Rewards That Aren't Food or Shopping

I crossed paths with this delightful list of rewards that aren't food or shopping, and it inspired me to gather some of my own. I'm a biiiit of a sybarite, so I indulge in wonderful relaxing things as much as possible—proudly. Here's how I reward myself without food or shopping.

• Weekend recovery sleep. Bonus if I can finagle coffee room service from the hot bellboy. (I can.)

• Take a long lunch—whether it’s running errands or seeing what's new at Sephora.

• Sing along to Joni Mitchell’s Blue from start to finish. Cry. Husband is not invited to the party. (Best song)

• Catch up on blogs and then read the shit talking about said blogs on GOMI.

• Find books to read and leave blunt (but fair) reviews for ones I hated on Goodreads.

• Visit someplace new from my list. I’m determined to hit every good museum and garden in the area.

• Use my very special PTO move: take off Monday and Friday for two instant long weekends.

• Online window shop, then put anything cute safely into Covvet or add it to one of my many wish lists.

• Take an extra Bar Method class, because I’ve become a deeply annoying person.

• Borrow new goodies from the library or wander around the Strand.

Home

A photo posted by Anna (@heyimanna) on Feb 27, 2016 at 3:42pm PST

• Finish an entire series on Netflix or Prime, even if I don’t love it—because finishing is the BEST.

• Walk instead of taking the subway. Rent a Citibike instead of walking.

• Spend some QT with my plants—pruning, polishing leaves, fertilizing, singing them lullabies… I have a dumb hippie belief that people should reconnect with their star signs when they get stressed. As a Taurus, I know hanging with a book in full view of my plants calms me down more than anything else. Except Valium. Those work great too.

• Read a magazine. I get Martha Stewart Living and Bon Appetit, but I’m always game to sneak a gossip rag into the stack.

• Plan a dream trip—but only the fun parts. Actual mind-bending details, like browsing flights or paying for anything, are horrible.

• Do an extra-long pamper session. I always make time for my beauty routines—because ACNE!—but as a treat I’ll do a really long facial massage or use a bath bomb while drinking red wine, as God Herself intended.

A photo posted by Anna (@heyimanna) on Apr 10, 2016 at 3:39pm PDT

A Clog's Tale

So look, here's the thing with clogs: I just can't quit them.

I don't know what it is about those blocky, sturdy, husky little fuckers, but my heart swells when I see a pair of clogs go stomping by. Any pair. I can't explain it. I can't pretend it's a noble or even interesting preoccupation. Abandon hope, all ye naysayers. Here's my clog rundown.

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If you hadn't heard, Swedish Hasbeens are an unholy menace. I tossed my sandal pair because they fell apart (never having gotten completely comfortable), and the red pair lives under my desk. Every once in a while I'll put them on for an hour, then remove them and angrily stuff them back under my desk. Useless. Waste of money. Horrible things.

Then, I branched out into the clog boot world with this Nina Z pair. After adding a gel insert, these guys became a staple pair of shoes for me. The soles did wear down to the wood, so I took them to the cobbler and they look and feel like new again. Love Nina Z.

Somehow, I found a pair of Rachel Comey clogs on supppperrrr sallleeee so I hopped to it. I usually only wear these for fancy events, because I'm scared I'll ruin them. They're also pretty high, but padded for comfort. Lovely.

In Paris last year, I grabbed a pair of Kerstin Adolphson sandals in beige. I think they were a sample and marked down, so they ended up costing something ludicrous like $40. I wore them all summer with very little breaking in to do. Unfortunately, the wood completely splintered and the straps stretched out, so they have since moved on to the Great Shoe Closet in the sky.

THEN one day it occurred to me that No. 6 clogs were not as impossible as they'd once been. While their boots were crazy expensive, the Old School Clog was... attainable. Not cheap, but not a fuck-you price, either. And they looked real good: the perfect height, beautifully understated design, seriously worth it. (Understand, I've spent years trying to nail down a simple, mid-heeled baby made out of materials that will last. No. 6 is really the only place that can do it.)

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For months, I'd find myself longingly staring at these goddamn clogs on the No. 6 site, or breathlessly searching the brand and size plus "sale," or ebaying frantically when the mood struck. Then one day I went, oh for fuck's sake. I'm a 27-year-old adult type. I just got a raise. [ed: I had.] I'm getting some goddamn fucking clogs and that's the end of it.

