SPOTTED!

WHO: KATE HUDSON
WHERE: PURL KNITTING SHOP IN SOHO
WHEN: 4:16PM ON SUNDAY, 4/6/08
WHAT: PICKIN' UP WOOL IN HER KICK*SS BOOTIES

THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD...

FIRE ESCAPE FLORA WITH JANIE B

While it is true I am a girl of a great many attributes, I'm the first to admit that having a greenthumb is not one of them. I have a talent for killing most living things, large and small. I do not discriminate. I'm pretty much a fascist of the plant kingdom. It's a marvel any of the plants we've shared our home with have lasted this long. Lila, Leonard, The Gamork, even the Spartaguys have weathered my abuse and neglect for years and miraculously perservered. Thrived even. You can imagine their relief to have Janie B-Starr around. For years, JBS has entertained the harebrained idea of transforming our dining room into a Garden of Earthly delights. Last year, she planted a variety of species in egg cartons, coaxing the seedlings out of their tiny shells and nurturing them since birth. Unfortunately, it was only the lettuce that made it past infancy, mostly due to my rampant herbacious bigotry, and now that spring is here, she will try again.

Her second attempt is a clever terracotta penthouse designed to house a variety of kitchen herbs. The largest problem with apartment gardening is lack of sunlight, since no matter what side of apartment your place your fledgling crops, its damned to sit in darkness for at least half the day. Due to inclement weather, Janie B's keeping the seedlings indoors for now, but plans to move them to the firescape as its gets warmer. Tomorrow, she begins construction of her fire escape planter, made from the slats of an old bed. We'll keep you posted on the progress.

The forgotten stepchildren. Clockwise: The Gomork, the Spartaguys, Lila and Leonard.

AN ODE TO MARTHA & KING ALARIC I

Great great great great great great great Grandpappy Alaric, 396 AD

In case you haven't noticed, I like lists.

A lot.

This is simply because I am of European decent. Specifically, of Germanic origins, which means I'm unapologetically Anal Retentive. Type A to a fault. Martha Stewart is my hero. Rachel Ray is not. I aspire to be someone as disciplined as Madonna. Rachel Ray does not. It is completely understandable that most of you lazy, incompetent people do not share this same joy, and for this reason, you may not want to continue reading this post. I, on the other hand, derrive great pleasure from daily chores like doing the dishes or organizing my bathroom drawers. Sometimes I realize I've done the dishes six times in one day. Most times I'm washing them before I'm even done eating off the plate; hunkering over the kitchensink and stuffing my face while the water's filling. Nothing compares to the little thrill I get when peeking inside an IKEA closet system or a impeccably stocked refrigerator. Oftentimes Jaxie will catch me gazing inside the linen closet, admiring the rows of neatly folded towels and sheets. I sort M&Ms by color in my spare time. The clothing in my closet is arranged ROYGBIV style so that it mimics the simplicity of a prism's perfection. I can't help it. Its in my bloodline. If you think I'm neurotic, imagine how bad the Visigoths were back in the day, color-coordinating their separates while keeping the Huns at bay. We are multitaskers by necessity, man, its who we are as a people. Give us a break. Cut us some slack. Someone has to be the Monica on Friends. It sucks, but what can you do.

As a direct descendant of the Visigoths, I am a firm believer in the art of listmakery. Not only does it quell the demon voices inside your head, but it keeps you sharp, on top of your game. It makes you feel as though you're conquering the world when you're doing little more than scribbling on a pad of paper. This eliminates any vestigal tendancies we've inherited from our tribal forefathers, you know like firing a maelstrom of arrows and running people through with enameled blades and such. At any given time, I maintain about four or five lists and anywhere from two to five calendars. There's "The Work list", "The Sh!t2do List","The Shopping list", "The Wishlist", and "The Good List." All of these are essential to my sanity and imperetive to securing a functional way of life. "The Work List" obviously pertains to all things job-related -- I keep these in spiral bound notebooks and organize them on a bookshelf by year, occupation and company. Perhaps most crucial of all, is the "Sh!t2do List", where I chronicle a weeks-worth of imperative activity. Shopping trips, appointments, upcoming bills, chores, gym classes, impending purchases -- it covers everything and anything that MUST be accomplished before 12:59 on a Sunday evening. Subesequent "Shopping Lists" delineate exactly what needs to be puchased. "The Wishlist" and "Good List" are more recreational than anything else, with the former documenting items I hope to buy in the future (plasma screen TVs, sunglasses, sugargliders, Kara Janx bikinis etc...), and the latter cataloguing films, novels, and music I deem worthy of notation.

