Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
one for me, one for you
candy&caviar
Project 141 cardigan
In the spirit of giving back, for each Project 141 cardigan purchased,
candy&caviar will donate a custom-made cardigan to a child in need.
Honestly cardigan you had me at thumbholes.
Project 141 cardigan
In the spirit of giving back, for each Project 141 cardigan purchased,
candy&caviar will donate a custom-made cardigan to a child in need.
Honestly cardigan you had me at thumbholes.
if you never want to get laid you should wear these shoes
So I just came across this article from www.themodernman.com "8 Pairs of Shoes Every Man Must Own" I really hope I am not too late!
Girl Talk: Losing My Job Was Good For Me
Posted by: Jennifer Giglio
12:00PM, Friday August 13th 2010
Losing My Job Was Good For Me
“We’ve restructured your job and structured you out of it,” Louis said quickly, as though this thought were all one word.
Immediately, I felt the floor drop and ceiling soar, while I, not tethered to either, floated between. I was surprised, though I’d foreseen this bad news; I‘d brought an empty brown duffel bag to work that Friday rather than my usual Louis Vuitton purse. I had been telling my mother and coworkers for weeks, as I snooped while sorting Louis’ emails, that I was going to be let go.
I suffered from the delusion that I was a prodigy rocking the corporate world as a result of my financial genius, never hearing the dripping sarcasm in my associates’ voices as they referred to my situation as “nepotism at its finest.”
Still, I felt side-swiped. “Why?” I choked.
“We need someone more senior to manage Michelle and the guys in the back,” he explained. This was an office manager job, one I was completely qualified for and had, in essence, already been doing. “I’ve been dreading this all week,” he continued. “Normally when I let someone go I enjoy it, but this is heartbreaking. You’re such a sweetheart.”
Have we ever had a conversation lasting more than two minutes? He handed me a large white envelope. “There is close to $5,000 in here, more than you should get—it’ll cover you for awhile.”
When I later tore open the envelope, my severance package, which included my salary and vacation wages, totaled only $3,400. Really, had Louis rounded this up to $5K? I was struggling to make rent and the absence of the promised additional $1,600 was devastating.
Finished, Louis scurried off. I gathered the pictures of my family, pens and post-it notes that littered my desktop, thankful no one could see my tears. I flushed crimson as I wondered who knew about this. That would explain why the partners of the architectural firm I’d worked at for a year hadn’t been making eye contact. And why lately our intimate banter had slowed. I felt exposed and vulnerable, fearing my past had caught up with me.
Previously, I worked in the finance industry, for my father’s successful business. At 23, I had been hired as his secretary and by the time I was 25 my salary reached six figures. I never attended college as I saw no need to further my education when I was already making such good money. My dad and an associate formed a partnership and at 27 I became the youngest and first female Director of Financial Services for his large privately held tax firm. Bicoastal, I managed a team of registered reps that had more years of experience than I had years of life. I suffered from the delusion that I was a prodigy rocking the corporate world as a result of my financial genius, never hearing the dripping sarcasm in my associates’ voices as they referred to my situation as “nepotism at its finest.”
I rented a luxury apartment in the heart of Greenwich Village in Manhattan along with a stunning flat in an opulent community in San Diego and I jetsetted constantly between the two. In New York, I enjoyed dining excursions, picking up the entire tab with a flourish no matter who was my company. I spent weekends shopping, spending thousands whilst treating my dates and shopkeepers as my personal servants. I took a car service and taxis everywhere and the few times I took the subway, I was mortified that someone would see me descending into the bowels of the city with the commoners.
I had personal shoppers calling when new items arrived in their shops and I had them on speed dial. Valet attendants knew me, keeping my SUV idling by the curb rather than parking it in the lot. I acquired long blond hair extensions costing thousands of dollars while getting my pricey platinum highlights redone every three weeks. Breast implants furthered the illusion as I spent $10,000 on colossal pillows of silicone which I later had replaced with a smaller, simply huge, saline pair. Frequent shopping trips made me Santa Claus to my girlfriends, who benefited from my carelessness with jewelry, purses, clothes and furniture. I became a frequent user of Adderall interspersed with cocaine, rarely sleeping more than three hours per night. My days were spent recovering with spa treatments and visits to my personal trainer. Corresponding with my offices via BlackBerry, I had meetings wherever I could fit them in. During a visit to the hair salon to replace my extensions, an eight-hour process, I had back-to-back meetings prompting one patron to ask her stylist if I was a celebrity.
