To All The Kitchens I've Loved

I'm about to start the process of packing. My lease is up and I'm not one to renew. I don't like staying still, I wonder who I got that from. My whole life, my mom and I moved regularly. Sometimes, it was just down the street, and other times it was to another country. I always thought when I was younger, that I would graduate college, get an apartment, then never move ever again. Well, I was wrong. I've been in LA for 2 years now, had 2 apartments, and am ready to leave. Ants in my pants.

I never really miss the homes that we move from. I miss the memories and I miss the kitchens. I think 50% of my childhood was spent in the kitchen. We always sort of had a no rules type of kitchen. Everyone sat on the counters, meals were eaten standing up while talking on the phone and there usually was a TV in there too. I believe a TV in the kitchen is the ultimate sign that all is well.

My biggest complaint with our kitchens was that I always expected chocolate chip cookies to be taken out of the oven when I got home from school. There were never cookies in our home, my mom considered fruit a dessert. I think that's when I started looking into emancipation. 

Other than the lack of Nestle Tollhouse products, our kitchens take center stage on most of my positive memories. I think this is true for everyone though, no? It's where you discover new foods, learn how to cook and understand that the key to a organized fridge is "labels out." Or maybe most of my good memories involve food generally. 

The first kitchen I really remember was the kitchen at our beach cottage in Montecito, California. This was the house with the water tower. I know my mom spoke about this kitchen being her favorite too. This kitchen had a few makeovers during the years we lived there, but nothing ever major, as we were always renters, never buyers. The walls would change from white, to chocolate brown to at the very end, a collage of photos from floor to ceiling. The collage became a focal point, even if it wasn't meant that way. My mom originally just started taping a few things up every time she had printed a photo or purchased a post card. Then, a year later, there wasn't any wall left. People began to come over and ignore the initial pleasantries, they just wanted to find themselves on the wall. The kitchen was also the first room you would enter into from the front door, it pulled everyone in, particually due to the layout of the house, but also because it felt like the center of the world. My mom would host equally as caual dinner parties out on the lawn, accompanied by me, aggressively jumping on the trampoline and yelling, "Watch me do a flip!" My mom and I lived in this house for about 5 years, then returned to this house years later in 2011 until we moved to Paris. This is the only house I really ever refer to as home.

While we lived there, my grandmother lived in the Party house, a Shangrala escape at the top of a mountain. It wasn't the most conductive place to hold parties, because one drink in and you wouldn't be able to drive down the winding mountain. But this was the place that everyone gathered. The kitchen had dark wood walls, matching floors and windows that looked out over all of Santa Barbara all the way to the ocean. 

Since my mom was the most popular person in California in 2004, she of course had to throw a massive disco dance party here. I of course, had to wear my Heeleys and show off my new move, "the corkscrew delight." Something I made up that was equal parts "the running man" and disco thumbs. The parties my family threw were never adults only parties, if you had a kid, they were coming. So, I started bar tending to make some extra cash on the side.

This was the kitchen that I learned how to cook. Or watched my grandma cook and attempt to explain what she was doing, but instead was told to "watch out." She would create this huge meals for any occasion, it didn't have to be a holiday, it could just be a Wednesday.

My first kitchen I had on my own was in the Marais neighborhood of Paris. I had a sixth floor walk up studio, but I loved it. I had beautiful old wood floors and and it basically was just one big room, so there wasn't necessarily a separate kitchen. The kitchen was just part of the main room. Little known fact, France doesn't have garbage disposals because they are stupid. Not even a grain of rice can go down those drains, only no one ever told me that. I was under the impression that if it fit down the drain holes, it was ok. Nope. I came home from school one day to find that my sink was filled with water. Not sure how exactly that happened, but I wasn't about to call for help. So, wine glass by wine glass, I transported the water to the bathroom sink until the kitchen's was empty. I never used my kitchen sink again, It was pureply decorative for the last 6 months I lived there. A few months later in that same apartment, my heater caught on fire. Maybe it wasn't as great of an apartment as I remember.

