good friend #1:
"i imagine the inside of the easter bunny's basket being some sort of dreamy mini universe that marries willy wonka's chocolate factory and seurat's "a sunday afternoon on the island of la grande jatte ". add the coug in there somewhere (we don't have to intereact... i just feel comfortable that he's there...and might strum a song or too) and i'm set."
good friend #2
"...i think that right now, i guess, it would be beruit singing for me at a lake house with warm weather and bike trails through forrests, swimming and a tree swing, campfires and grill outs and friends.
or maybe i just want it to be summer..."
as for me:
reading the sunday nytimes in bed, with a chocolate croissant, vanilla soy latte (both on a super fancy bed tray), 1000 thread count sheets, cashmere socks and worn out flannel pj's, some sort of chill music (think silje nes or beach house etc.) the smell of lavendar in the air and maybe some birds chirpin', even though its raining (in my happy place it always rains) OH! and a puppy -- gotta have a puppy.
shit, i'm such a product of my demographic.
what's yours like?
as for me:
reading the sunday nytimes in bed, with a chocolate croissant, vanilla soy latte (both on a super fancy bed tray), 1000 thread count sheets, cashmere socks and worn out flannel pj's, some sort of chill music (think silje nes or beach house etc.) the smell of lavendar in the air and maybe some birds chirpin', even though its raining (in my happy place it always rains) OH! and a puppy -- gotta have a puppy.
shit, i'm such a product of my demographic.
what's yours like?
5 comments:
you are definitely a prod. of your dem. if reading the newspaper is in your 'happy place' considering all the shit news about awful shit happening in the world.
my happy place might be all the rest of yours, but i ain't reading the paper- i am getting oral pleasure from a hot cabana boy and not thinking about any of that mess o' world going on around us! and instead of a chocolate croissant, i've got a box of 12 gail ambrosius chocolates, and my latte is a glass of wine.
Forever watching the last episode of the (British) Office. Disclaimer: not because I think it's better than the US version, which I do, but because it makes me cry/laugh in a way that no television show ever has. This happy place includes Ricky Gervais watching it with me, handing me tissues and red Kookaburra brand licorice as needed, and doing "the dance" to cheer me up.
bus rider- a little 'third base' action with a cabana boy-- you naughty guhl! as for the nytimes, i only allow myself to read the style,arts,travel,book review sections and the 'magazine' on sudays. i save informing myself of the world's morbid state for mondays thru saturdays.
as much as tannins make my toes curl with glee, yes, i will still take my latte-- with a little bit of cinnamon on top thank you very much.
like a falcon- something about ricky gervais' spiky incisor fangs really makes my butt tingle. the show extras next to the office are two top quality shows, and its no coincidence that he's on both.
this kookaburra liquorice sounds divine, i shall put my panda liquorice aside and try some.
My happy place is something that is very much attainable, it's just a matter of getting it all lined up right...a rarity.
It's when in the early morning hours (season: summer/early fall) there is a good rain going outside that you can hear and smell. There's absolutely nothing planned for the day, and you're wide awake but you have no reason to leave the bed. The whole day is spent indoors but it's as if you're at sea and creativity runs high and is endless.
Additional elements to this rainy day fantasy are:
a. the s.o. being there
b. every color and texture of yarn being at my disposal and I am magically blessed with infinite amounts of knitting/crocheting skill
c. really good leftovers to eat. the kind that taste better after sitting in the fridge overnight and may not even need reheating.
There you have it. And that's the truth, Ruth.
My Happy Place:
a rustic outdoor kitchen made of smooth riverstones in some obscure tiny village outside London, with all my friends around. I'm roasting some savory bird and root vegetable from my drizzly garden and we're drinking insanely good wine and someone is playing their guitar. We're warm from the brick oven fire. And someone else brings dessert - brownies. And I'm on board with a puppy of some sort. Preferably a French bulldog, but I'd settle for a Boston terrier.
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