I grew more self-absorbed, obnoxious and difficult, calling my assistants at all hours demanding that they hire maids for my apartments, locate yoga studios, buy furniture or gas my car while changing the tires. One assistant cried while I lambasted him when a truck moving furniture between my NYC and SoCal apartments was delayed due to bad weather. Visiting my offices, I breezed by support staff as if nonexistent, addressing them only if I needed a copy or a cup of coffee. Friends, coworkers, and family members were subject to my frequent, irrational outbursts. I threw epic temper tantrums resulting in broken glass, ripped documents and torn hair extensions.
I went through four BlackBerries a year and grew adept at hurling them so dramatically that they exploded in a shower of shrapnel. During one such outburst, I felt that I could do a better job if I started my own firm, so I quit.
I sold my furniture and moved east. Unable to rely on prior connections due to burned bridges, I had to take this job as an executive assistant at an architecture firm, which eventually led to me being fired. Still, I was happy for it. My job search had been a thoroughly humiliating experience. Despite the level of my prior position, without my family connections, my resume was lacking. I was relegated to filling out job applications in dirty waiting rooms of temp agencies. I took typing and Excel tests repeatedly to prove that I was capable of skills I had mastered 10 years before. I sat in many dust-filled offices being interviewed in tones of condescension and subsequently found to be overqualified for the position.
My money slowly melted away, and with no prospects, I was forced to move from my two bedroom in Manhattan to my boyfriend’s humble Brooklyn dwelling that smelled of mothballs and cigarettes. He was an architect at the firm and my predicament left me in need of help. I tried to sell my flashy belongings on eBay and received no bids but several claims refuting their authenticity. I quit taking the addictive substances and reflected on my prior behavior with horror.
My weight ballooned as I no longer was on speed and could not afford a trainer. My expensive garments grew tattered from stuffing my now size-10 frame into my old size-4 clothes. I used what was left of my severance for stretch pants and sweaters from the dollar store.
At age 30, shortly after being let go from the architecture firm, I took a job as a receptionist at a SoHo fashion house. Now I am surrounded by young girls who talk down to me, as I had to my subordinates a few years before. My employers have no knowledge of my past accomplishments. I redirect phone calls, make coffee, unpack supply boxes and have finally been deemed worthy of ordering shipping supplies. As demeaning as my job is, I am lucky to be employed. My father’s business was a casualty of the recession, which left me nowhere to turn but inward.
Mistreating coworkers, wasting money on designer purses, and vanities like hair salons and spas are far in my past. I have taken out my extensions and admitted that I’m a brunette, though my breast implants serve as a constant reminder of the charade I once lived. I sometimes wonder if it was ever real and am beginning to see how far it is I have fallen. But it brought me to a good place. I am now in school, trying to achieve at 30 that which my classmates are doing at 20.
My boyfriend and I have suffered through the recession. He has been out of work for close to two years. Every cent I earn goes towards my tuition and we exist on the unemployment checks Alex receives weekly. I feel like I am drowning most of the time and money worries keep me up at night. I try and stay positive and hope to regain stability, but I know that I will never have the kind of money I used to have again. I won’t feel the opulence that I took for granted when I was far too young to appreciate all I had. I battle with a sense of entitlement and flashes of my old behavior occur now and again, but they do no one any good as I struggle to make a $300 rent payment and get groceries. “Oh how the mighty have fallen” does not even begin to cover it.
And yet, on this side of things, I have become a much better person.
http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-girl-talk-losing-my-job-was-good-for-me/
12:00PM, Friday August 13th 2010
Losing My Job Was Good For Me
“We’ve restructured your job and structured you out of it,” Louis said quickly, as though this thought were all one word.
