GOOD BYE!

Dear Marc, or rather dear people who read this, whoever you are, wherever you are and whatever your reason for reading the random ramblings of this beer slut on this page,

I'm taking a break.

Feel free to mail me at emi@lovegun.net if you'd like a mail whenever there's something to read here or somewhere else.

I'm walking into the world as a new woman as I'm shedding the responsibility of writing hundreds of meaningless letters to a celebrated man of fashion.

What next? Who knows? Suggestions are most welcome.

Mark your mail with letsmeetupforscones in the subject line.
That would make me feel great, almost popular.

love
-e

Portia portia portia

Dear Marc, I want the Portia look.
what is she wearing? help me.
Where do I find it all?

love
-e

Updates

Dear Marc, my readers of your letters keep sending me news from your life.
I loved the suits you designed for Will Ferrell's sons demi-Swedish sons Magnus and Mattias.

And your workspace looks great too. Thanks to the web pages of NY Mag, we can all pretend we're sitting by your desk, sharing a joke or two with Robert Duffy.
















Your desk seems so clean, clutter free and organized compared to that of Lewis Kornhaus, NYU School of Law Professor.















Mom, see this? You have nothing to worry about! The NY Mag mentions a new book written for you, Kornhauser and myself.

love
-e

Fifi de copywriting

A sateen silk slip for an exceptional everyday life.

A bra proposing a cleavage of unexpected generosity.

Balloon sleeves top to be a starlet at wake-up !

I love Fifi.

Blog cannibalism

Nothing new from me, just pictures I find on other people's blogs. I love this picture too.
That's me on the right. I love my pinstriped suit and will not go anywhere without my beer.

love
-your own international businessman.

Fat lady sings the blues

Dear Marc, yesterday I was a very fat woman.

I wasn't any bigger than usual, but my heart went out to the overweight fashion lovers of the world.

What we see and love we can not have.
Our bodies stop us from it.

See these platforms? Know how great they look with yellow socks and a blue gingham halterneck dress? And perhaps a little scarf casually tied around my flowing hair?

I might buy them anyway, in the hope that they'll fit post-surgery.
What size should one buy when planning to remove large pieces of bone from the feet?

Should I just buy them and love them for their beauty?
Like the gold and white Marc Jacobs I treat just like real babies?


















You tell me!
You reading this, tell me what to do.

This is what they tell me is OK prior to surgery. Not the same, I tell you, not the same.

















am dreaming about this, which is way too expensive for me, but will look ok with clogs or barefoot.

Les quatre cents...

Dear Marc, this is letter 400. I hope that's ok by you.
By me, it's fine too, only thing is I don't have a single important thing to say to mark such an important day.

This is my life today:

Must write draft for web campaign.

Must find important background on sweet smelling body lotions.

Must remember my brother's upcoming b-day.

Must set date for return to Sweden.

Must finish work to be able to spend an hour in the sun with my man.

I will smell great, but perhaps not exactly the way he'd wish.
The other day, I visited a Bonpoint-store and since Joel wrecked half the store, I felt obliged to buy something, as a gesture of my peaceful nature and mature standing.

I looked around but could only find delicate, expensive pieces of clothing only sleeping children might wear without spoiling.

I might as well eat my cash with a little ketchup on.

In the end though, I found an item that an adult could use, although the bottle stated in contained perfume pour enfants.

It was such an insane thought, I had to buy it. Besides, in the store it had that perfect lemon drop scent I've tried to find for years. But as we returned home, it turned out to smell very much like the Annick Goutal scents I already have. And sure enough, she was the creator of this scent too! Turns out she's the sister of the Bonpoint founders or something like that.

I'll never forget the first time I wore Annick Goutal's Eau de Sud. Anders looked all confused and said "what's that smell? it smells just like that stuff they use to clean the men's room."

Not the reaction you hope for after shelling out whatever you pay for a bottle of French perfume.

And now I've done it again.

I'd better just start cutting a lemon in half and rub myself with it.

And if you run into urinal smelling kids, don't be alarmed. They're probably mine, freshly sprayed with baby cologne to take away that adorable smell of babysoft skin, silky hair and overall goodness that goes with childhood. Who'd want that? Not the French!

love
-e

Chocolate stingray

Now it's here.
Whyred Spring and Summer. For all of us who want to be chocolatey sting rays this season.