Ok, so why am I describing all these kitchens? Well, because right now I hate mine. It's new and I'm the first person to ever use the fridge, which I like, but it could also be anyone else's kitchen. There's no personality, no warmth. No matter how many cookbooks and flowers I leave on the counter, the grey quartz just will never draw me in. There's nothing special about this kitchen. It looks like I just won a house on HGTV, but like the poor man's edition, none of that dream home giveaway shit. So, I started thinking. I don't like LA, I don't like my apartment, I don't really like the sunshine. Why am I here??? I couldn't think of a single reason to hold me to LA. But, I couldn't get it through my head that it was time to move. I was too stubborn, I was getting in the way of myself by trying to stick to my original plan, live in LA forever, leave the moving behind. I had created this mentality that I was not like my mother, that I wanted a steady and planned out life. I guess I thought that that simply meant not moving. 

Then, a few days ago I had a craving to go to a museum, but like a real museum...not a gallery. I wanted to see Michelangelo and Carvaggio and Delacroix. I didn't want to see a ironic piece of whatever in a white walled room. Sure, that's art to someone (a wrong someone), but not to me. I want to see something with history, something that wars were fought over. Ancient Greek busts. Larger than life Goddesses. Preserved Roman frescos. 

I realized that I wanted to get out of LA and everything it stood for. I hadn't seen open land in months. I had seen five girls from the Bachelor, but hadn't had a breath of fresh air. Honestly, I don't really want to breathe LA's air, have you seen the smog? I can very quickly decide I hate a place. I hated Paris during my last few months there, desperate to move to Los Angeles and live my dream life. But, here I am, 2 years later and convinced that I will never set foot in LA ever again (unless it's for the HUGE blockbuster movie I'm the star of and need to walk the red carpet so I don't come off as total diva.) Like when my mom declared Paris was stupid and she was moving to Provence, only to have their roles completely reversed 4 months later. The grass is always greener on the other side. 

So, Ty and I decided that we're moving to Paris. For three months. In October. I can't figure out how to get a Visa and David said he can't adopt me because I'm too old. Whatever, 3 months in Paris is perfect. It just makes sense. But first, I must apologize to Paris for all the mean things I've said to her. I'm sorry I called you stupid. I'm sorry I called your people stupid. I'm sorry I called the fact that you have to bag your own groceries stupid. I'm sorry that I called your non refrigerated milk stupid.I'm sorry that I called closing stores on Sunday stupid. I'm sorry that I called your one ice cub Coca Cola stupid. Actually, I take that one back, get more ice France! 

I now realize that Paris is perfect.

I want to walk along the streets and be surrounded by Haussman buildings instead of strip malls. I want to wander into the Louvre instead of an Albertsons. I want to sit and nurse one cup of coffee for 2 hours instead of taking everything to go. I'll probably be feeling differently once I'm there, but I won't know until I try. It'll be my first time living in Paris and doing what I love, the Have Some Decorum Sale.

I'm all in. I want to turn the shop into something really special, and to do that, I think I need to live in Paris, or at least be closer to it. I was looking through all my mom's photos of when we went to Paris for a month in 2006. My mom and grandma were there to buy all the pieces for their new shop Circa. Just look at this photos, you can't find this anywhere else but Paris.

If someone told me that I would be dying to go back to the Puces 10 years ago, I would thought I was on Punk'd. But, now it's all I can think about. My grandmother told me that I was quite lucky to be raised the way I was raised, that I might have hated being dragged along on Paris buying trips when I was a kid, but now, it's one of the memories I'm most thankful for. I love that I can tell the good blue and white from the bad, that I can figure out if a booth is a worth a second glance within 2 seconds, and whether or not that marble bust is gaudy or gorgeous. 

So, there's my plan. But who knows, I may change my mind by the time I post this and decide that I want a condo in Arizona, I'll be closer to Jodi Arias that way, and I've always wanted to know more about her.

Our Lady of Paris

I skipped work on Monday to prepare for the upcoming sale. Before the sales go live I have to shoot everything, measure everything and think of something interesting to say about everything. And I love doing it, I love every part of these sales, but they take some time, not including the actual hunt for the objects, because I could do that forever and never grow tire. But the preparation for the items to go live on the site, takes some time that I don't normally have. So, last Monday, I skipped work, "I am just feeling awful, I think I need to take a sick day." I hung up the phone and immediately set up the "photo studio" that I have at home. It was a kit from amazon. As I plugged in the lights and begin to position my first object, the power went out. The longest groan came out of my mouth as I sank to the floor. Anytime anything slightly inconvenient happens I immediately begin wondering and asking the sky, "why me?" but that's because I'm dramatic and still convinced that the world solely exists and functions around me.

