I should start by stating that, although I am from northern New Jersey, I am not Italian. Not even a little. I am, proudly, a gloriously cool mixed bag of ethnicities and cultures, but Italian is definitely not one of them. However, growing up in a predominantly Italian American town, having an Italian American stepfather, and visiting Italy twice now makes me safely say that I am an Italophile. A lot of the food I cook is Italian. Up until a few years ago I even used my stepdad’s tried and true method for checking the doneness of spaghetti–throwing it against the wall to see if it sticks.
Archive: June 15, 2008
For the past few weeks, my laundry room has looked like this. I’ve been washing all these great fabrics as I get them but leaving them in a heap awaiting the iron. This is also true of my actual clothes. Adam’s standard work uniform is no-wrinkle khakis and button downs that get dry cleaned, so almost everything in the laundry room was mine. And until earlier this week, almost every article of clothing I actually wear was in a basket in there. I was ironing as I go in the mornings, which is really unlike me. My closet is color and type sorted, usually I stand before it getting inspired with outfit ideas. I am embarrassed to admit this, but I even have a dry erase calendar in my closet so I can write down what I’ve worn all month and see how I can change it up each time (yes, I really am That Girl). Being fabulous takes a lot of work.