...this site is being phased out for the new host.

And, here's a link to the Somewhere Something bloggy , our new creative venture.

And, there's more exciting news, we've launched yet another new bloggy, this one is for your drinking pleasure.

our new creative site .

Welcome to Somewhere Something.

We're open for business, so feel free to give us some. Websites, graphic design, furniture, photography, architecture...some of everything creative and cool and beautiful.

the shes-krafty diary has moved. go there.

With the help of my non-technically challenged boyfriend I'm making the slooow transition away from my (insert insulting adjectives here) bloggy host to WordPress.

Watch the invigorating transition(s) at http://www.shes-krafty.com/blog/. 

Oh my god. It is going to be so excellent. When it's done. 

The end of the month has a beginning of the month optimism to it.

It's not "challenges remain" but "opportunities exist."

For example, today I'm wearing this Marc Jacobs top that has itty bitty little snaps holding it together in the front which sometimes remain closed and sometimes don't.

A wardrobe challenge, sure...but so full of opportunity. Simply wear a fancy bra for those pop, pop, pop moments.

And speaking of my breasts and popping, Valerie says she has some very nice video of me opening a bottle of Champagne in a low-cut dress.

That sounds so...explosive.

What's up, Buttercup?

I'm reading Richard Ford's The Sportswriter. It's full of beautiful sentences. Just flip to a page, and... "If there's another thing that sportswriting teaches you, it is that there are no transcendent themes in life. In all cases things are here and they're over and that has to be enough. The other view is a lie of literature and liberal arts..." (page 16).

Professionals go on vacation in August (it's well documented ) and those of us who rely on them fidget and toss and turn at night. A bit.

Some of my "I Make Things" supplies are out of storage which has filled me with inspiration. And now wanting. I want more of it. The inspiration and the stuff.

My health insurer rejected a doctor's prescription because...I'm too old. The cut-off is thirty-six. Ageist mother-effers. 

I am a woman who possesses (wow, that's a lot of ess-es) a wine cellar but has taken to buying cheap Oriveto at Big Mac's Liquors. $8.99 and it is oh-so-quaffable. I sip it (ok, sometimes gulp) and I think to myself: What painting is it best paired with?

It's summer still. It is. But the sky is gray and so are a few curly hairs on my head. But you can't tell. Because I get highlights regularly. My stylist is so not an ageist.

Pulling up old carpet is truly a disgusting job. Revealing beautiful, mottled concrete makes it worth it.

I like the new office . And it likes me.

My favorite breakfast is probably cold leftover Pad Thai, but those scrambled eggs I made this morning were pretty satisfying. And helped absorb some of that vodka I apparently drank like it was water last night. 

Congrats, congrats, congrats to Ilan Hall for a kick-ass party at The Gorbals last night. It's already a hit and hasn't even officially opened yet.

And the architect is pretty awesome too.

Wednesday is my favorite day of the week.

Corina goes to the market for Canelé and I tag along. She could do it with out me and has hundreds of times, but for the last few months I've felt essential, part of the team, the posse, the crew, the entourage.

It's an unofficial role that makes me officially feel important.

And lucky.

When I was fifteen I had a crush on a guy named Chris that everyone called Biff. He was on the football team and wore a dirty tan Carhartt jacket and drove a beater pickup truck that usually had his black lab in the back, even during class. He gave me a ride home from school once and I couldn't sit still I was so excited.

Just kiss me, just kiss me, just kiss me.

Please.

Or get me high.

Or both.

We cruised along, crossed the bridge from the mainland and headed down the one paved road of the island. Biff was driving too fast and the truck was bouncing.

Slow down, slow down-- so there's more time.

Slow down so you have more time to kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

I'm pushing my right foot down on the floor, like I can control the brake and suddenly there's this big ruckus in the back of the truck. I whip around to look, just in time to see the black lab rolling down the road behind us in the dust. 

Anyway.

Biff is who I saw The Breakfast Club with.

The first time.

A Summer Evening at LACMA means donning a pretty frock, nibbling on strawberry shortcake, munching on veggie burger with an extra soft bun, sipping cheap white wine, listening to a funny Calypso band playing the Beach Boys, and breezing through the Abstract Expressionism gallery.

Robert Motherwell, I love you . 

The other highlight was "From the Spoon to the City, Objects from Architects," a ridiculously small collection , but the pieces are choice.

Let us all praise the cardboard lounger by Frank Gehry.

And make one. I actually dreamed of gluing cardboard together last night.

Moving into a creative space this weekend. And I cannot wait to begin to create.

