My friend Andrea and I bonded the other day over our mutual attachments to furniture snobs who think that we have bad taste.
Andrea is married to Aidan, who is the ultimate mid-century modern collector. They have a gorgeous son together, and a dog, and they live in Los Angeles.
I am dating Caleb, who told me that the six Eames chairs that he has scattered around the apartment—which no one ever sits in—are comforting to him, so he needs to keep them, at the expense of basically all of my things.
Neither one of them are gay, I swear.
If they lived together, however, they’d have a gorgeous apartment. Although I’m not sure how much more gorgeous Andrea and Aidan’s could be than it is right now.
Today is a busy fucking day. Now, I’ve gone from being overwhelmed busy to angry busy. To add insult to injury, I have to run a half marathon on Saturday, for which I have not trained. At all.
So, rather than writing something idiotic, I’m going to just link to the posts of Andrea’s apartment here and here, on her sister Martine’s blog, so that you can salivate over it for a few minutes this afternoon. And salivate over Martine as well, because she’s really pretty.
As a side note, the hyperlinking on my blog is fucked up, but trust me, if you click on “here” when I say you should, it will lead you to somewhere.
