All good Americans go to Paris when they die. Thomas Appleton, a 19th century American rich-boy, artist/writer/arts lover, said that.

It may be because I'm reading David McCullough's new book The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris or that I'm watching Julie/Julia right now or just my general neuroses but I've been nostalgic for ma belle ville more than usual lately. Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic, but Paris is always a dull ache in a small corner of my heart. Something always pulls me back to that city. And I'm not the only one. According to McCullough's book, thousands and thousands of Americans crossed the Atlantic to see and learn in the City of Lights in the 19th century. Many went back again and again, while other just staid.

More than anything I want Appleton to be right, or I guess not quite that far but I think if my version of heaven could have a slightly cleaner Paris, where the metro always runs on time because the workers never are on strike and I'm never without someone's hand to hold whilst strolling in Parc Monceau and I could live in the Musee Rodin . . .well I think I'd be vachement contented. But I suppose more than that I want to go be the good American who goes there again while she's still living. I've never been in a city that I felt more immediately at home in. I was comfortable as soon as the jet lag wore off. Is it possible to fall in love with a city? I never thought much of Paris as a teenager or really at all until I applied to study there. I thought it was the city that people pretended was wonderful and put into bad teen movies about vespas and twins and fashion. Which of course, it absolutely is not. But in some ways, it was like it was meant to be. Now that I've put enough vaseline on the lens of the camera filming this post, so everything is misty and glowing, I suppose I only have one thought: read Mr. McCullough's book. Eat it up like chevre and chocolat. And then go get a private French tutor . . .I know I probably should.

Here's something I love: rompers. Some people call them jumpsuits, but I find that name to be a bit off-putting in a mechanic or state penitentiary way. And if you're my sister, you find it to be one of the more distasteful or at least desirable pieces of clothing for an adult woman to wear. But I can't help it. I am a sucker for a semi-artsy, sort of funky and somehow vintage romper. 1.It's one-piece and you can't tell me that's not all kinds of convenient. Like your favorite dress you can just slip on and go. 2. Well, I'm not sure what the second thing is, except I have an inexplicable draw to this sartorial bit. But don't worry, like nearly everything in my life I'm rather discerning. I don't like every shiny rayon poly-blend teeny-bopper 1972 throw back jumpsuit I come in contact with. I prefer the Anthro vibe. I seem to be in pursuit of the perfect romper in a strange sort of way. It was this pursuit (and I've achieved it with these 1930s feeling overalls I made a few years back) to complete a rather hair brained scheme of making a romper out of men's dress shirts.

This story begins with me researching pictures of overalls for a costume viz for the scene I directed for a class final and Google images brought up this little gem:

It's a men's romper . . .a strangely terrifying, albeit fascinating idea. Mostly just icky. This picture then lead to a styling idea picture, which showed this jumpsuit with this sad blazer and mule sandals. Tragic and not any kind of ok in my book. But it did get me thinking. What about that? What about using oxford material to make a romper (a girl's romper)? A good idea, right? So that's what I did. I went to Saver's and by some sifting miracle, I found two sizes of the same Ralph Lauren shirt. And I used the bigger one for the legs and the smaller one of the top of the romper.

It turned better than I anticipated (aka really well) and it's pretty darn adorable. The cuffs of the bigger shirt's cuffs are now the cuffs of the legs. I mean, come on that's a pretty good idea. Right? Anyway, it's drop-waisted, oxford cuteness and I love it.

But I finished it about three and a half weeks ago and I haven't worn it yet (hence no picture). Why? I think I'm still trying to figure out the right time and to be quite honest, the right styling. Valid question. Red flats? Most likely. But what about the hair? Should my luscious locks be up or down, braided or head banded? So many things for me to wonder.

It is an important day, y'all. An important day. I went to the movies. And guess what I saw?

That's right. And it was a fat sack of expecto patronum fantasticness! I mean, holy Hogwarts!