Immediately, I felt the floor drop and ceiling soar, while I, not tethered to either, floated between. I was surprised, though I’d foreseen this bad news; I‘d brought an empty brown duffel bag to work that Friday rather than my usual Louis Vuitton purse. I had been telling my mother and coworkers for weeks, as I snooped while sorting Louis’ emails, that I was going to be let go.
I suffered from the delusion that I was a prodigy rocking the corporate world as a result of my financial genius, never hearing the dripping sarcasm in my associates’ voices as they referred to my situation as “nepotism at its finest.”
Still, I felt side-swiped. “Why?” I choked.
“We need someone more senior to manage Michelle and the guys in the back,” he explained. This was an office manager job, one I was completely qualified for and had, in essence, already been doing. “I’ve been dreading this all week,” he continued. “Normally when I let someone go I enjoy it, but this is heartbreaking. You’re such a sweetheart.”
Have we ever had a conversation lasting more than two minutes? He handed me a large white envelope. “There is close to $5,000 in here, more than you should get—it’ll cover you for awhile.”
When I later tore open the envelope, my severance package, which included my salary and vacation wages, totaled only $3,400. Really, had Louis rounded this up to $5K? I was struggling to make rent and the absence of the promised additional $1,600 was devastating.
Finished, Louis scurried off. I gathered the pictures of my family, pens and post-it notes that littered my desktop, thankful no one could see my tears. I flushed crimson as I wondered who knew about this. That would explain why the partners of the architectural firm I’d worked at for a year hadn’t been making eye contact. And why lately our intimate banter had slowed. I felt exposed and vulnerable, fearing my past had caught up with me.
Previously, I worked in the finance industry, for my father’s successful business. At 23, I had been hired as his secretary and by the time I was 25 my salary reached six figures. I never attended college as I saw no need to further my education when I was already making such good money. My dad and an associate formed a partnership and at 27 I became the youngest and first female Director of Financial Services for his large privately held tax firm. Bicoastal, I managed a team of registered reps that had more years of experience than I had years of life. I suffered from the delusion that I was a prodigy rocking the corporate world as a result of my financial genius, never hearing the dripping sarcasm in my associates’ voices as they referred to my situation as “nepotism at its finest.”
I rented a luxury apartment in the heart of Greenwich Village in Manhattan along with a stunning flat in an opulent community in San Diego and I jetsetted constantly between the two. In New York, I enjoyed dining excursions, picking up the entire tab with a flourish no matter who was my company. I spent weekends shopping, spending thousands whilst treating my dates and shopkeepers as my personal servants. I took a car service and taxis everywhere and the few times I took the subway, I was mortified that someone would see me descending into the bowels of the city with the commoners.
I had personal shoppers calling when new items arrived in their shops and I had them on speed dial. Valet attendants knew me, keeping my SUV idling by the curb rather than parking it in the lot. I acquired long blond hair extensions costing thousands of dollars while getting my pricey platinum highlights redone every three weeks. Breast implants furthered the illusion as I spent $10,000 on colossal pillows of silicone which I later had replaced with a smaller, simply huge, saline pair. Frequent shopping trips made me Santa Claus to my girlfriends, who benefited from my carelessness with jewelry, purses, clothes and furniture. I became a frequent user of Adderall interspersed with cocaine, rarely sleeping more than three hours per night. My days were spent recovering with spa treatments and visits to my personal trainer. Corresponding with my offices via BlackBerry, I had meetings wherever I could fit them in. During a visit to the hair salon to replace my extensions, an eight-hour process, I had back-to-back meetings prompting one patron to ask her stylist if I was a celebrity.
I grew more self-absorbed, obnoxious and difficult, calling my assistants at all hours demanding that they hire maids for my apartments, locate yoga studios, buy furniture or gas my car while changing the tires. One assistant cried while I lambasted him when a truck moving furniture between my NYC and SoCal apartments was delayed due to bad weather. Visiting my offices, I breezed by support staff as if nonexistent, addressing them only if I needed a copy or a cup of coffee. Friends, coworkers, and family members were subject to my frequent, irrational outbursts. I threw epic temper tantrums resulting in broken glass, ripped documents and torn hair extensions.
