I’m wearing a colorful patchwork apron with an applique fastened to the left strap, my ankles eased against an elephant-shaped foot rest. I am seated on a purple velvet armchair, reading a copy of Bigfoot: I Not Dead. I am twirling one strand of my hair with a quirky doorknob. I am occupying Anthropologie.
This wasn’t planned. It came about organically, this morning when I set foot in the Nordstrom Mall. I was browsing the windows of Betsey Johnson and Free People when I smelled something enchanting across the hall. It was a cross between new car smell and a better life. It lingered in the air as I made my way through the glass doors. An array of deconstructed rare (I assume) books hung above. That’s when I felt the first twinge of expensive-kitsch-borne oppression. [Read more...]