After sitting on the floor unable to move for 10 minutes, I finally got up and called the power company to be told that they were doing maintenance it wouldn't be back on until 5:30 that night. I tried to tell them that my whole day was planned around having electricity, but they didn't care. After moping around the apartment and failing at the attempt of napping all day, I decided that I was just going to have to be productive outside the home instead. No matter how torturous that sounded. So I packed up a bag, as if I were a toddler caring for themselves and walked towards Sunset Blvd. Baby's day out. I was mildly productive, I went to the dry cleaners, Starbucks and the nail salon. The sweet lady who always gives me the strongest hand massages let me charge my laptop while I got a manicure, so I counted that stop as necessary. While deciding between off beige and off white for my polish, I got the news. 

Notre Dame was on fire. 

Notre Dame was built in 1163, a date that is permanently etched into my brain from countless reports about every aspect of this building. The first time I ever visited the Church was in 2006 on my first trip to Paris. I bought a rosary from the gift shop and then wore it like a necklace. I wish I had the fashion balls that I used to have.

I studied art history while going to the American University of Paris, so visiting various churches throughout Paris was just part of the curriculum. I would write report after report, I would always wait until the last moment to write my essay because I found that was when I was allowed to complain the most and also that my best work was done in one long sitting. I probably had to write five essays on Notre Dame during my four years in Paris, each one I dreaded. I hated going to Notre Dame, from the lines outside, to the people taking photos, to the tour guides bumping into me. I hated getting assigned a project that required me to go inside. The outside I tolerated, because I could usually use the phrase 'flying buttress' then and that always makes  me laugh. 

This past February, I went into the Church, as I figured it would probably be my last time in Paris for a while, so might as well. Ty and I walked right in, no line, on a Sunday. There was mass going on, in Latin. The church felt real. It didn't feel like a tourist trap as I believed it was turning into. Everyone was there for a reason other than to get a photo in front of the rose window. We made our way all the way around the apex, picking up a Rosary at the end. That rosary now hangs in my living room next to the rosary I bought on my very first visit to Notre Dame.

It feels very strange to mourn a building. Especially since it didn't disappear completely, it's still standing for the most part. But, it's not the first time Our Lady of Paris has been damaged.

Perhaps one of my favorite pieces of information that I learned from studying Notre Dame, was that during the French Revolution, as a symbol for the uprising and hatred for the Catholic Church, all the heads of the sculptures at the front entrance, were beheaded! How amazingly dramatic is that! It's so French! The entire statue wasn't destroyed, the heads were carefully cut off and then hidden! 21 of the 28 heads have been found over the years and are now at the Cluny Museum. I can only wonder what lucky son of a bitch has one of the missing heads sitting in his studio apartment. These heads are very large too, it must take up at least half of his kitchenette and he'll have to call a few buddies over to help him move it before he can make "un cafe". 

But with the help of Napoleon and Victor Hugo, the church was restored not only physically, but within the hearts of the people of Paris. Napoleon held his coronation here in the 1800's and Victor Hugo created the main character in most of my nightmares from age 6 to 10, the Hunchback. Also, the nickname my mother called me. But, the Hunchback saved Notre Dame in the eyes of a Parisian. "Victor Hugo used it as a kind of rallying cry for people to look at these monuments like Notre Dame that seemed to represent a sort of old order that was really dead, but now to look at it as a historical monument, as a sign of French ingenuity, French pride, French history, European history, human history." Jacqueline Jung, art historian. 

In the 1860's, the renovation of Notre Dame was underway, lead by Eugene Viollet-le-Duc. Viollet-le-Duc got a little carried away with his power, and began to add additional decorative touches to the building. For example, the famous gargoyles outsider are actually his creation and are not original to the church. Many of the features of the exterior are actually Viollet-le-Duc's doing, but were done so well that it's almost impossible to tell.

Then, in 1871, a group of crazies tried to burn the cathedral down, but failed. Notre Dame stood relatively unharmed until WWII, when Paris became a battleground. Most of my knowledge of WWII (specifically how it affected Paris) is from a photo exhibit I saw with my mom at the Louvre when I was about 13 years old. It showed Paris during the war, and focused mainly on the preparation and protective actions that were taken to protect Paris. This may have been the exhibit that made me fall in love with art history. These photographs were so haunting and beautiful that I couldn't get enough. I walked through that room at least 15 times, soaking up each photograph. I've tried to find the complete collection online, but haven't succeeded yet. 

