Covetworthy

For years, I have been pining for a Proper Home Library. (By “Proper Home Library,” I am not referring to the two shelves in my dank cave home office where the esteemed works of Emily Bronte, Maya Angelou and Stephenie Meyer Malcolm Gladwell live.  I mean a wall stocked neatly with books of beautiful prose and thought-provoking tomes, and a beautiful upholstered reading chair befitting a smartypants glamourpuss like me.)  Whenever I visit someone’s house and their books are displayed fashionably, orderly, prominently, proudly, I get a real bad case of the envies.

I have no space for a PHL of my own right now. The sexy hilltop lovenest we bought seven years ago now has exactly 100% more humans and approximately 300% more noise-making plastic things that must go…somewhere. So imagine my surprise when, surfing for beautiful things to write about on this blog, I came across this.

How gorgeous is THIS?!? I am enthralled by this and it just proves my point. Covetworthy Tip #938:  Open your eyes. Covetworthy is everywhere. This is elevated beyond a library: it’s an art piece, a conversation starter, and yes, the mother of all geek chic projects. I mean, who organizes their books according to jacket color? Are we in agreement that this will make it impossible to find a specific book? But aren’t we also in agreement that we don’t give a rat’s ass if the results are this good?

This photo has inspired me to create beauty around me and to find luxury in the little things, the mundane, the everyday. So today I’m starting with my bookcase.

What are you inspired to make more beautiful?

Earlier this year, I had to end my relationship…with television. After making sweet love to my Tivo all winter, I decided to break it off with my remote and go back to the books. I went literal, literally.

I have been an avid reader all my life, but for too long saying those words was cowpie. Living in NYC, I exhibited all the symptoms of a real reader – my four room apartment had but one television, on which I watched Seinfeld and the occasional rented video. I finished a book a week MINIMUM and frequented lit lovefests. Now my home has two more TVs than bedrooms, all but one have DVRs and my two-year-old can wield the remote with the best of ‘em. It’s just wrong.

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It’s September 15 and I have finally gotten through all my September fashion mags. Heav. Ennnn. Advertising dollars are down so I expected them to be a little SlimFast this year. (Like the Sunday NY Times, which is damn near as skinny as US Weekly right now.) But to my joy and surprise, they were as swollen and voluptuous as ever, all the better for me to dive into one of my favorite autumn pasttimes!

See, I have this ritual. I stack all the magazines in order of reverse relevance. The top of this pile is the least of the bunch, the non-essentials, the take ‘ems or leave ‘ems. Kind of like the step-cousins you get seated next to at weddings. They offer mild amusement at best, but no substance. Once seen, quickly forgotten, never again referenced. Sorry, People Style Watch, that means YOU. (And, ummm, how did you get my address in the first place?)

Next up are the Fluffy but Fabulous mags, like a gaggle of giggly cousins that are always available for a good laugh and a good dish. Lucky, you make me nostalgic for when I spent Saturdays flitting from shop to shop and every nail hut, bookstore and Tasti D-Lite in between. Ah, InStyle, the hours I spent pilfering those sticky tabs from Lucky to adorn your pages. And, W, all rich bitch and insidery, bragging about your polo matches and Hamptons weekends. What-evah. I still love you, even though you try just a little too hard to make me like you.

Then the ubercool Big Sisters, the ones that serve up you-need-to-know-this journalism with you-know-you-want-this photo spreads. Essence. Vanity Fair. And I’m forgetting one… Oh, O.

And at long last, after I’ve devoured and tabbed and dog-eared and discarded, I have finally, blissfully, reached the bottom of the heap, which is actually the creme de la creme. Vogue, the well-meaning (and original Mean Girl) grand dame who sits so high and deigns to look so low. She doles out her advice, her suggestions, her proclamations, and yes, her withering disapproval. My loyalty to Vogue is rooted in tradition: I kiss La Dona’s ring because I always have. Sitting at her side are Elle and Harper’s BAZAAR, the benevolent favorite aunties to whom I am wholly besotted. They take Mama Vogue’s hardness and soften her edges, dispensing trade secrets with nods and winks, tongues firmly planted in cheeks; all the while, expecting, encouraging me even, to use my inner compass and direct my own style path.

I know this post probably bores the patterned leggings off some of you, and I’m fine with that. I’m too engrossed with the family to notice.