Lick me, I'll sting you.
.e

Back from the homeland

Dear Marc, I'm back.
Are you?

I took the plane, which I hate. I am always convinced I will crash and as I board the plane I solemnly look at my co-passengers who will share my sad fate. They always seem happy, bored or busy, never as seriously grave as one should be when having a date with destiny in the skies.

On the good side, I flew SAS, the air line with the oldest stewardesses. To me, this is in itself a reason to fly Scandinavian. Those ladies have been in the air since the days when it was a dreamy, glamorous job to ask strangers if they would like coffee or tea. That's a long time!

Only one bathroom was working.
I'm still cross people did not applaud my speed as I did my business in seconds out of politeness to other passengers also about to crash.

It's difficult even writing about my fear of flying. I feel it might be prophetic and that I will crash and people will point to the blog and say "look, she knew. but wait, if she really knew, would she have bragged about her toilet habits?".

I might, I'm so mysterious.

Come fly the friendly skies with me.

That top picture has nothing to do with this post. I just feel I have to share my kids and the LeGuelaff Breezes.

love
-e

Minute by minute

Dear Marc, in an attempt to make up for the long dry spell when I didn't post a single entry, but instead went to Bath and met up with loved friends (see top pic)I am posting you on the fly.

Like right now, I'm at Heathrow, on my way to Sweden for a brief visit to the IKEA HQ in the deep of Småland.

I'm drinking wine, cause I don't like to fly.
I hope I make it through customs with all these liquids inside.
It's so warm here, I had to strip down to a very flimsy Paul & Joe top. So now I will be perceived as a drunk menopausal woman on her way to the homeland.

Not the way I intended my comeback.

love
-e

ps. Heatrow or Heathrow? At this stage, the facts are hard to remember.

ps.2. those babies are twins. World, are you ready for the magic of Ted & Ruben? The cutest.

hungrig? hungry?

Alla som tycker om glädje och mat måste läsa
"om jag vore din hemmafru".

Read "om jag vore din hemmafru". Teach yourself Swedish if you must in order to understand. It's worth it. As a plus, you'll be able to sing along with ABBA in their native language.

Here's one more reason. to learn Swedish.

Put your freezer to better use.

Matte Stephens freezer. Who needs food?

Cute egg

One more reason to have kids: the oeuf neck-tie.

Art in mid-day

Rica Takada.

Art in the morning

Matte Stephens and his blog.

A great little piece of news

Our national church has finally come to their senses and now tells the world same sex couples are now also welcome to get married under a the roof of a Swedish state church just like any other couple united by love, passion or habit.

love
-e

I may buy this

Dear Marc, having read an appalling doom& gloom article on the potential environmental disasters our children and grand children may have to face unless the world changes its ways, I lay awake questioning myself.

The worst scenario left little to be happy for. The words ”only fungi survive” etched themselves into my mind and I tried to come up with ways I could alter my own contribution to the speedy decay of the planet.

I thought of the buy-nothing-day. It seemed so futile. A buy-nothing-month, or perhaps buy-nothing-year would make more sense. I’ve had my clothes and perfume swapping parties, but here in London I know few people who’d trade their clothes for mine.

Therefore I have decided to cut down on spending instead. Below are the few key items I may buy for the next decade to come.

I may buy:

One pair of sun glasses inexpensive enough not to cause mourning when (not if) I lose them

Two pairs of jeans, since that’s all I really wear and my favourite pair is stuck at the drycleaners after I lost the mending receipt

Tops, since the many machine washes of my few 3 tops is surely harmful to both the environment and my relationship to sound sensitive neighbours

Socks, cause A will soon notice that I’m constantly wearing his (much too big ones, with the heels making unattractive little pouches right above the back of my sneakers)

I may absolutely not buy, at any cost, whatever the circumstances:

Any more fun vintage party dresses in happy colours

Any more LBD’s

Any more nice shoes or boots, since with my feet they’re only a waste of time, money and cobbler talent

Nice sunglasses like everyone in Holland Park wear, (but if I’m lucky and look properly I should be able to find a dropped pair on the ground)

Should not spend money on:

Revolutionary Cinderella-effect haircut, since I should really have learned by now that they do not exist, especially not when offered by magazine in horrible make over seen by every acquaintance, ex and job contact in the country.