There's an element that creates a sense of urgency to get the art out and the architecture protected. They're almost spooky. Anything spooky always has my heart.

I can't think of a good segway into this news, but I guess both of these things have to do with Paris? 

The Have Some Decorum Shop is getting all new items tomorrow! 

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6am, so set your alarms! I've decided to get on an every other week schedule for the shop. I'm really committing y'all! So every other Monday, about 15 items or so will be launched, mostly antiques, but sometimes some coffee table books that I'm obsessed with or reproductions that would blow your mind. The antiques are from various cities around the world. Most of them are from Paris from the antique dealers that my mom formed a relationship with at the Marche aux Puces as well as the local brocantes. Some of the items I have found at local California flea markets, like the Rose Bowl. The Rose Bowl is in Pasadena and only happens once a month. I was hesitant to visit the Rose Bowl at first, as I thought it would just be kitschy vintage Coca Cola signs and used pants. Oh was I wrong. I scored here. The antique dealers have pieces from France, Italy,  Japan, China, everywhere!

While there are some major differences between the Rose Bowl and the Puces, mainly that they don't sell bacon wrapped hot dogs at the Marche aux Puces, there are some major similarities. All around the world, people love French antiques. I totally understand why though, they're the best. I met two older men who have a booth every month at the Rose Bowl, and of course they're French. I knew right away when I walked up to their booth at 8am and they were 12 sheets to the wind. The smell of Pinot Noir drew me in. They import pieces from Paris and sell them here in California. But, they only have this booth once a month at the flea market, and the other 29 days of the month are spent smoking. I love them. One of the items I purchased from them might be my favorite thing ever.

David used to have these at our house in Montecito. They're shoe mold bookends and they're fabulous. The wood is so wonderfully old, I was told they were from the early 1900's and then just recently set into bookends with modern bases. They're pretty heavy as well, so they can hold a good amount of books together without slipping. Someone better buy these before David does.

Another find from the Rose Bowl are these antique candlesticks from the 17th century from a California Mission. And they're a pair, I love pairs! I love the Californian Mission style, it reminds me so much of Santa Barbara and the Spanish influence. These candlesticks are still preserved while clearly 100's of years old. The green paint is chipping throughout to expose the wood underneath, with hints of gold leaf.  These really belong near someone's fireplace. You gotta be careful with the California Mission style though, there is bad mission and then there's good mission. I think the main difference between the good and the bad is that the good has a lot of white bases. White walls, white couches, white curtains. Then deep colors in the decor, like these green candlesticks. While the bad has a lot of terracotta. The good is basically Diandra Douglas's house in Montecito... Use her house for reference of everything you should ever try to copy. She was the one that started my mom's obsession with horns. Diandra had large horns on her coffee tables, laid across the coffee table book that had her house on the cover. Now, if that is not a possibility in your own home, any coffee table book with suffice. 

This basket has had a long journey all the way from Paris. I love a wicker basket, but I especially love a wicker basket from the 1800's. There is a beautiful floral decorative aspect that runs all around the outside. It looks like it used to be painted even at one point. It is not a soft basket either, it has a glaze like coating on the outside, I think it would make a great spot for a huge white orchid if you were to put the basket on a table. But, the basket is also large enough to be left on the floor, maybe with a small indoor tree!

If any of these are of any interest to you, email me at havesomedecorum@gmail.com and I can hold it for you!! All of these items will be for sale tomorrow morning along with many more antiques. 

Also.... there's still some discounts on last week's sale available. 

Let Them Eat Cake

If I saw someone walking around, wearing a clear plastic poncho, I would think that person needs to go home. If I saw that person wearing that poncho at Versailles, I would call the park ranger. Never did I think, that person, would be my mother. 

In the summer of 2008, my mom and grandmother decided that we were going to live in Paris forever. Their store, Circa, had just closed and they needed something to do. I needed to go to school, but that was beside the point. My mom pulled me into her room a month before we left for Paris and asked me, "What do you think about going to the American high school in P-" She didn't even finish her sentence before I started crying. As a girl who had just graduated middle school, I assumed I wouldn't be crying as much as I had the year before, but I was wrong. I was probably going to cry more this summer, than I did the entire age of 3.

