, ready to ship and under budget.

Here are some of the items that we used in the reception area:

Here's the wool rug:

The conference chairs...

And finally after a hectic installation day, these leather slipper chairs were surprisingly comfortable to kick my ill-chosen heels up in!

Have you *hugged* your Interior Designer today?

All that glitters...

2010-08-02T16:31:00.000-04:00

At 4 years old, my junior kindergarten self-portrait was slathered in so much glitter and sequins that my face was barely visible. In the future I will undoubtedly be that crazy great Aunt who wears sparkly blazers and rhinestone encrusted bifocals and has 2 blind and dowdy Cocker Spaniels named"Twinkles" and "Mr. Sparkles". I do try to control this fascination with all that glitters daily by I telling myself to "stay away from the light (refracting jewels)". Doubt me? Take a look at this Glamour Shot from 1993 that I like to call "Hello, Sailor!".

I mean bejeweled business.But given that I still have a (relative) amount of mental acuity left, I try to resist the temptation of dousing myself in cheap costume jewels at all times. There are a number of photos circulating around that prove that it doesn't always work---this self-regulating defiance of all that is tacky---but at least the "problem" is under wraps.

Sometimes.

I've found that I can still get my "fix" by adding some sparkle in another area of my life: Interior Design. No, not in a Liberace kind of way (I can only dream!!), but rather in more subtle areas like coffee tables, lamps and end tables. How cute are these pieces from Wisteria?

Or how about these hot tamales from Vivaterra?

West Elm has some "hammered nickel" trays and vases that I just love. Behold:

Here's the mosaic mirrored "Glitter" end table from Miami's own "Home Design Store".
And these lamps are from "Global Views", a trade-only furniture wholesaler, but they aren't they just gorgeous?!

Sigh.

So while I still crave the high that only Swarovski crystals can give, a little sparkle in the home can add just the right amount of glam that can really pick a place up.

While it may not be enough za-za-zoom for the "King of Bling", it sure does put a smile on Ms. Kat's (braceless) face.Have you *hugged* your Interior Designer today?

In A White Room

2010-07-29T09:04:00.000-04:00

My fiance seems to find it hysterical to say at any mildly appropriate opportunity, "why is it always about color with you?". He then usually bursts out laughing, undoubtedly giving himself a mental "high-five!".

Sigh.

This is my life.

But oftentimes he's right: it is always about color with me. That's why I just love this little section in the July/August edition of Elle Decor which features rooms bathed in the color white. Wouldn't it just be grand if we (or rather, I) could actually live like that? Walk into my own house with such crystalline lightness, such breathe-ability, such cleanliness?

However it's just not the way we live. Our dogs unabashedly rule the house despite all efforts to control them. I won't even watch the "Dog Whisperer" show for fears that I would literally try teach a belligerent old dog new tricks, only to ultimately have myself feel like a failure when Gypsy Lou disregards me. Again. Frankly, the only white thing in our house is the flag I wave while bending to the whims of the canines that ultimately rule the roost.

Yet I find that many people not only relish the color white as much as I do but can actually live with it too. So this post is for the people like them that may actually get some useful ideas and for the people like me who can only dream....

Here are a few lovely shots from Elle Decor:What I find deliciously yummy about this shot is how lovely the floor looks painted white. And I also love how the wood table base makes such a statement against so much white. But the creme de la creme in this room is the bone inlay chair. Put on your glasses-- it's hard to see-- but I will always be a sucker for bone inlay. It's like furniture jewelry, right? Behold:

Now ignore the pink cushions because they're the worst, but how beautiful are these chairs otherwise? What mother of pearl loveliness! In the immortal words of Rachel Zoe, "I die!". The bad boys on the left are from "Global Art Interiors". The bone inlay mirror on the right is from Nadeau, a great little store that specializes in Indian and Indonesian pieces at soooooper reasonable prices. This mirror is $214.00. In most retail locations you will pay easily twice that. No one, I repeat NO ONE, loves a good deal like Ms. Kat.

And how about this scrumptiously feminine room? It was designed for a professional ballerina (of course, right?) which besides living in a white capsule, is my other unrequited dream. I could certainly live without the furry bench at the end of the bed but the headboard is as lacy and charming as could be and the white drapes bring such an airy lightness that the room practically screams "sweet dreams of marshmallow fluff and whipped cream!"
Here are two cute little benches that could take the place if the Snuffleupagus-bench at the end of the bed fell ill (or perhaps fell out the window, just sayin') :

I just really heart these great turned legs on this "Classic Bench" from Ballard Designs on the left. And two of these "X" benches (also from Ballard) would look just darling at the foot of the bed. Either style would befit any wannabe ballerina snuggled in bed drinking red wine and watching the last scene of "Center Stage" (you know the scene--- when the ingenue Jody Sawyer shows the two twinkle-toed boys she ultimately has a bigger set than they do when she changes wardrobe, hair, makeup and red shoes without ever missing a step). Sigh. And how could you forget the best line ever in "Center Stage"? That's right, when Maureen--bad bangs and all--hissed "I'm the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet. Who the hell are you? Nobody!". Ouch, Maureen! Tell em'! (But don't wonder why no one likes you).
Wow. That felt good.

But back to white....

These two rooms from Elle Decor are quite lovely as well. What I really appreciate about them is how much the small bit of color that is actually in them, really POPS. The black drapes and hippo head (uhh, what?) are an amazing contrast in the photo on the left, as are the flowers and art in the photo on the right.

