Confetti at the Ready

Last night an old friend came in to town who I hadn't seen in two, three years. It's strange how out of a loop you can be if you steer clear of it long enough (the career path I tried on despite the poor fit for a couple of uncomfortable years). We went to Florent and he wined and dined me, in a most deluxe fashion, and told me about how exhilarating it is to go to St. Marten by yourself and a few other things that are, of course, unbloggable.

Today I was at a friend's place before we did a little sweep through the gallery district of far West Chelsea looking for some highly acquirable contemporary photography, and he told me about an email he got from a semi-public figure but didn't forward to me for fear it would end up on some out-there blog somewhere. As if! Obviously, I'd have posted it here...(I am being completely facetious, dear). Also, afterwards, I swear I saw King Neptune in the Half King.

Tonight my lovely boyfriend surprised me with an exquisite, absolutely electric blue leather tote and a little "modern patchouli", just 'cos. Divine. It seems like, every step I take outdoors, little buds are bursting forth at every turn and spring is about to go all flower bomb (And you know, if New York, like Viktor & Rolf's "Flower Bomb" fragrance, actually smelled like bergamot, rather than hot dogs, as was the case on 26th street today, well then, I might never leave).

Have I mentioned yet that I am totally feeling the love?

In semi-related news: The New York Times discovers that handbag exhibition I saw last year; Forget about the been-there, done-that, Gates project -- where's our flower carpet, New York? ...and 10 With Trigger - Then It Hit Me, which I've always been fond of, on both accounts.

Image source: Martina Mullaney at Yossi Milo Gallery.