When it comes to Calendars, I've never been a fan of Outlook or Palm Pilots. They're good for reminders, but don't give you the satisfaction of actually crossing things off. In addition to meetings and conference calls, my At-A-Glance Desktop Calendar, is for things I don't mind my coworkers seeing, like my daily gym schedule, hot dates with Tom Brady or awards ceremonies at which I'm the keynote speaker. These are written in hot pink Sharpie. Personal, clandestine or otherwise embarrassing appointments are reserved for the pocket calendar I keep in my handbag. These are written in light pencil, in case any evidence needs to conveniently disappear. And the Dry Erase calendar in the kitchen celebrates the collective activities of the AstoriaGirls themselves: sexy parties, excursions, sporting events, trunkshows, voodoo rituals, you name it.

While I'm sure you all stopped reading at the photo caption, I am only writing this to give a little insight into my psychosis. Visigoths of the world UNITE!

-WILLA K

I SHOULD WORK FOR MASTERCARD

Roundtrip metrocard to Soho: $4.00

Over-priced small cup of coffee at Olive's: $3.75

Swatch of Liberty of London Print at Purl: $90.00

Getting the exact same thing for five bucks in Astoria? Priceless.

The Karma Wheel Goes Round and Round...

A now for a brief Parable:

Yesterday, I stumbled upon some Jersey girl's driver's license on the curb next to our local Chinese takeout place. I was about to sell it to the sixteen year old across the street to make up for my rampant weekend expenditures, when it dawned on me that maybe my string of bad fortune needed a push in another direction. I dug out some old "GOOD LUCK" stickers I received randomly in the mail, and sent the whole package back to the address on the I.D. The Karma wheel goes round and round, my friends. Let's spread the Astorian love.

MARBLE SAYS...

Though a good idea in theory, Buffalo Exchange doesn't quite live up to its overhyped expectations. If your intention is selling, make sure to bring only "in season" clothing, which means the clothing you'd wear during whatever season is three months ahead. For example, BE accepts only spring and summer looks from January onward. This is slightly counter-intuitive, since you typically clean out your closets post-season. Also be sure your clothing is clean and in pristine condition. No stains, no pilling, no snags. Design flaws such as uneven seams or faded colors are grounds for rejection. While they claim to purchase basics, I noticed they shy away from conservative, All-American outlets like The Gap, Express or J. Crew. While they'll snap up designer finds like candy, they're not adverse to buying knockoffs like Forever 21 or Old Navy. It may take several attempts before you figure exactly what brand of oddball attire they're looking for. I suggest taking a moment to study their clientle, and it should be fairly clear to you. If you're buying, plan on spending aproximately $25 a pop for a sweatshirt or tee, with especially trendy items going for more. It's not difficult to rack up a high bill in this place. While the selection is huge, I prefer the paired down array of carefully chosen pieces at Lovday 31 any day of the week. In conclusion, I happily give it:

$5 Worth of Lame

Steps: 14, 887

It's 1pm on a Sunday afternoon. You wake up, your head wedged tight in the grips of some metaphysical vice, jonesing for advil, some gatorade, and a tall stack of banana chocolate chip pancakes. You fumble open your wallet, speed-dialing Sanford's diner, only to find that all you have to tide you over 'til the next paycheck is a five dollar bill and a coupon for a 6-pack of Charmin. Sound familiar? I thought so.

Clearing my head with a strong cup of D&D hazelnut, I racked my brains for a way to suffer through this unfortunate Sunday. The AstoriaGirls had planned an all-out adventure to the new flea market in Fort Greene(http://www.brownstoner.com//brooklynflea/), but a high school tennis court crammed full of vintagey goodness is a terrible scenario when you're broker than broke. There was always the possibility of not shopping at all, but lets face it, what's more depressing than spending a Sunday indoors, stuffing your face with stale Grape-Nuts and watching re-runs of Degrassi High? So I formed myself a contigent plan: if we were schlepping all the way into Brooklyn in the first place, we may as well make a pitstop at that Buffalo Exchange (http://www.buffaloexchange.com/) everyone's so wild about these days. Spending time in Williamsburg always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but the possibility of making a few extra bucks selling my junky castoffs to some hipster in a fedora made the trip to Bedford Street vaguely stomachable. I'd even title my weekend post: How to spend five bucks and three bags of clothing on the best deal in Brooklyntown!