So I did.

And they are wonderful.

The story is, I decided to get them on my first free weekend, which ended up being the day I found my wedding dress. It was a gorgeous, sunny afternoon, and I meandered from the West Village through Washington Square Park and finally ended at the No. 6 store. You have to buzz in.

The inside is vair Scandi chic. All the ladies wear Rachel Comey and Acne—both shoppers and sales people, obviously. It's the kind of place where women show up, impulse buy four pairs of shoes and then drift off to set fire to a Birkin, or something.

I tried on the softer, nubuck leather and my feet just wept. Glorious. Even the wood is higher quality, and they're treated with a finish to keep the whole thing weatherproof and solid.

Ultimately, I preferred the look of the stiffer, classic leather. How's the sizing? I decided to go about true to size/slightly size up, so for my 9.5/10 feet I went with a 41. The store has to order the exact pair, and then you pick them up a week or two later.

I'm not going to sugar coat this: they take a few weeks to break in. To start, I wore them around the office with socks. Then with bandaids. THEN I wore them au naturale, and I knew they were ready for the Subway Test.

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As a New Yorker, I treat my shoes like utter shit. I walk everywhere, literally run into things, step in stuff, regularly fall up and down stairs. These guys handled everything with aplomb. My only issue is the openings are stiffer than the rest of the shoe, so one unfortunate tumble—I tripped on the stairs, the shoe fought my tender flesh, the shoe won—ended with a pretty sizeable gash in my ankle.

I did also chip the back of one shoe, but because the wood is so tough, it didn't splinter. My cobbler simply glued the piece back and refinished it, and we're in business.

And that's it, really. It's more of a clog saga. I am fully, utterly in love with No. 6, and I am saving my pennies for the open toe weave guys. Any clog stories to share? I am all ears, and hooves.

Fascinating

Always, always Etsying. This week: fascinators, birdcage veils and other vintage hair pieces. I just always want to top my noggin with something pretty, ok?

Ugh. I love this.

Adorable, adorable adorable birdcage veil. And it has the original box. It needs to go with a bright dress, unless you want that classic "mourning" look.

I am all about flowers on these things.

Light pink

Genius construction, by way of the lady who sold my beloved pink hat.

And daggers to the first person who compares me to Lana Del Ray. While she is very cute, she didn't start it and she sure as hell won't end it.

Swedish Has Been

Let me introduce you to my Swedish Hasbeens.



Have you heard of them? No? They are the LEAST COMFORTABLE SHOES EVER.

Ever come across them on Pintertumblr or any fashion blog ever and thought, "Wow! They say they are handmade by elves in Sweden and, with their hefty price tag, they couldn't possibly be less than dreamlike to wear"? Seen a blogger wearing them and gone, "Well, this lady wouldn't LIE or EXAGGERATE about their comfort or wearability"?



Let me tell you. Everyone is WRONG. Whoever endorses these without a very clear asterisk that the shoes take forever to break in—and some people might not have the mental fortitude to do so—should be ridiculed and publicly shamed.

Here's the story.

I took the plunge and bought this completely innocent-looking pair a few years ago. Woven top, adjustable straps. "Self," I thought. "These are Cool Shoes. They are Worth It. They will last and pay you back in the long run with their versatility. Plus, they are made by Swedish elves."

When they arrived and I actually tried them on for the first time, I was staggered. Holy God. How can one pair of shoes be so uncomfortable? Why was the woven part digging into every conceivable part of my not-at-all-abnormal foot? Why did they sound like I was strangling hundreds of creaking floorboards with a leather noose every time I took a step?

I tried. I really did. I wore them—with socks—for weeks at the office. I hobbled until they stretched enough to be bearable on the street, and then I wore them over layers of bandaids on the subway. I've "broken in" shoes before. This was breaking ME.

After about a year, I put them away and called it quits. All those ADORABLE little bloggers were prancing around in these things, and here I was putting mine in the back of my closet and promising myself I'd eventually wear them with tights, or something. Every Google search for "swedish hasbeens jesus christ loud" or "swedish hasbeens why digging in ow" turned up nil. Why wasn't anyone talking about this? Was I weak?

