My sisters and I were raised by a goddess of garage sales.  

Actually, no. "Indiana Jones" is a more apt comparison; her eye for treasure made the garage-saling of our childhood a Midwestern adventure.  I think she imparted some of her passion to us, as we've all been avid thrift store patrons since we hit the teens.  

This weekend, my ornery and amazing sister kaylyn came to stay with two very sweet college friends.  Of course, we visited the BROOKLYN FLEA.

UPDATE:

So, as usual I couldn't just let things fall where they may.  After writing Mr. Scott a flowery little letter, I received this response(!):

Ha!
I remember that!
The pants were great
I'm glad you like he work
S

...

My 15 minutes of fame rejection today:

I was nearing work this morning and got the much dreaded, but oft experienced sensation that someone was  watching me.  I could sense it was the bicyclist behind me, and he was creeping like it was his job.  When i turned around to express my disapproval of said creeping, I saw a familiar face.  I was scowling at THE Scott Schuman, yes, of Sartorialist fame.  If there was any doubt in my mind that he might not be the world famous blogger, I quickly noticed the smoking gun: his camera, of course.  Sadly, it was his job to creep, and my scowling misdirected.  

As I turned around he made a face. I am still unsure whether it was a grimace or a smile.  It was hot, he was on a bike, and riding uphill, so maybe he meant to smile? Most likely he was riding slowly to see if i was worthy blog fodder, got close enough, noticed the pools of perspiration, and changed his mind.  I am sad to say it wouldn't be the first time I was rejected from a favorite street style source.  Earlier this year Maria Mikkelson approached me for Nylon, but I never made the cut.  To quote a great trendsetter of our past, "OH WHAT A WORLD, WHAT A WORLD."

In other, better news, I finally got around to fixing my Hurwundekis!  The toes had been so badly scratched, I thought it better just to cover them right up.

lincoln was shot on good friday.

day off, sitting outside reading with the cats.  sarah vowell's public assassination didn't disappoint, and what better way to spend independence day than to surround myself with stories of patriotic murder. even better, i have a handfull of baby green tomatoes in the garden.  the strawberries are making a comeback too.  no matter how short lived our tenure here, i am so lucky to have this backyard.

 baby berries

 secret garden

 back of bed-stuy

 tomatoes

 tomatoes

catnip+basil

catnip trip

in the case of jarndyce and jarndyce

the unemployment rate is 9.1%, our deficit over 14 trillion dollars and i’m always broke.  the only medicine to cure this kind of financial depression is a trip back in time to the 1800s Occident.  

last week I went to the tenement museum for the first time. the LES has meant little more to me than gourmet donuts, authentic japanese and herds of NYU students, but our visit helped me develop a new perspective.  afterwards i couldn’t stop thinking about one of my favorite non-fiction books, the italian boy by historian sarah wise.  i’m a little scared to ask myself why i so enjoyed immersing myself in memories of victorian suffering, but i think it’s a little like wanting to see the freakshow at coney island.  to keep the mood alive, i went home and watched the pbs documentary, “triangle fire.” highly recommended if you want more fuel to fight the man.

starting with the italian boy, i’ve developed an interest in victorian england/1800s us where once i despised it. yesterday i walked to the strand in search of new victorian focused history books (settling for a sarah vowell instead), and i’ve nearly finished watching the bbc miniseries bleak house in 3 days.  this led me to another revelation:

I’VE NEVER READ ANY CHARLES DICKENS.

just one of those things that slipped by in grade school and i’ve never pursued.  do you have any favorites? do you even like dickens? my dad just read great expectations for the first time and loved it—maybe i’ll just try that again?