We were almost 3 years away from my mom getting ALS, so my biggest source of despair at the time was the thought of going to high school in fucking France. At this age, I hadn't yet discovered that I had crippling social anxiety, my mom had always just told me that I was shy. She then followed this statement up by "and shyness leads to rudeness." She didn't understand that I could barely handle the idea of going to high school surrounded by kids I had known since I was 6 years old, let alone the meer thought of attending a new school filled with French kids. The boys would most likely be wearing skinny jeans and the girls would already be smoking. French teenagers are the worst and I wasn't ready for that! I wasn't going through life shy, I was going through life afraid of everyone. I wasn't just afraid of people that looked like they were going to kidnap me and take me to Albania to live in a room without windows on a fat man's yacht. I was afraid of what people thought of me, what people would think when I spoke, or did anything at all. I am still this way, I am always embarrassed. I try to never stand out. My desire to wear Uggs in public is overshadowed by the meer thought of someone seeing me in them in the first place. My social anxiety hasn't gotten any better over the years, but I found that a gin & tonic helps ease it a little bit. 

But, back to Paris. The idea of moving to Paris was always brought up, I just thought it would be one of those things my mom brought up but never followed through with, like laser hair removal. But, to my dismay, we had booked one way tickets to Paris that June. For some reason my mom and I were flying in earlier than my grandmother. I later realized this is because my mom bought us two business class tickets and didn't want my grandmother to know. If anyone should have the access to a lazy boy while flying it should be my grandmother. She is terrified of flying and probably would have been soothed by the unlimited mini ice cream sandwiches. I on the other hand, looked like a complete asshole. My feet didn't touch the floor and I thought nothing of it to bother the flight attendant every 6 minutes to ask how much longer we had to go and then if I could get a refill on my Sprite. 

A few weeks into our trip, my mom decided that I could use a walk. We went to Versailles, but it was a special day at Versailles. Every summer, Versailles puts on garden parties after the traditional tourist hours end. Anyone can go to these garden parties, you just have to reserve your spot in advance. And since my mom was my mom, she planned this day well in advance. These garden parties have now be replaced with the Festival of Versailles, but it looks about the same. Fireworks, champagne, treats.... It's the first two weekends of July this year, so if you're in the neighborhood, you really should go.

During our day at Versailles, we rowed boats, ate ice cream, sat in the grass and then played my mom's favorite game, embarrass Gracie. She loved this game more than she loved Bravo, so take that Andy Cohen. The game was usually played with an accompanying threat. This time, I had to ride a minute pony around the grounds or else my new Zara cardigan would be ripped off my body and thrown into the Seine. I have always loved Zara and I would do anything for it. So, I got on the pony. My feet touched the ground. The helmet was slightly too small for my head so it just rested on the crown of my un-brushed hair, I looked like an inbred queen on that pony. My mom had never laughed so hard. Later that trip, I think she felt bad for me and instead of threatening me, she paid me $100 to try on a pair of hammer pants for her. I did it with a smile. 

I got off the horse and thought that would be the end of the game for the day. I started to relax and enjoy myself again. The sun started to go down and the little bit of fog overhead, started to turn into rain. Uh oh. The firework show hadn't even started, we didn't even visit the macaroon station yet! We looked at each other, my eyes filled with fear, hers with creativity. She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the little stands selling magnets and pens to stupid dummies.
"Excusez-moi, vendez-vous des parapluies?" She asked in her best French accent. 

"Non, mais j'ai ceux-ci a vendre" He said and held up a clear plastic poncho. The type I made fun of when I saw a family of 7 wearing them on Splash Mountain just earlier that year. The type that looked like you were getting ready to eat a whole bunch of shellfish. There was no way I would be caught dead in this poncho, especially after the pony incident. My little heart could only take so much!

But as I started to cross my arms in pure rage, my mom handed the man a few Euros, took two ponchos, and slipped hers on. I shot her a look like I had risen from the dead.

"Oh don't be such a baby, just wear the poncho." She looked like an idiot in it with her turtle neck sweater that she wore all summer, just like Diane Keaton, peaking out from the "neck hole" of the trash bag, I mean poncho. But, she didn't care. And wait, if she didn't care, should I not care either? She had a whole lot more to loose putting this thing on. She had friends to impress! She had a boyfriend to find! The most I had was chaffed thighs and soon to be frizzy hair.