Every time I pulled them out and tried them on, they sounded worse. I couldn't go two steps without wanting to die of embarrassment.

Then a few months ago, I fell in love with these babies. Could I do Swedish Hasbeens again? But look, these are slingbacks. Those won't be loud or hurt. And if I can wear them with tights and socks, they'll break in just fine. Plus, they were on sale.



Of course, they arrived and the straps were too loose. I was able to wobble around the office once or twice before my ankle buckled and I had to return to my flats. After a cobbler punched another hole tighter, they were… fine. They look good, for sure, but the dratted straps still slide down and the heels are just high enough to cause Problems if I wanted to actually walk anywhere.



Then last week, I had a stroke of brilliance about the stupid first pair. The shoes were stretched out enough (finally) to wear all day without breaking my foot or rubbing a thousand blisters everywhere. But the goddamn squeaking was impossible. Sooo, how do you fix squeaky leather? Either you wear it in or you oil it up. Lightbulb.

I lubed up my foot with lotion and then slowly and carefully rubbed it between each little braidy crossover and nook and creaky cranny. I added some Vaseline for good luck.

BOOM.

It actually worked. It really did. The squeaking was down to a dull roar. I could move around in public again.



The moral of the story: Swedish Hasbeens are hard to break in. In fact, if I weren't such a slave to the principle of the thing, I'm confident I would have eaten the cost and just thrown them out and never bought the second pair.

If you buy them a size down, as they recommend, the leather will scrape against your feet and pummel them into blisters and aching red parts until the straps eventually stretch out. If you buy them your actual size, the straps will be loose and you'll have to get them sorted out by a professional.

You basically can't win. I mean, I suppose I am currently winning, since I can proudly wear both pairs now. Was it worth it? Probably not. You've been warned.

Seeing Green

My mom and aunt were in town this weekend, so we went to the Brooklyn Flea this morning. And guess who found an awesome new/old plant stand?



I think this thing is flippin' adorable. Some other lady had just expressed interest, then wandered away to think about it. You snooze, I get a new plant stand.




Then, of course, we had to get some plants to put on the plant stand. Everybody trooped to the hardware store and helped me pick out some basil, cilantro, jalapeno and that pearly type guy. They join my two mini cacti and a spring onion I'm trying to regrow. Plus the air plants, bien sûr. They are still trucking along.

New plant stand matches the sunshine we're having today. Perfect.

Show and Tell

This Easter, I was in lovely Connecticut with the boyfriend's family. I managed to get a 15 minute trip to an antique mall (who am I), and I picked up a few things. Check it out:



Nearly pristine Pyrex Snowflake mixing bowl for $10, a pink Depression glass for $12, a salty sea captain figure (guess who picked that out) and an old picture of a stern I-think-they're Edwardian couple. The mixing bowl fits in nicely with my new... Pyrex butter dish. I can't help myself.





My air plant is digging its new home. While we're showing and telling, I also scored this $75 Turkish rug on eBay. I want to essentially carpet the new place in faded old rugs to cut down on the creaks and attempt to level the floor a smidge. It's sometimes like walking on the deck of a ship in there, what with all the not level footing.




Turkishy.

Two Things

1. I got my long-awaited Pyrex pink Gooseberry casseroles! W0000000000 they are so cute.



2. I clearly have no idea how to use my new Instax Mini.

New Digs

I moved....! Yes, I did it. Well, we did it. It's half the boyfriend's apartment, after all. And let's be frank—my part of the move consisted of nervously drinking coffee and trying to stay out of the movers' way. The crew we hired off Craigslist put my entire apartment, my home, my LIFE into their van in one trip and drove it a few blocks north. We're in a primo Williamsburg spot. Whereas I was on S1st and Berry before, now we're on N7th, a four-minute walk to the subway and near a quiet, beautiful school. Here's how it looks. Keep in mind, these are warts-n-boxes-n-all. The previous tenant had been here for 10 years, so the place smelled strongly of cigarettes, and cracks in the wall are still waiting to be fixed. We can't hang anything or paint until that's taken care of, so we've cautiously spread out a bit and already love...everything.




