My life is a varied assortment of highs and lows (above and beyond any postpartum bitchiness I may or may not have inflicted on my BFF).
If you skimmed my closet it would be like, "Armani, Zara, Balenciaga, Target..." My current project, should it ever be completed, is crafting a macrame owl out of Pucci fabric. Vosges chocolates are a true passion, as is Cheez Whiz. I work in fashion (though it is DC, so "retail" might be a better term), yet have seen more Dead shows than you could shake a bamboo rainstick at. But somehow, it all works. Works for me, anyway.
Case in point: my Hermes tattoo.
It didn't happen on purpose. I was an 18 year old stoner who knew everything. I drew the above tattoo on a piece of paper one afternoon that may or may not have included a glass, a pin and a Yardbirds album, woke up the next morning, headed to Great Southern and ordered it up in the most painful place possible (yes, nothing but nerve and bone on that part of your foot there).
My much more proper sister (who if asked, will tell you that we grew up right next to Far Hills, though in reality, it was a farm town about an hour away) was simply appalled.
When my husband and I were married, I was a 24 y.o. stoner living in Northern California who didn't think we needed china or crystal.
Then about five years later, I found this:
...and fell in love. I've collected it piece by piece, and now proudly have service for three. If one person wants cappucino and one wants tea and only one wants a salad. It is Hermes (and looks lovely next to the framed poster from Oakland Mardi Gras '94).
After I had bought my first piece, a dinner plate, I flipped it over and found this:
...so, if asked, yes, it did hurt. And yes, it's Hermes.