See, my mom was the coolest. She had an undeniable cool factor about her. This was something I never admitted to her, and that's fine, she knew she was cool. She was so cool that she didn't care or notice that I never told her I thought she was cool! I'm happy I never told her I thought she was cool, that's just something no mom should ever hear from their daughter, it's just a rule. 

So there I was watching the coolest person I knew, put on something so lame. While such a minuscule event in the world, it was such a milestone for me. If she didn't care, why should I? I took the second plastic poncho, and slipped it on. I had to fight my own inner voice telling me to stop, drop and roll, but I managed to wear that poncho. Wow, what freedom, I thought to myself. I swayed side to side, testing out the space. When it really started to rain, I loved that I was hands free. I was free to pick off leaves of bushes as I walked by because I wasn't holding an umbrella. Did I discover who I really meant to be? A poncho wearing tween? 

A few weeks later, I was in Printemps in Paris when I stumbled upon a rack of ponchos, and these weren't plastic. They were cashmere. I immediately told my mom that the grey cashmere poncho with the bedazzled "Sucker for Love"  on the back and fringe on the arm holes, was what I wanted for my birthday. And a few weeks later, I wore that poncho without a hint of embarrassment. 

That trip to Versailles, didn't only help me get over thinking that the entire world was just waiting to make fun of me, but I also learned a little history as well. I started to notice that all throughout Versailles, were symbols. One in particular was the sun, which was the symbol for Louis XIV, also known as the Sun King. Now if you're like me and get most of your French history from Sofia Coppola's movie Marie Antoinette, Louis XIV was the great, great, great grandfather of Marie Antoinette's husband, Louis XVI (played by Jason Schwartzman). 

Louis XIV moved from the royal palace from the Louvre, to Versailles, where he quickly made his mark around there. The kings emblem was the God Apollo's face surrounded by rays of light, creating the sunburst motif. He didn't invent this though, there are traces of the sunburst all throughout history. In the Pope's palace of Avignon from the 16th century, there are sunburst motifs all throughout the chapel. It was believed that it represented the face of God overlooking the People. In Jan van Eyck's painting Arnolfini Portrait, from the 15th century, if you look at the background, there is a sunburst mirror. Slightly more subtle than the King Louis XIV version, but nonetheless the same. 

And now for the point of all this....

THE SALE IS OFFICIALLY OPEN

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And guess what, I found a sunburst mirror and I managed to not keep it for myself! 

I also have three ex-votos or sacred hearts. I always appreciated these pieces. My mom had one on almost every bedside table during my childhood. She picked up her first ex-voto while we were in Paris on this trip. I always thought they were purely decorative until I was at the Marche aux Puces and had David translate to me what the dealer was rambling on and on about. After that, I knew I needed more of these. So, I bought some for myself and some for the sale. While an ex-voto doesn't have to be a heart, I find the hearts to be my favorite. Here's something interesting I read while trying to remember if I learned about these at Catholic school....

"This gilded metal Sacré Coeur or Sacred Heart is a Roman Catholic ex-voto from France. Ex-votos (from the Latin phrase ex-voto suscepto, meaning ‘from the vow made’) were – and still are – carried as devotional objects and to give thanks for granted wishes, prayers and intentions. 

The cult of the Sacred Heart can be traced to the 11th century. It gained popularity in the 17th century when a French nun named Marguerite-Marie Alacoque experienced visions of Jesus Christ, in which he spoke to her and showed her his heart, entwined with thorns and flames and surmounted by a cross. She devoted herself and her country to the veneration of his heart, and established a Sacred Heart feast day. 

In 1720, thirty years after Marguerite’s death, the bishop of Marseilles consecrated his diocese to the Sacred Heart in an attempt to spare the district from a plague that was sweeping across Europe. The city quickly recovered from the outbreak, and the Sacred Heart became a popular emblem worn for protection against danger and disease. 

During the French Revolution (1789–1799), patriotic Catholics again wore the Sacred Heart emblem for protection by stitching it to their clothing. It became the symbol of royalist counter-revolution for those who opposed the Republic. Today, the Sacré Coeur basilica in Paris, completed in 1914, stands over the city as a giant ‘ex-voto’: a monument to Catholicism and a symbol of national identity."

As that trip came to end, I learned that we were moving back to Santa Barbara, I was going to start being home schooled, that King Louis XIV had the best taste, and that my mom lied, ponchos were not cool.

The sale is officially live, email me with any questions or requests! havesomedecorum@gmail.com