I went through four BlackBerries a year and grew adept at hurling them so dramatically that they exploded in a shower of shrapnel. During one such outburst, I felt that I could do a better job if I started my own firm, so I quit.
I sold my furniture and moved east. Unable to rely on prior connections due to burned bridges, I had to take this job as an executive assistant at an architecture firm, which eventually led to me being fired. Still, I was happy for it. My job search had been a thoroughly humiliating experience. Despite the level of my prior position, without my family connections, my resume was lacking. I was relegated to filling out job applications in dirty waiting rooms of temp agencies. I took typing and Excel tests repeatedly to prove that I was capable of skills I had mastered 10 years before. I sat in many dust-filled offices being interviewed in tones of condescension and subsequently found to be overqualified for the position.
My money slowly melted away, and with no prospects, I was forced to move from my two bedroom in Manhattan to my boyfriend’s humble Brooklyn dwelling that smelled of mothballs and cigarettes. He was an architect at the firm and my predicament left me in need of help. I tried to sell my flashy belongings on eBay and received no bids but several claims refuting their authenticity. I quit taking the addictive substances and reflected on my prior behavior with horror.
My weight ballooned as I no longer was on speed and could not afford a trainer. My expensive garments grew tattered from stuffing my now size-10 frame into my old size-4 clothes. I used what was left of my severance for stretch pants and sweaters from the dollar store.
At age 30, shortly after being let go from the architecture firm, I took a job as a receptionist at a SoHo fashion house. Now I am surrounded by young girls who talk down to me, as I had to my subordinates a few years before. My employers have no knowledge of my past accomplishments. I redirect phone calls, make coffee, unpack supply boxes and have finally been deemed worthy of ordering shipping supplies. As demeaning as my job is, I am lucky to be employed. My father’s business was a casualty of the recession, which left me nowhere to turn but inward.
Mistreating coworkers, wasting money on designer purses, and vanities like hair salons and spas are far in my past. I have taken out my extensions and admitted that I’m a brunette, though my breast implants serve as a constant reminder of the charade I once lived. I sometimes wonder if it was ever real and am beginning to see how far it is I have fallen. But it brought me to a good place. I am now in school, trying to achieve at 30 that which my classmates are doing at 20.
My boyfriend and I have suffered through the recession. He has been out of work for close to two years. Every cent I earn goes towards my tuition and we exist on the unemployment checks Alex receives weekly. I feel like I am drowning most of the time and money worries keep me up at night. I try and stay positive and hope to regain stability, but I know that I will never have the kind of money I used to have again. I won’t feel the opulence that I took for granted when I was far too young to appreciate all I had. I battle with a sense of entitlement and flashes of my old behavior occur now and again, but they do no one any good as I struggle to make a $300 rent payment and get groceries. “Oh how the mighty have fallen” does not even begin to cover it.
And yet, on this side of things, I have become a much better person.
http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-girl-talk-losing-my-job-was-good-for-me/
Friday, August 6, 2010
Shoes
why am i so tall.
http://piperlime.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=19794&vid=1&pid=769244&scid=769244012
http://www.thecorner.com/MARSELL/detail/tskay/7B4C1203/cod10/44250606SP
http://www.thecorner.com/MARSELL/detail/tskay/7B4C1203/cod10/44250606SP
Burberry Black boot...
http://abhfya.com/fuckingyoung/share-h-by-hudson-yorke-leather-strap-boots/
Love these stockings
http://www.80spurple.com/shop/product/116302/5256/purple-label-spectators-socks-brown
Cynthia Vincent for Target....
http://www.dluxelist.com/dluxelist/2010/04/cynthia-vincent-for-target-shoe-collection-launch.html
Figler Military boot.. bella
http://needsupply.com/mens/shoes/figler-military-boot.html
#why
http://piperlime.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=19794&vid=1&pid=769244&scid=769244012
http://www.thecorner.com/MARSELL/detail/tskay/7B4C1203/cod10/44250606SP
http://www.thecorner.com/MARSELL/detail/tskay/7B4C1203/cod10/44250606SP
Burberry Black boot...
