i've moved!

if you like design, art, nail lacquer, colours, pop culture, fashion, interiors, and all things aesthetically pleasing, i'd love if you joined me at bougy//bisous. there's nothing personal about this new blog--a total change from the style of paigesix was way overdue.

thanks for reading over the last 5 years!

I really love their restaurant—what with its semi-terrifying (“omg! I thought it was alive!”) stuffed beaver mascot and overflowing cloud of light bulbs—but honestly, Castor’s 5x5 IDS space was just... not... anything.


As I exited the Winnebago a sleek-looking business man caught me on the stairs.
"What's, uh, in there?" he asked.
"The... space?" I retorted.

At first I thought my response was due to typical, youthful you-just-don't-get-it-man sentiments. But after a week or so of reflection, I realize I was actually asking the same thing.

And then, without even trying, the internet totally topped Castor.


(via Buzzfeed.)

I honestly wanted to write a much, much more comprehensive post about what’s happening this weekend, but:
- considering I was in office working till 3:30am last night
- and taking into account that I actually forgot that eating food is a necessary function to survive until 7:30pm today
- at which point I speed ate a salad and then after a short cab ride eagerly downed complementary flute after complementary flute of rose Veuve with Sarah in the IDS media lounge
...I’m going to have to make it short.

It’s Toronto’s Interior Design Show this weekend!

The crowd at tonight’s gala/preview was, according to my rough, cloudy-memory estimate, nearly double that of last year. So actual opinions of the exhibits are on hold until tomorrow when I can tour it all sans hustle and bustle. Perhaps I will see you there?

I will make a pair of Hermes sandals.



The past twelve-plus months were dedicated to building feather head pieces, but the trend is reaching the end of its run. (No thanks to the talentless, camera happy masses for that one.) However, my arts & design drawer still resembles a deconstructed Winged Victory of Samothrace--supplies that need to take flight.

So: before the flock gets this one, I'll craft some feathered shoes.



Obviously before, during, and after will be shared here.

(discovery of Vicente Rey shoes via Atlantis Home.)

good dog.

bad dog.


You honestly wouldn't think that something the size of a (really large) cat would have the jaws of a rottweiler. But he does.

I’m turning 25 in a few days, a number I am very eager to reach because it has pretty solid clout. Professionally, I’ve been slightly sensitive about my age ever since a client—in her late twenties, no less!—told me over lunch that I was “too young” to understand the dating problem she was detailing to others at the table. (Even as I write that now I furrow my eyebrows in frustration-rage. If. She. Only. Knew.)

Personally, I can’t wait to be 25—that is until I realize this leaves me five years to, well, to do a lot of things I’ve always assumed would happen before the next big decade begins. I thought I’d even have one of those 1, 3, 5, and 10-year goal plan charts done by now. But I just… don’t want to. Vague notions of what will happen have always worked for me in the past, so why not now?

The fuzzy-unsure haze on the horizon is what makes it okay to age—it tricks you into thinking you’re still a fresh-faced graduate with every insane opportunity available, and not a young professional with a boyfriend, car, dog, and apartment you love so much you’d consider subletting it should you ever be required to move from Toronto.

But! Okay, yes. There are a few things I would add into my multi-year plan should I ever choose to make one. Such as: decorating a room in my future home with a Bisazza tile mosaic.




Stunning, right? It's managed to make luxe wallpaper prints look simply pedestrian and pushed the definition of “mosaic” far, far away from your aunt’s craft cupboard. I’m not even going to ask the price—perhaps in part because next decade me also imagines lots of disposable income in that hazy horizon.

drink more water.
Seriously. Why is it that I have to force myself to drink glass after glass of water all day long, but could easily down a bottle of wine without getting up from my seat?

After years of coveting the Arco floor lamp and dropping many a non-disguised hint by dog-earing certain pages of Dwell and Domino, it’s finally nestling the corner of my living room.

(to which Natalie nicely adds—and I must repeat!—“Every time I’m over I think you’ve brought about all you can into your apartment, until you find something new and it just… fits.”)


Indeed—cushioned between suede sectional, Lionel puppy, fig tree, and an Indian ink print titled “How to destroy your bird” is the lamp, perfectly curved to enclose the space.

It should be noted: my shiny chrome Christmas present is a relative of the Italian insurance-rate-rising original. Tis the season for inspirations, however! Apartment Therapy just called attention to CB2’s much more affordable take on the George Nelson Swag Leg desk—a desk I make a point of dreamily waving at each time I walk past its window-front display in the Herman Miller boutique at Manulife Centre.

2008:
I cut my hair.
New friends more than successfully mixed with old.
Boyfriend and I started a family by adopting Lionel puppy.
Promotion! From agency Copywriter to Associate Creative Director.
Social media apps took over and I (temporarily!) forgot about the blog.
Goodbye crazy landlord, hello dream apartment in Little Italy.
Travelled: from South of France to South Beach. New York City, the Windy City, and the Alma Mater’s City. And Texas: to the parents’ new expat home of Houston and my new North American favourite, Austin.

2009?
It’s time to work on my New Year’s constant: the failed resolution of being on time. There’s lamb and lobster and many bottles of bubbly waiting…

(oh, and as I also failed to take enough photos over the past 365, photo credits are due! Including, but not limited to: Dallas, Sarah and Jenn.)