So off we went, with three whole duffel bags stuffed to the gills with crappy old duds we hadn't worn in decades, all freshly laundered, folded and squashed into three moderately presentable stacks. We showed up around 2:30pm and, surprise-surprise, the line wasn't terrible: Two goaty-looking dudes, and teenage girl with her father. Gwenny Deets and I took our place in line, while JBS took Miss. Marble to check out the racks. At first everything was sunshine and rainbows, everyone seemed happy-go-lucky, flushed and primed for a good ole Sunday barter. I even recognized the $400 petrol blue hobo I coveted last year, shimmering off in the discounted distance. But bit by bit, I started to glean just how this corrupt operation works: At the top of the staircase stood two hipper-than-thou Buffalo Exchange "Buyers" holding court behind matching glass display cases. We plebians lined up at the bottom, and like good little pilgrams, schlepped our castoffs up the stairwell for sacrifical slaughter. The female Buyer was attending to a colossal suitcase stuffed to the brim with colorful fare, which she pulled out item by item, stretching and shimmying before tossing them into a pile. It should be noted that this pile was full of unique, fashion-forward, and dare I say, expensive looking clothing. Surely this must be the pile she tallies, the good pile, the prodigal pile, but my stomach sank as I watched her shove it all back in the suitcase and direct its owner to the nearest Salvation Army. I gulped. Shuffled my feet. Discretely peeked into one of my duffels. Surely they'd buy my stuff. It was mostly namebrand labels, some of them with tags, and nothing beneath a J. Crew or an Abercombie. You know, the type of topshelf stuff people wear when they come from states beginning with "M." Despite her load of Samsonite rubbish, the owner of the suitcase had managed to earn a total of $153, which was heartening -- at least they paid well for the things they deemed fashionable. Fifteen minutes had passed. We moved up a step.

Next, one of the goatish boys brought up a modest trashbag offering of crumpled t-shirts. I scoffed. T-shirts. Like that'll work. A part of me smiled darkly on the inside as the Buyer tossed aside fifteen or so brightly-colored rejects. She then paused at a powder blue number emblazened with a dove and some generic Christian themeology. Oh yeah, she exclaimed, This Jesus stuff is sooo hot right now. Bam. Into the bin. She followed it up with a pink checkered button down, a pair of Timberlands and some lemon-colored Pumas. $53.00. Not bad. Apparently effeminite is in.

I was startin' to sweat. I could see what was going on here. My cool factor was being evaluated in a store entirely populated by people wearing skintight pants and aviators. Acidly ironic, yet oddly nerve-wracking. It was highschool all over again, except you were being judged by the losers who used to get shoved in the trashbins at lunch. I was already scrapping the whole deal, revising my original title to: How to spend five bucks on the best deal in Brooklyntown!, but Gwen and I kept moving, creeping like sherpas up this staircase of shame. A whole half-hour had passed and I was now only moments away from their glass throne, my heart pounding, my blood boiling at the obnoxious paradox to which I had willingly subjected myself. Gwenny Deets rolled her eyes at my anxiousness, ambivilent to the heinousness we were about to encounter. She'd done this kind of thing before, to wild success. And then, there we were: our moment of truth. We stepped up with our bags of abject loserdom, presenting a valid form of ID so we could be logged on their list of the tragically un-hip. I watched with set jaw and hard heart, as the design maven flicked through my bags, item by item, my pile of rejection growing larger by the second. When all was said and done, my cool factor amounted to an asymmetrical top from Forever 21 and an Old Navy trapese dress I accidentally shrunk in the wash. My retribution? $6.00. Which, while in retrospect is more than my original fiver, was a total slap in the face. Plus, you couldn't even redeem it unless you purchased something in the store, so I was coerced into buying that petrol blue hobo for forty dollars. Which technically changed my post title to: How to go twenty-nine dollars in the hole to get rid of two of the crappiest things you've ever owned. (Yeah, I did the math.) While Gwenny and I had our proverbial guts strewn all over the counter, Janie B managed to find $100 worth of goodies in the actual store. Apparently, if you have a closet full of horizontal stripes and extra-terrestrian redemption, you'll make a killing here.

Things that are cool in Williamsburg. (Okay, okay E.T.'s pretty cool in Astoria too)

The four of us hauled our bags to the local Salvation Army, where we handed them over to a homeless man selling things on the street. I take great pleasure knowing that the homeless man will make a goldmine selling our rejects back to those same persnickety Billyburgers. Yes, I watched as my heart grew two times smaller that day, shrinking with the hatred only Williamsburg can provoke. There was no Fort Greene Flea Market. No clever post title. No rejoicing. Instead, I decided it was more worth my while to spend my non-existent $5 on a loaf of bread on which to spread my halfeaten jar of peanut butter. THE END.

- WILLA K