http://abhfya.com/fuckingyoung/share-h-by-hudson-yorke-leather-strap-boots/
Love these stockings
http://www.80spurple.com/shop/product/116302/5256/purple-label-spectators-socks-brown
Cynthia Vincent for Target....
http://www.dluxelist.com/dluxelist/2010/04/cynthia-vincent-for-target-shoe-collection-launch.html
Figler Military boot.. bella
http://needsupply.com/mens/shoes/figler-military-boot.html
#why
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Many of you know I went on a mission trip in November of 2009, On July 1st and 2nd, Monterrey, Mexico was hit with major storms from Hurricane Alex, bringing destructive floods to the community. There is a lot of damage and many are left without homes, clothes, shelter etc. Please keep everyone in your prayers.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
wish you were here.
I am completely in love with this house, it truly captures my idea of tranquility
The disassembled antique timber-frame barns and reassembled structures make my heart melt
more about this architect click here.
http://architects.remodelista.com/firms/alex-scott-porter-design
big boots
boots this song is for you. dancin in my boots ... bootsy.
watched the weirdest movie ever this weekend "good dick" the only good thing that came out of it was this song.
watched the weirdest movie ever this weekend "good dick" the only good thing that came out of it was this song.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
"Wont you miss me?" you said inside grand central station
And your eyes grew red and wild before the chasin'
I felt your body move through my coat
I felt you footstep silent but
Heavy, you followed me in onto the shuttle
Tapped my shoulder one last time, that was all, that was all
hmmmm
I miss winter just because i miss when i knew you best
I miss the typewriter in the basement, i miss making your room . . a mess
I miss not being misused
I miss it all, so i guess i lose
Sea green, see blue
hmmmmm
September 2nd to april 13th, but who's counting?
Song after song after song after song amounting into mountains
He told me you beat her up
Behold the "super keith" on the cup
What's up, enoughs enough, where's my morning coffee?
I regret every single thing i ever said, i said those things too softly
hmmmm
There was you, there was me in the room with the alcoholic guest
You asked if we should sleep on these cardboard sheets i said "yes, okay, let's"
The sculptor we hardly knew, his limbs were lyin' ask you
Sea green, see blue
hmmm
You tossed your phone fifty feet in the air, i can't believe you caught it
You said whatever you wanted to as long as you thought it should be true
You dream, you make movies, you dance,
You moved to Montreal . . . to be closer to France
How's that working out, how's the music, how's the food
I know you wont stay there forever, i know you're gonna move . . . again and again and again
hmmmm
This is crazy, but i know i left you to be with your art
You always put me first, and somehow that broke my heart
Cause it's not my place to choose
My first love, and my only muse
Sea green, see blue
hmmmmm
And your eyes grew red and wild before the chasin'
I felt your body move through my coat
I felt you footstep silent but
Heavy, you followed me in onto the shuttle
Tapped my shoulder one last time, that was all, that was all
hmmmm
I miss winter just because i miss when i knew you best
I miss the typewriter in the basement, i miss making your room . . a mess
I miss not being misused
I miss it all, so i guess i lose
Sea green, see blue
hmmmmm
September 2nd to april 13th, but who's counting?
Song after song after song after song amounting into mountains
He told me you beat her up
Behold the "super keith" on the cup
What's up, enoughs enough, where's my morning coffee?
I regret every single thing i ever said, i said those things too softly
hmmmm
There was you, there was me in the room with the alcoholic guest
You asked if we should sleep on these cardboard sheets i said "yes, okay, let's"
The sculptor we hardly knew, his limbs were lyin' ask you
Sea green, see blue
hmmm
You tossed your phone fifty feet in the air, i can't believe you caught it
You said whatever you wanted to as long as you thought it should be true
You dream, you make movies, you dance,
You moved to Montreal . . . to be closer to France
How's that working out, how's the music, how's the food
I know you wont stay there forever, i know you're gonna move . . . again and again and again
hmmmm
This is crazy, but i know i left you to be with your art
You always put me first, and somehow that broke my heart
Cause it's not my place to choose
My first love, and my only muse
Sea green, see blue
hmmmmm
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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