Here are two sweet pieces from Pottery Barn that could help achieve that look:

While skirted chairs and ottomans are usually not my shtick, this one is understated, with tight pleats and a short skirt that still emphasizes the legs. Yes it is girlie, but not entirely limiting. And the new sofa also from Pottery Barn is called the "Fin Comfort Sofa", and comfortable it is! Most sofas run between 34-38" deep, but this honker is 40" deep so you literally sink back into it (ok, maybe not the best for those in the "little leg" department, but for my amazon-self in platforms, it's the perfect sofa). It comes in a love seat, sleeper sofa and extra large sofa. And the arms are a nice change from Pottery Barn's classic rolled arm, they're a bit more contemporaryminimaliststransitionalish (yes, it's a word)

While white furniture that isn't upholstered may have more resiliency than fabrics do, white after all is bleach-able. So slipcover your pieces in fabrics that can be doused in bleach and call it a day!

Have you *hugged* your interior designer today?

"StoneAge Antiques" A Match Made in Macho Heaven

2010-07-06T17:41:00.000-04:00

When I mentioned to a friend of mine that I was going to "StoneAge Antiques" off the Miami River she said to me "I've been there. You may die.... Seriously". Afterward, I'm pretty sure that my face looked a little something like this....

For about 2.4 seconds I was understandably concerned (read: petrified) then told her frankly "If I go missing, then tell them to dredge the river". Let's get one thing straight, dust doesn't scare me. Cobwebs don't really scare me. Dust on cobwebs don't scare me. Pandemics and yellow grasshoppers on the other hand scare the sh*t out of me. But a rusty, dusty antique store doesn't.

Or does it?

So one preposterously humid Miami day in June, I ventured north on 27th ave and nearing the river, passed many a peluqueria (beauty salons where no one speaks English and you're forced to watch telenovelas on Univision). Veering to the left into what appeared to be a residential neighborhood, I tried to make sense of the directions written with chicken scratch on a post-it note. Word to the wise: this is not the kind of thing you want to do when you're in Allapatta (a suburb of Miami, which I had never heard of). When in Allapatta you just want to drive. Drive on through. At times like this a GPS would be useful. GPS and taser gun.

But "StoneAge Antiques" wasn't all that hard to find and I recognized it immediately as soon as I... well as soon as I saw the giant rusty, dusty, hand-painted sign. Hard to miss, I'll say that much.

Yet despite prior warnings, I just knew this would be my kind of place. The junky front yard full of nautical detritus and tractor parts was intriguing enough, though it would understandably turn many people off. I browsed around, wondering when my last tetanus shot was, then decided to stop being a diva and go inside.

I'm so glad I did.

This place is the DisneyWorld of nautical antiques, none of which I could name, all of which I found fascinating in one way or another. It is a virtual treasure trove; a complete sensory overload of vintage signs, airplane propellers, whiskey barrels, glass buoys, anchors etc. There were wooden buckets galore, painted Indian trunks, glass lanterns, an antique washing machine (awesome!!) and WWII helmets, not to mention every kind of ship gadget you could imagine. I won't pretend: I have NO idea what half of the things in there were. But this store is a testosterone pumping paradise... certainly not in a metrosexual testosterone kind of way but more like the "I don't care about showers, I just want to be a sweaty MAAAAN and eat giant TURKEY LEGS and drag women by their HAAAIR" (see the logo on the "StoneAge Antiques" website to get an idea of the barbarity I'm talking here).

Originally I heard of the place a year ago, while I was at the UPS store in the Grove and a van full of nautical treasures were being shipped off. As I craned my neck to take a gander at all the goodies, my jaw dropped. They instantly reminded me of a dusty version of the store in New York that I just LOVE, called Mantiques Modern. Industrial antiques that were once practical machinery now used as one-of-a-kind collectibles and decor. These, unlike sports or politics, are something I can really sink my "dude" teeth into.

But maybe it's just me. After all, on a 10 day road trip last year, my fiance and I found a green antique airplane propeller on the first day of our trip and drove with it wedged between the two of us all the way up to South Carolina and back.

In all honestly however, I am from the Interior Design prospective that every piece of furniture or accessory has to have the.... the ....what's the word? Ah yes, the MOXIE, to stand on their own. If it looks like some hum-drum, everybody's-got-one, seen-it-everywhere, piece then it simply doesn't belong. Or maybe it belongs....in Rooms-To-Go. (Ouch! Hissss! Burrnnnn!!)

After about an hour of circling the warehouse with my measuring tape in tow, it was sadly time to leave. Will I be back? Hells yeah I will. In fact I have a list of items to purchase from "Stone Age Antiques" that will be used in a beachy/ bungalow style house that I am working on. But next time I go I will make sure to do the following things, or rather NOT do the following things:
1) Not wear white capri pants 2) Not require air conditioning 3.) Not offer a credit card (sorry folks, cash or check only).

And when you go-- because you will-- ask for Ryan Stone, one of the owners. If you're lucky he'll give you one of his CD's (it's quite good) and if you're really lucky, he may offer you a blue raspberry popsicle that will leave your entire mouth and all your teeth...you guessed it... blue.

But a word to the wise, don't plan on doing anything after going into "StoneAge Antiques", anything except showering.

Trust Miss Kat, you'll need it.

Stone Age Antiques

www.stoneage-antiques.com

3236 Northwest South River Drive
Miami, FL 33142-6950
(305) 633-5114