Bedroom. I initially wanted this to be the living room, since there's a bed-sized walk-in closet right off this, to the left. However, there's basically no other storage in the entire apartment, so we would have to pay upwards of $500 on stand alone wardrobes. Thus, we moved the bed to the "living room" and unloaded alllll my dresses into the closet.



See? And I even get my own little vanity table in there:



Let's move into the rest of the apartment:



That's from the bedroom, facing the kitchen at the end. There are two middle rooms that are actually pretty deep. We fit everything into the spaces with middle hallway breathing room.



Desk and future home of my sewing machine.



Across from it, the dining table and the record player nook.



Next to that, the TV and all its accoutrements.



Aaand across from that, the couch. These rooms are pretty dark, so I've already got a game plan to brighten everything up. For starters, the couch needs wall sconces or a big floor lamp. I ordered bistro lights for the desk/dining room. I want to hang them like this. Okay, now we're in the kitchen.



It's a big guy. We're very lucky. Of course, with a prolific chef (him) and a middling baker (moi), we have a lot of shit. As you can see.



So here's facing the bedroom. All the boxes in the kitchen comprise where we'll need another butcher's block for service area and storage.



I'd love to put a big, hulking cabinet in this corner as a pantry or more appliance/dish storage. We're facing the bathroom door here.



Recent craft project. I used embroidery thread instead of rope.



That yellow dresser was a Greenpoint street find. Happily, two Ikea baskets fit in the missing bottom drawer just perfectly.



Hey look, the terrarium I made survived.



My KitchenAid survived.

The fire escape

You want to see the bathroom. Don't lie. It's actually bigger than the typical New York bathroom. (Meaning, in this case, that there's a sink in there. And a grown adult can spin in a circle without touching anything.)



My air plants like when we take hot showers. (Aaah the dirty windows! I know, I know.) So there you have it, basically. The place. What do you think?

Instant Satisfaction, Part I

In a fit of nostalgia a few years ago, I bought a Polaroid SX-70 Land Camera. Nostalgia for what, exactly, is not clear—I wasn't even born when they stopped producing them in 1981. HOWEVER, I bought into a dying art right at the bitter end and got a few rolls of hilariously overpriced film to go with it.



Of course, the SX-70 doesn't really work with contemporary Polaroid film—everything is way overexposed, even on the highest setting. You do get a beautifully dreamy effect (and for me, it tends to be yellowish), like this:







After a roll or two, I got bored with paying $3 a picture for moderately interesting results. (Yes, I know about The Impossible Project, but my qualms about price still stand.) I essentially wanted this to happen, but whatever. I give up.

Sooooo then I spent years pining for an Instax Mini. It's the excitement of an instant camera (and flash, hooray) combined with slightly less depressing prices. Mr. Tax Return just inspired me to splurge.

Does anyone else have one? Do you love it or adore it? Stay tuned for the results.

'Sonic Boom

The facts are these:

My skin, for most of its existence, has been on a Routine. I got through most of my teenage years with the usual zit dance parties (hosted by me, on my T-Zone). Freshman year, I had problems making eye contact in case somebody was checking out the nipple of a whitehead on my nose. I think around junior year I tried my first dermatologist to make things a bit easier on my stressed out teenager brain. But for some reason, senior year after graduation my skin went NUTS. It was like, "oh hey, you want to go to college and make friends and be normal? NOPE."

That was when I ventured to the dark side: Accutane. Have you heard of the stuff? It's a hardxcore pill that completely destroys acne, leaving behind some gnarly side effects: depression, flaking skin, back aches, dry eyes and acne scars. At the time, I was just concentrating on slathering foot cream on my face and not getting pregnant with a conehead alien baby. [Fig. A]

Fig. A

For a while, the treatment stuck and I enjoyed a few years of pretty nice skin. But then last year, my skin freaked out again. My new, cooler dermatologist took one look and offered me another round of Accutane. It was back to the nasty side effects that are nothing, frankly, compared to having clear skin. I could write a whole book about what having bad skin does to a person's self esteem. The weird thing is, it's not like I got acne from eating pizza everyday and slathering the leftover oil on my face. The stigma around it is incredibly weird, and it sucks, but ANYWAY…

So with my new realization that I was now a young lady with relatively nice skin again finally ohthankgodfinally, I started getting distracted by the side effects left behind by two rounds of Accutane. Namely, the flaky skin. It wasn't something I could fix with gentle exfoliating or a heavy duty moisturizer, so I turned to the thing I'd heard about for years and years and hadn't yet tried.

