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Posts Tagged ‘rhinestone button’


Lord Tennyson said that in spring ones fancy turns to love, but I find that mine turns to adornment, sweetness and beauty. I have spent the day baking tiny ginger cakes, each pâtisserie a dollop of perfection wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a thin length of leaf green grosgrain ribbon to merrily distribute as springtime gifts. For my house-to-house cake excursion, I’m wearing fitted black leather 501s, harness boots, a cream ribbed turtle sweater, and a black velveteen jeans jacket with wagon wheel shaped, antique gold rhinestone buttons.
“In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast;
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove;
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”

(From Locksley Hall by Lord Tennyson, 1835)

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I am packing a wee snack in my vintage wicker hamper to eat in Golden Gate Park. There is an accordion-led gypsy band playing near the Arboretum, and I am meeting you by the largest oak tree; I want to stare at clouds, be tickled by new grass and smell spring wind its flowery way into my heart. I toss in three folded pieces of lavash, a hunk of salty Bulgarian feta cheese, a handful fresh mint leaves, a thermos of hot sweet tea, and three kinds of nut cookies…walnut and date, chocolate and pecan, and peppered hazelnut cookies. I throw on my leaf green and violet stripped velveteen jacket with Italian wagon wheel buttons, grab a book of poetry and catch the bus to the park.
Just a perfect day
Drink sangria in the park
And then later, when it gets dark, we’ll go home
Just a perfect day
Problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own
It’s such fun
Just a perfect day
You make me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good”

(By L. Reed)

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It is late afternoon on a Sunday. I’m sorting through scraps of flimsy remembrances and ephemera that come from a well-traveled heart, or at least that is what I like to think as I sit cross-legged on my Isfahani carpet surrounded by piles of folded bits of paper and trinkets. Anything pertaining to love is to my left, and anything pertaining to travels is to my right. Near the love pile, there is a magpie assortment of buttons that is topped with a fiery fuchsia rhinestone button, each button is a token of a flurry of kisses, an affaires de cœur, a sudden injudicious jump into uncertainty. As dusk settles in, I arise to fetch a china plate of Carrés de Noix de Pécan à la Vanille and put on the kettle for a pot of rejuvenating black tea. As I settle down with my hot sweet tea, The Dubliners are playing, and suddenly everything seems apropos.
“I met my love by the gas works wall
Dreamed a dream by the old canal
I kissed my girl by the factory wall
Dirty old town
Dirty old town.
Clouds are drifting across the moon
Cats are prowling on their beat
Spring’s a girl from the streets at night
Dirty old town
Dirty old town”

(By E. McColl)

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It is a beautiful day; the sun is rising brightly in an egg yolk Peep color, floating in a sky that is a flash of Faberge enamel turquoise blue. The cats are sunning next to me furry belly side up, their eyes narrowed lazily in contentment. I am still in my dressing gown of dusty violet quilted satin with chocolate brown flared satin cuffs and shawl collar and fastened with teardrop shaped pavé rhinestones buttons. I pour another china cup of strong black coffee, adding sugar and thick cream until it tastes like a candy bar. The portier has left a covered plate with breakfast; truffled scrambled eggs and roasted figs. I hum a little tune and open my guidebook.
“You better walk it
And talk it less you lose that beat
Better lose yourself mama
And knock yourself right off of your feet
Yeah, if you’re moving too fast
Want it to last”

(By L. Reed)

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I am staying in the romantically disheveled pensionne that Ms. Natalie Barney is rumored to have stayed at while pining away for one of her loves. As I bed down between the delightfully squishy down comforter and the worn starched linens, there comes a faint knock at my door. It is the concierge holding a tarnished silver serving tray upon which perches a telegram blessed with a single word, “Yes”. I wonder for a minute if you have been channeling Caresse and Harry Crosby, and toss the telegram aside in bafflement. Fastening the wagon-wheel antique gold rhinestone buttons on my quilted rust silk dressing gown, I order a plate of roasted plum and muscavado sugar cakes and a squat pot of rich black tea. In my opinion, tea and cake assuages many cares.
Blue Champagne – purple shadows and Blue Champagne,
With the echoes that still remain I keep a blue rendezvous.
Bubbles rise like a fountain before my eyes
And they suddenly crystallize to form a vision of you.”

(By G. Watts and F. Ryerson)

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It is 10 pm, and I’m taking a hot, sandalwood-scented bath while watching Guys and Dolls. I’m not sure if there is anything finer than wafting in a deluge of bubbles, while singing along with roust-about Nicely-Nicely Johnson and eating a hugely decadent slice of coconut and pecan laced German chocolate cake. Francy and Lulu have scampered to the kitchen to get away from the mad bathroom ruckus. The movie is almost over, so I pull the plug, dry off, and get dressed for a little stroll around the neighborhood. I’m wearing black 501s, my favorite green Docs with black and fuchsia stripped socks, a black ribbed wool turtleneck sweater, and a black suede wide-lapelled waistcoat fastened with black and rhinestone sparkling buttons. I figure the buttons will help me stand out in the dark.
“I dreamed last night I got on the boat to heaven
And by some chance I had brought my dice along
And there I stood
And I hollered “Someone fade me”
But the passengers, they knew right from wrong.
For the people all said sit down, sit down, you’re rockin’ the boat
People all said sit down
Sit down you’re rockin’ the boat.
And the devil will drag you under
By the sharp lapel of your checkered coat,
Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down,
Sit down you’re rockin’ the boat.”

(By F. Loesser)

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What does one do in Paris besides find sidewalk cafés to sit at, and so I do. I have decided to sit in 26 cafés while I wait for the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express to leave for Istanbul, one café for each letter of the alphabet. I will sample le chocolat chaud in each, keeping careful note in my diary.  On the first day of my finely tuned scientific survey, I set forth in a grey and violet mohair checked frockcoat with rhinestone and Czech glass buttons, grey velveteen jeans, a violet linen shirt, a black and silver polka-dotted ascot, and black and silver lizard-skin cowboy boots. The corner busker plays an Edith Piaf tune on her violin and I am content!
“Allez, venez, Milord!
Vous avez l’air d’un môme!
Laissez-vous faire, Milord,
Venez dans mon royaume:
Je soigne les remords,
Je chante la romance,
Je chante les milords
Qui n’ont pas eu de chance!”

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