May perhaps spend money on:
Environmentally immoral trip to Sweden for haircut and foot assessment by trusted professionals like Hasse.

If failing to follow these rules, remember:

ONLY FUNGI SURVIVE.

Tell me your lists.

Love

-e

Or any other place

Anyone who's got a good idea for a quick escape from London for 2 people, please help. We love taking the train. And enjoy long breakfasts.

Bed, Bath and beyond

Dear Marc, I hear you're in Arizona, hope you're doing fine.
I'll be leaving the city too this weekend, going for a short trip to Bath.
It was decided after Anders uttered the highly unlikely words "Emi, what do you say we go to Bath and check out the Jane Austen museum"?

Have you or anyone reading this been to Bath? Know any good hotels? We'll only be staying for one night.

love

-e, who will soon go see Becoming Jane to get in the spirit. But will an empire cut dress I will not. Did it ever look good on ANYONE? I might run over some dry grass though. Seems that's all they did back in the day, sometimes hurting their ankles. You know I can relate to people with pains below the knees.

I had been warned

Dear Marc, you look so healthy now, I'm sure you follow a diet of Volvic, algae and organic raspberries. I'm all for organic, hoping new ways of old school farming will help the world and our health. But I was not prepared for the level of organic thinking they have here in the UK. Mind you, i had been warned. In one sentence, my new friend Natasha summed it up:

As soon as you get to London you're going to discover that the English middle classes are obsessed with organic food and willing to pay prices equivalent to a really good seat at the theatre for fair-traded organically produced green beans flown in from Kenya and if you asked me REALLY dubiously organic.

I had been warned. I should not have been surprised. Chewing on an organic spelt croissant (my apologies to French pastry-orthodox reades), Vanja correctly concluded that the treat was good but more bread than croissant.

After a supper of organic salad, organic salami and organic blueberries (flown in environmentally unsound, from Chile! The horror!) I went to bed.

I had a dream, like women my age often do, that I had another lovely baby.
The child was gorgeous and to top off my self-congratulatory middle classedness, she had a big brown liver spot on her back. At closer inspection, the spot read "100% organic". I bet not even Apple has that!

what did you dream last night?
love
-e

Everyday magic

How do Waitrose make them stop? Is it magic or magneticism?
Enigmatic!

love
-e

Do this don't

Dear Marc, did you ever try to try on clothes with two kids in your fitting room?
It's fun! But you'll never get to try on the clothes.

love
-e

When you want to feel cute or happy

Dear Marc when you want to feel

Cute listen to Nightingale with lisa ekdahl
Happy listen to last night with the strokes
In love listen to Tripping out with curtis mayfield

now tell me your best happy tunes.
I'm collecting songs for my upcoming walking tours of joy.
I want tracks that will make me explode from joy of living joie de vivre lebenslust
GIVE IT TO ME.

cute greetings
.e

As if losing Studio 60 wasn't bad enough

Rome! All gore and evil. Whorenius going berserk and everything turning ugly and sad.
I studied classics at the University. I marvelled at the ingenious plumbing, the heated floors, the aqueducts, the terme, the paintings, the tragic of Pompeii and Herculaneum, the intrigues, Anthony & Cleopatra, Cesar & Cleopatra, the women, the gossip, the colours, the gladiators, the madness.

I went to India, partly because I think that is as close you can come to ancient day Rome.

But never once did I imagine you could take all this, all that was once Rome and make it into a tv-series that couldn't hold my interest for even an hour. Does it pick up after the first episode of the 2nd season?

This is what I turn to, in my hour of disappointment. I stole it from my dad when I was 12, it has never ever let me down.

love











-Niobe

Bags bags bags

Dear Marc, people assume I am obsessed I'm with you because of the more than 350 letters I've written so far, but I ask you and the readers of the world, who's more of a nut, a blogger or any of the thousands of women who pay large large large amounts to be walking ads for the marc's label?

Ok, so I may still bring home the nut trophy. Perhaps I should venture over to the other side and get a bag instead. Problem is that I'm one of those people who have problems hanging on to the material world. I get lost in thought and lose things as I go, leaving a trail of jackets, wallets, books, and (one time only, promise) stroller behind.