Enter, the Clarisonic.

And I quote:

"Used and recommended by spas and dermatologists, Clarisonic Sonic Skin Cleansing Systems use a patented sonic frequency of more than 300 movements per second to gently, yet thoroughly remove 6X more makeup and 2X more dirt and oil than cleansing with your hands alone. Cleaner skin is the first step toward healthier skin. And healthier skin is smoother, more radiant and more beautiful. "

The deal is, for about $140, you can get a facial cleansing brush that uses sonic waves to sort of shake dirt and nasty crap outta your pores.



The "dermatologist recommended" stuff initially threw me for a while, because I had heard reviews that the brush encouraged acne. You see, if the brush irritates the skin or pushes around bacteria, it can really do some damage. Pre-Routine (the endless cycle of Accutane pills, blood tests for alien babies, topical treatments and sunscreens, some of which I still use), any kind of rough treatment on my skin could have irritated it and even scarred. Now that my skin has mostly recovered, I thought I was okay to use this lightweight tool on myself.

You put a little cleanser on your face and on the brush, then very gently let the brush do its job. After a few moments, it shuts off and you can wonderingly stroke the baby's bottom that is now your face.

It sort of sounds like a vibrator, so it helps to alert your roommate and/or boyfriend that you're cleaning your face and not having an alone quickie before bed.

I use it about once every other day, and after two weeks I had already noticed the pores on my cheeks and around my nose shrinking. My forehead and temples feel soft and smooth. My skintone is more even, and the little things I used to put concealer on have faded. Most importantly, the flaky skin around my nose is essentially gone, and even the fine little lines around my eyes are much more shallow. [Okay, okay, I'm 24—one good night's sleep and those lines are gone.] I can't believe this thing did what it said it would do, and it hasn't made me break out or irritated anything.


A few things to note:
-Always, always clean the brush head off and let it dry outside of the bathroom
-Replace the head about once every 3 months, which I haven't gotten to yet (it's only been about a month, crazy)
-Don't make circles with the brush—just let it go and enjoy

There is a cheaper knockoff of the brush by Olay, which you can get in drugstores for about $20-40ish, I think? I read reviews on both brushes before buying, but in the end I don't want to mess around with my skin. The Olay brush doesn't use the same sound waves, so it could be doing more harmful scraping, and that worried me.

Is it expensive? Yes. So are moisturizers, and fancy cleansers and endless prescriptions and all the other shit I've bought and endured to get to this point. My skin still isn't perfect. But if this brush makes me look and feel better, I'd spend any amount of money on it.


(image)

Made Up

One of my small dreams for the future is to have a vanity. (Small dreams, I said. It's not one of my big dreams, like starting a family and owning the top floor of an East London converted warehouse.)

Why a vanity? Well, I have a lot of makeup and it's currently living under my bed. Dusty makeup. I would like to keep choice objects within reach, and in the process, be able to establish a home base. For makeup application. Keep repeating to yourself: small dreams.

In pursuit of my [small] dream, I recently bought a vintage lipstick holder. Here are a few of the beauts who will live in this object.





My lipstick collection is much larger than this, but I only wear a few. And not that often, really. But when the mood strikes, I need to go balls-deep into some paint.

From the left:

Lipstick Queen Medieval: a perfect, perfect thing. I've bought four at least. It's a cherry red, sheerish shade that stains your mouth for a few hours. Based on the lemons women used to use to get a reddish tint, apparently.
Mac's Ruby Woo: The perfect matte red. This one is the classic. It takes about 20 minutes to get in the zone and make sure nothing flaky is going on, but then it usually goes all night.
Mac's Girl About Town: Traffic-stopping magenta. The texture is fantastic, very creamy and pretty.

On the ground:
Kat Von D's Stiletto: Orange red that's less matte than Ruby Woo. I happen to love Kat's stuff, and swear by her concealer.
YSL Black Tulip: Looks scary in the tube, works out well in reality. It is very dark purple with a relatively sheer execution.

See?