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Monday, April 4, 2011

Secret Fantasy: Elmer Bernstein Plays in my Dream Apartment

Like many New Yorkers, I daydream about real estate.

In my reveries, I have one of those breezy, perpetually April sun drenched apartments with windows too high to clean, a slightly overweight orange tabby cat on my polished hardwood floors siphoning up that steady supply of Vitamin D and an easy access fire escape with 1.25 plants and an eccentric girl next door who pops in and out so frequently friends refer to her as my roommate.

A thin pastel broad stripe sweater is necessary for some light reading of collected New Yorker shorts out on the escape and I pair it with creased navy slacks and sockless brown suede loafers. Through the buoyant gauzy white curtain, I hear Elmer Bernstein floating faintly in my apartment as I pour another whiskey sour in a chipped crystal old fashioned before Melodie comes 'round again to show me the coups she scored at the church swap meet and Mr Taurus comes home to make veggie fajitas

This is all a bit much, I know, but I owe a small fortune and a half to some doctors right now; let a boy dream. 

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I'm a fashion writer who writes for Bluefly, EDGE Media, VIRAL Fashion, etc. I use "It Can't All Be Dior" as a safe release for my love of coats, cats and cake. Phew!