I'm a woman of woman born. Naturally, I too, would like to have a nice handbag. But I couldn't buy a nice one, since I'm so certain to lose it.

You may wonder how such a distracted person dare to have children. Here's the great thing about kids: They know your name and recognize your face. So if you could only make a bag that cries out "Emi, don't leave me" when I accidentally forget it on the subway, I would seriously consider buying one.

I, and other potential customers would appreciate the multi-voice settings such a bag could have. You could have your own mellow MJ-voice built in and let customers choose between add-ons such as "the arnold". "the ellen" and the "Barry White".

I think this could be really big in Japan.

Love from the department of unsolicited product development.

In my part of London

Dear Marc, enough is enough, you will not hear a word more on the topic of my feet. Even I am so sick of this!

Instead, I'm focusing on the good. Let me show you the charms of my new neighbourhood.

Isn't this the nicest plantshop you ever saw? Can you see the plants and flowers embracing the house itself? Flowers love it there! And isn't that word "nurserymen" so comforting? I'd love to have a bunch of them at home.






I pass this car almost every day. See how it's so pretty even the tree behind it is trying to impress it, breaking out in bloom although winter's not even over? I understand. I find myself putting on a little gloss when I'm about to pass this car. I think she's Italian, and as all Italian women, she makes me a little self consious cause she herself is so...Southern European and well put together in her bite sized format.














This is a kind of sign I've never seen at home. I understand they refer to the room, but I can't help myself from thinking about the actual toilet. Perhaps I'm alone in this, but I feel this sign was put up to stop the Borats of the world from thirstily going headfirst into the bowl. Very incontinent tap too.






















love
-e

To illustrate my point

What will this look like when I have to team the dresses above with my new MBT's?

What I want for Christmas: miracle cure that make bunions disappear into thin air.

Ps. John, if you're reading, that emergency outcry below goes out to you too. Perhaps you could create a pink satin MBT with a little fake fur trimming? As a visual tribute, I'd don a thin mustache to thank you.

The verdict is in

Dear Marc, would you like to see a little bit of my skeleton?

Great, here you are:





















The image to the right is a colour drawing of my foot. The only thing missing in this picture is a twin bunion on the other side of the foot, placed in the middle of the small toe.

As you can imagine, having double bunions on already wide feet presents me with immense shoe problems. I was looking forward to surgery, dreaming about little stilettoes, Jimmy Choo miracles made of nothing but gold thread and perhaps a few sparkling stones and a little smiling cameo face of Tamara Mellon inserted into the heel, but those dreams were crushed yesterday.

I went to see a podiatrist who told me surgery was only a great option if I could not take two steps without experiencing the worst of pains.

She also told me that since I do not hurt barefoot, "your shoes are the problem, not your feet".
This leaves me with the rest of a very long future, the rest of my life, in comfortable and therefore ugly shoes.

WHY? WHY CAN NOT ONE TALENTED DESIGNER ADDRESS THIS ISSUE?

Why are we, the already handicapped, left to wear shoes that would only make a hairy hobbit happy?

Shocked by the news of my future, I went into overdrive and bought two pairs of very unflattering but anatomically correct trainers for many more pounds that I can afford. I wil return them tomorrow.

Between Darfur, the environment crisis and your president's plans for Irak, the state of my feet is a very minor issue for you to ponder, Im sure. But I'm not alone! There is money to be made from our growing bunions! You could take our cash and give it to the charity of your choice.

Then, bunions would finally be a source of not just pain, misery and grief, but also of new hope. You could make that difference.

Ps. This letter is not only for your eyes, Marc. Manolo, if you're reading, Stella, Christian L, Yves and Miuccia, if you feel like giving it a try - do go ahead. I'm not picky.

If you have an RSS feed

you must hate me.

Dressing in the difficult years.

Dear Marc, in the words of Britney spears I would like to tell you that:

I'm not a girl,
Not yet a woman.
All I need is time,
A moment that is mine,
While I'm in between.


I thought that at this age (which I'm not disclosing, I'm younger than you but older than Brit) I would surely have reached a more womanly state of mind. But I have not.