I'll spare you the whole "it's the end of an era" stuff. Even though, I'm feeling the same way I felt after finishing the seventh book . . .like the story I had personally discovered (and what 11 year old that picked up The Sorcerer's Stone at their school's book fair the year it hit the US of A doesn't feel like they discovered Harry and consequently grew up with him?) had ended and I wasn't sure what everyone was supposed to do without a midnight showing or reading about the world we all wished we were a part of. I also felt some things were rather perfect, giving me the satisfied feeling I was longing for in this 2 hour 40 minute goodbye.Neville standing up to Voldemort in a fair isle sweater, was a highlight. Although the standing up was rather wonderful, I'd have to say it was the sweater that did me in. Boys, are you listening? Do like the Britts, wear knits of the fair isle variety.
Ooops! Not exactly a high light of the film per say but it doesn't bear ignoring. Why hello Neville, I would love to go out with you in your three piece suit, felt flower boutonniere and darling self. Just let me slip into something a little less like yoga pants and arts institute tshirt and I'll be right with you. Who'd a thunk? And I know you can't tell in this picture, but he has a really nice smile, which includes good teeth. Sweet mercy. The dark horse of attractiveness in the Harry Potter race.

Other highlights include the protecting of Hogwarts (I literally felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as those beloved fictional people got ready for battle) and Sanpe's unrequited love and a few kisses (one more satisfying than the other). Not to mention the bit that made me cry in the book and the movie (spoiler alert: it has to do with a convo between Harry and his mama). Part of me says the whole dream-realizing thing was a highlight (I know, right? I must have it pretty bad)

Maybe it's the ownership I feel from the first time I randomly chose the first book out of a line up that makes me all misty-eyed for the bravery, friendship and triumph after a struggle that's in this movie.
Even more than that, I rather lamely ask myself "would I be brave enough for that?" I fancy I would be. I fancy I'd be clever and brave enough to be part of their gang, kicking Death Eater butt and taking names. But what kid who grew up with Harry, Ron and Hermione doesn't?(Can you see me? I'm running just behind Ron . . .too much? ok, ok, maybe. I guess there's really only room for one Ginger in the posse, I'll just have to accept that.)

I seem to always hear people talk about summer reading lists. You know, almost every magazine has some variation of the "summer reading: what's hot" or "beach reads" etc. Well the past little while, about 4 days actually, I've been pondering over my recent summer reading selection. And I've found myself in Siberia. Sentenced to eight years hard labour along with Ivan Somethingorothervitch.

Yes, I'm reading a Russian novel. Don't worry it's not Crime and Punishment or War and Peace or something else, long, vodka-soaked and generally beautiful in a cold, once-glorious way. It's A Day in the Life of Ivan D . . .well, I've forgotten his last name. And goodness me. I am lost in the literary wilderness and have no foreseeable way of getting out of it except finishing that day with Ivan in the "special" or hard labour camp.(can you believe it's called "special" camp? If it wasn't so puke-inducing sad, it'd be funny). It's 130 pages of one day. One day. Chew on that for a while. And I can't read it at night, or I end up having dreams about bed bugs, frost bite and grey oatmeal. There are few things worse than reading a lengthy description about grey oatmeal and how it's made. Grey oatmeal. Grey oatmeal!

Don't ask what possessed me to choose this novel of all the thousands of years of literature. And please don't ask what compels me to keep reading. I don't even like Ivan all that much. He just makes me want to cry because he had scurvy. So tonight I think I'll take a break from the haunting, grey oatmeal world of special camp and go for something lighter. . .where's my copy of Jane Eyre?

Well, it's July and I've decided that perhaps it's high time to stop mooning over The Royal Wedding and move on to something new. Dance and summer. Dance is an interesting thing. It's one of those art forms I make believe I know something about and am good at. Spoiler alert #1: It's just make believe I don't and I'm not. Summer is also a wonderful season. I realized it's the time of year I tend to blog about tv. Spoiler alert #2: This season is no different.

No different because So You Think You Can Dance season 8 is going on right now. And thanks to the miracle of tv on the internet, I've been watching each show like it is a miracle. I can't tell you the five different kinds of happy and excited I get as I watch the dancers and choreographers do their thing whilst knitting like a mad person, talking to the screen. Tonight was no different. I had created my customary SYTYCD (guess what that means and you'll finally become a sytycd insider) nest on my bed, had the blinds closed and fan humming, when I was blindsided by this beauty:

Feel that little stirring near your heart? That's the fat sack of emotions being ding dong ditched on your proverbial door step by this routine. Excuse me, Cat Deeley (of whom I'm not overly fond) you must warn me before you decide to show a beautiful dance about the seven stages of grief performed by seven rather wonderful (and not so bad to look at) men. If you don't, I'm liable to pass out.