Off to the dentist for a cleaning/polish. Sitting in that goofy mechanical chair, bib around my neck, a stranger poking around in my mouth--makes me feel like a little kid being punished for sucking on too many Jolly Ranchers.

The boyfriend jean trend is so...fantastic.

Who doesn't want to wear super soft, slouchy, sexy jeans? I fully endorse it and have worn mine five days in a row.

(The frequent wearing also helps me justify the price tag for the Citizen's of Humanity skull and bunny pair I bought.)

Another item I've completely fallen in love with: DDF Glycolic 10% Body Lotion. Which is a really unglamorous name for a lotion that makes my skin feel oh-so-soft (and rids it of any bumps or lumps or whatever...not that I HAD any/very many of those things).

Splurge? Sure. Of course. Smiling all the way.

Rounding up cute boys for Charlotte's visit this weekend. One must entertain one's friends properly.

May actually venture away from this compound of delights that we call home to sample some of the big city's nightlife...foxy British friend in tow.

There's something about hanging out with a cute twenty-something blonde Brit that makes nights out even more, more. Eventful.

And first there's mani/pedi/wax/facial/soak/scrub. Sometimes the idea of all that maintenance sounds more like a trip to the auto shop than spa.

I'm spreading it out, the work to be done. 

Yon says I have a charmed life. And dude, I totally agree.

I crush on Don DeLillo in probably unhealthy ways...so I'm totally effing thrilled to hear that Cronenberg (who is also crush-worthy) is directing "Cosmopolis."

Yes, it is a story which "follows a 28-year-old multimillionaire on a 24-hour odyssey across Manhattan." Why is he on the odyssey?  Because he's getting a haircut. 

Who doesn't obsess about a haircut. 

Recurring anxiety dream: I run my fingers through my hair and huge chunks come out. 

Motivated for culture and an outing. Lazy for sunshine and pool. 

What I've read from the 61 essential postmodern reads: an annotated list.

(And what I haven't read may be my new must-read list.)

(And I really enjoyed the icons/criteria Carolyn Kellogg uses..."self contradictory plot"...my kind of book.)

William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

Haruki Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle"

Milan Kundera's "The Book of Laughter and Forgetting"

Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis"

Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter"

Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything Is Illuminated"

William Faulkner's "Absalom! Absalom!"

Dave Eggers' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"

Geoff Dyer's "Out of Sheer Rage: Wrestling With D. H. Lawrence"

William S. Burroughs' "Naked Lunch"

Margaret Atwood's "The Blind Assassin"

I've been making cards for Valerie Confections this week with the help of my perky personal assistant who may or may not be a better graphic designer than me.

There's a debate.

What is not in question is that the photographs I took for the VC cards are gorgeous and inviting and look like a world I want to live in: bright colors, beautiful people, delicious desserts, sunshine, and of course a refreshing beverage.

There were lots of giggles and near accidents as I tried to take this pic. And also sadness.

My mama and I were driving to the vet to comfort and say our last goodbyes to my sweet Alyosha. Being passed by the motorcycle pooch filled me with bittersweet joy. 

Oh I so adore my dog--all those years we had together.

The last three months apart from her were difficult for me. (And grossly misunderstood by others.)

Happily, Alyosha's life remained basically the same while we were away from each other: full of love and naps in the sun and walks in the park.

With her gone, it's the end of another important phase of my life. And this is bittersweet too.

It's a new era. The future is bright, bright. Hear me, feel me? Fresh happiness. For everyone.

Longish blonde has gone the way of a light brown bob. Just in time for summer.

Preparing my stamina for a big birthday party at The Compound tomorrow. Mimosas poolside at 10a.

Pace yourself.

(Hmm. Should have gotten a bikini wax today--may have to do shorts...or nothing.)

And now, off to LACMA for jazz and friends and Valerie's potato salad and paying too much for liquor in plastic glasses--which is to say it will be a perfect hot summer night night.

My new MAC lipstick is so lusciously red. My bikini is a jaunty, crisp white. And the sky is very, very blue.

 It's the same picture I (almost always) take.

As far as I'm concerned flip flops are for post-pedi's and poolside. Period.

Unless of course one decides to walk six miles in the heat and humidity in new shoes (in this city, this city, this city that just makes you want to walk and walk and keep walking...and shoe shopping).

In such circumstances flip flops are, well, essential footwear. 

And how funny, perfect, ridiculous is it that last night in my feeling-no-pain state (maybe should have skipped that Tanquery at Blue Ribbon in the wee hours) I actually got a blister on a blister. Damn.