When will this pass?
Do you know?
You must have heard this lament from thousands of women? Your latest Marc Jacobs line was so day dreamy, but too mature for the ingenue in me. I'm more drawn to the Marc by Marc Jacobs line, but unfortunately my interior ingenue is not reflected by my exterior, the body and face that the rest of the world sees. I'm like Dorian Grey's portrait, reversed, the way age usually works.

I'm looking for ways to make peace with this ageing, that came out of the nowhere called time. Especially for this weird phase between girl and real woman.

I think this is what I'd like to be wearing in the moment that is mine, the in between time.
























Look, she's not wearing heels and it looks OK. What a relief for sore feet. All I need now is much longer, sleeker hair, and a more inuit-ish face.

This third look I'm throwing in for fun. If it looks like this on a super slender teen model, imagine what it will look like on women who can actually afford Givenchy.

That understated detail

Dear Marc, I'm sure you're a Sartorialist addict, like the rest of the fashion world.
Do you know, that by know, he's so popular, there are now guides on how to get snapped by him? He's so loved, he's now known simply as Sarto.

Did you ever get snapped by him?
I'm sure you did.

love
-e, who hasn't been snapped by anyone by myself in the past 15 years.

Time was once on her side

Dear Marc, did I ever tell you about mom's watch?
I think not.

My mom had a watch and oen day, the arms of that watch started turning counter clock wise, making mom younger by the minute. And as much as I love her, I can't understand why she had it fixed. It was some kind of miracle watch, the kind you'd think you'd only find in a South American novel written by Isabel Allende or Gabriel Garcia Marquez. But we found one at home, in boring but nice Stockholm. Everyday magic, it exists!

I think such watches would make great gifts to the stressed out urban crod. I don't think most people buy your baubles to know the time, do you?

love
-e

Bad vision = Smooth hands

Because of my poor vision, I have used hand lotion on my face thrice in the past week. Every time, I'm equally annoyed with myself. But my hands have never been softer. They've been treated with premium cream intended for use on a dry face.

And you know what a nuisance my hands have been!
First I wrote you this, then this.

Perhaps this is the answer! Never before has my poor vision been a source of my gratitude. But now, I dare say it is.

love
-e

Playing with food, 3

Dear Marc, the only reason I send you these food pictures is because that's all we do at home when the food is not on our own faces.

Here's today's breakfast. (And no mom, I didn't serve my girl toast that carcinogenic. Promise. Call me if you're worried, and I'll explain how Photoshop works when it comes to contrast and saturation)

Playing with food, II

A crab...






















...meets his maker.

Meet the fam

Listen to the music of my cousin Juvelen.
Disco to HANNA.
Love
-e

My feet - my burden

Dear Marc, following a week of hard work and no play, my boss told me to go get myself something nice at Liberty.
First off, I had lunch at the art cafe, in the company of an issue of Australian Gourmet and travel. We shared a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs and silky smooth salmon on toast. Plus the requisite pot of tea. Gourmet told me to finish off the meal with an terrifically tart lemon tart. I obliged.

Full and content with life, I wandered about Liberty. I started with shoes. Sadly, my feet have now spread so much that I can only wear trainers with orthopedic soles. I walked around the shoe department like a diabetic in a candy store, like a recovering alcoholic in a bar. What I want will hurt me. I can't buy shoes. I might have to shell out for surgery instead. I've read up on the surgery I might need. Post-operation recovery requires at least 6 weeks on crutches. I think they mean per foot.

How do people manage?
How will I manage with two kids while I'm on crutches. I'm sure you have nothing to say about this, but perhaps someone reading this has had a similar experience.

All the women on my mothers side of the family share my kind of troubled feet. My aunt swears by her MBT's. I'm curious, but not sure my current feet will fit in them.

To my great sorrow, I could not buy shoes. I went looking for the second item no privileged western woman can live without, the perfect cardigan. I found two and bought both that top one from KIND and a second one from Rützou.























I'm sharing the pictures here, cause this might be the first and last time they are seen without coffee spills, porridge stains and traces of mud. I have a dream, to be the kind of mom that stays elegant through play and meals. But I know I am not her.























Love
-e

A life in three pictures

Living like Gwyneth, environmentally friendly mom-driven transportation device.























Hovering in Hyde Park, thanks to overall happiness (and perhaps too much broccoli soup).























Hurry while supplies last! Limited stock!