Hermès Is My Vice


I don’t need much to make me happy and I’m pretty easy when it comes to luxury.  My personal style is traditional and classic, with a tad of boho thrown in the mix. That means when I buy something, I wear it to threads, as we say back home in Kentucky.  I do have one weakness though.  Silk scarves.  I love them.  I collect them.  I cherish them.

A starving gypsy living in Manhattan I had one vintage Hermès scarf that went with me everywhere. It was a treasure and I kept it close.  Always in my purse, shades of pink and blue, it was my silk security blanket. Perfect around my neck and shoulders on breezy, cool NYC evenings,  it fared just as well in the air-conditioned offices where I worked.  My scarf served as a dirty hair day head wrap that seemed perfectly normal on the New York City streets, and I wore it often as a belt through my jeans loops, and sometimes as a waist sash.  My scarf was a comfort on long flights to the west coast for work and short flights down south, going home.  Nothing is more comfortable than a silk scarf on an airplane. It cools when the air is thick and stuffy, and warms in that chilly blowing, recycling air.  My friends said my scarf smelled like me; Fracas, tuberose, vanilla and cloves.

When I got married and moved to Long Island, NY in 2005, I bought a 1997 SAAB convertible.  I mostly drove with the top open, even in winter.  One sunny afternoon in the late Spring of that year, on the highway in heavy traffic, my handbag sitting on the passenger seat, I lost that beautiful scarf as it flew into the breeze and fluttered behind me into the vast expressway I’d just driven.  I was wall to wall in speeding traffic and my scarf was gone forever. There was no chasing it, no saving it. I wonder if my beautiful scarf fell upon the windshield of a car that might have had an appreciation of the beauty and value of my treasured possession. I hope so.  I hope someone got it, saved it, and loved it.

Now years later, I own six Hermès scarves. They each are unique and beautiful, and I love them and wear them most often, but when I think of a Hermès scarf, I always think first of the one that got away.


A Chill of Mom-ness

I’m very protective of the children who depend on me.

I never thought that I’d be called mom, and now that I answer to that call, every time I hear that sacred name, I get chills and I’m taken outside of myself and into another realm.  That name “mom”  sends me to a plane of gratitude.  Hearing the word uttered,  no matter what the tone may be, makes me happy beyond the description I try to so desperately convey.

I  wanted to belong, to feel needed, and now that I’m called “mom” I attest that my purpose has been realized.

If I sound like a cliche,  please do forgive as I relish in this small window of wonder, as it is so swiftly passing.

Soon my child(ren) will be off and gone and I will again be that woman searching….

Wicked Angel (A Little Story)

It happened suddenly.  In my darkness he appeared.  He came right to me in the candlelit, cave-like pub a few blocks away from the solace of my home.  I was in the depths of grief and only came out at night, or when a caring friend would drag me, deeming it necessary I get out from under my cover.  I knew him from another past, and though he was familiar and bore striking resemblance to a painful memory, he was new and fresh, and he told me stories on my right side as my friend whispered “be careful” on my left.  His enchanting, animated stories in the abbreviated moment of that dark music hall enticed me as much as the storyteller himself.  The candlelight gave his eyes an amber sparkle that matched his perfect teeth smile.  He had a glorious energy and  for some moments in those hours  there in that pub I forgot that my heart was broken.  In the early morning hours after the band announced last call, I said I had to go.  He laughed and said the night had just started.

He followed me out into life.  He called and proposed  that we meet.  He had the same face as the love I’d lost, and rather than hold that against him, I embraced it.  He had a story, a sad one, just like mine, and though I’d heard this story before, I was blinded by the light of his incredible energy.  I didn’t see that he was a wicked angel.

He lived on the edge and tested the gods on any given day.  He claimed he was on the high road.  He’d left the rat race for a life in pictures and music.  He was the great editor by day  and worked well into night.  He finished things.  He lived in a room of darkness with the only light being the glare of  a monitor.  He cut things.  He took short stories and made them pretty. Or shorter.

He appeared out of nowhere, sometimes in the middle of the night, ringing my bell and begging me to come out and have a dance.  That’s what he called our nights out, a dance night,  because you see,  I am a dancer.  He had  a wonderful stamina of celebrating till dawn.  He talked a spiritual talk, how making music was his religion.   He worshiped his bass guitar and referred to his instrument as a woman.

He talked of his world travels and where next he wanted to go.  He had loved a Mexican princess  once who’d left him for royalty and now lived across the bridge in Brooklyn.  He admitted in a weak moment he’d begged her back, making a fool of himself on a New York City bus.   All his stories had strange twists and perceptions of the world, with a warped slant.  That was part of his maddening charm.

He walked with a groovy rhythm that he claimed came from years of creating a bass line for the music he played.  It was a strut, not effeminate, and sometimes rather cute, but soon I learned that his walk was a sign.  I don’t know why I didn’t see that he was a wicked angel.

He drank kava as a ritual.  There was a whole ceremony that came with it.  Sometimes he wore a sarong when he was in that kava mood.  It was something that was shared with him in some  South American country where he had traveled, and he thought it was his calling to share it with the world, or  with me late on a Friday night to calm my nerves after a tense week in my dreadful advertising world. His perception, not mine.

He sang me sweet songs that were meant only for me.  He wrote a song about me called “She Flies” and I admit,  I was touched by the gesture.  Even that song gave me messages that I didn’t hear.   His words were crystal that I couldn’t see through.  I didn’t want to see that he was a wicked angel.

He told me white lies and then I began to see.  He’d disappear for days, return and be bothered when I asked where he’d been.  He wasn’t full of goodness and pure energy in those days.  He was down and needed to pull the shades.  His apartment smelled of stale cigarettes and musty towels when he retreated to this place.   I tried to help but there was no helping him.  He lived by the code of the spoon till he’d have too much and have to do his cleanse.   His nostrils got raw and bloody, and he’d have nose bleeds at the most inconvenient times.  He’d miss work and risk his employment status.  His personality became dark  and he’d want to be alone.  He kept this secret from me for two years. I suppose I didn’t want to see because he was an angel, if wicked at that.