Because our families can never agree on hosting Christmas in a common city, the boyfriend and I always exchange presents either a little early or a little late. I, the eternal procrastinator, made a promise to be ready for today—the day before I leave for Texas—and actually made the deadline. However, while walking to my apartment last night he alluded that he wasn’t going to be ready until I’m back on New Year’s Eve. I smugly mocked him, and also thought “well at least I don’t have to trudge through the snow to find wrapping paper tomorrow morning!”

But then he unlocked my door, and, well, this:


(EEEEEEEKS! If you don’t know, you’ll have to wait till I unwrap it…)

Dear Prudence,
I've been dating someone for a few months, and things have gotten serious very fast. We are highly compatible and have had no difficulty resolving the few minor disagreements we've had thus far—except one. I'm a cuddler. I want to hold my partner and be held by my partner at night. Preferably all night. My partner will hold me for the first five to 10 minutes in bed, or I him, and then he will tend to move to the opposite side of the bed for the night. At first I hinted that I'd like more extensive touching at night, and he said he'd make an effort to fulfill my cuddling needs. I switched to gently but clearly asking him for more contact in bed at night. But after a disappointing weekend, I tearfully explained to him how sad I was that we don't hold each other at night. He then told me that it's uncomfortable for him—too hot and confining. Is it unreasonable to ask a partner to change their sleeping style to accommodate this particular show of affection? Maybe one night a week? Sleeping entwined with my lover is a very tender experience for me, and I intensely don't want to lose this lover, yet I'm finding it very hard to accept that he is unwilling to find a way to make this meaningful act a possibility for us. Am I wrong?

—Unembraced


Not wrong, per say, but you do have to accept that you’re the reason why most guys are afraid of settling down with a girlfriend. You actually “tearfully explained” how sad his lack of late night cuddles are making you? Did you then explain that you’ve secretly been filming the sequel to a certain Kate Hudson movie on spec? I suspect that in a few weeks you’ll be writing in to complain that your lover doesn’t want to scrapbook with you, or that your partner refuses to join you in the bath every evening for a 3-hour soak. You are not a cuddler. You are, however, needy and high-maintenance. Sleeping positions are not a negotiable thing—if you haven’t learned this through life experience it’s time to rewatch a few early 90s episodes of Friends.

We’re on the cusp of wedding season. Not specifically wedding season 2008: no, no, it’s the wedding stage of our lives that’s about to begin. The albums on facebook, the tacky colour schemes, the invitations you never wanted to receive in the first place—it’s all pouring in en masse and it’s only going to multiply.

(My aesthetician, bearer of all truths, told me that she was invited to more than eighteen nuptials the summer she got married.)

While drinking on a patio last week with a childhood friend we started talking about our boyfriends and when we'd get married. This in itself is a big deal—there’s an unspoken rule in your early-early twenties: do not gush about all things 'death do we part' unless you want to alienate or bore your friends, especially those who are single and/or career-driven. We were raised on Sex and the City after all, a show which aimed to teach us that it’s cool to still be chasing Mr.Right throughout your mid-thirties.

Um, not so much. Maybe inspiring for the women who were actually thirty and single, but Sex and the City was more of a cautionary tale for viewers of a certain upwardly mobile age. And this weekend’s Sunday New York Times continued the narrative with its coverage of Nanny Diaries co-author Nicola Kraus’ wedding.

You see, it wasn’t just by chance she got married at thirty-three. The poor chick lit author was thirty-two and single, meaning it made perfect sense for her to dedicate her last novel to her future husband.

“I was creating a place holder,” Ms. Kraus said. “He was out there. I just hadn’t crossed paths with him yet.”

She began behaving as if she was already in love. “You carry yourself differently when you’re not alone,” she explained. “I would carry myself at a party or a supermarket or a gym as if I was loved.”

Seriously.

And then the article goes on to wax tragic about Kraus’ feelings of desperation during her frenzied search for a husband. (Including a four-month sabbatical involving Tibetan healers and the placement of affirmations around her apartment—obvious inspiration for her brother reading a verse from “Eat, Pray, Love “ at the eventual wedding.)

Eugh. I’m only a casual connoisseur of the Vows section, but last time I checked they’re meant for stories of love, romance and family money. Not depressing tales about crazy borderline-barren ladies who throw birthday parties for their dogs.

And while the Sex and the City movie taught me that men care very little about getting their weddings listed in newspapers, if I was Kraus’s groom I’d feel more than jilted. The article isn’t about him—it’s about the idea of finding a husband. He just happened to break up with his mentioned-much-too-frequently ex-girlfriend at the right time. And wouldn’t you just LOVE to overhear her gossip circle this morning?

Chuck Bass prefers Photobucket. Who knew?

The New York Times is in my mind this weekend, and I’m not just talking about Emily Gould’s essay on the Gawker spotlight and why we are compelled to be oh-so-personal online. To those who think the 10-page article is too self-absorbed: you have obviously never blogged.

But, back to the topic at hand: “Starting Salaries but New York Tastes”—locally known as “trying to find a one bedroom apartment in Toronto is the worst unless you’re willing to live in a tenement house or pay rent comparable to mortgage payments.” The problem is, once you decide that a one bedroom is what you are going to do, the rental offerings start picking away at all sensibility until you convince yourself it’s worth it.

I’d compare the feeling to Stockholm syndrome: Yes, slum landlords, your no-windowed basement is a great deal! Or, yes, greedy yuppie who just finished his first house flip, I do want to pay for your inability to renovate on a budget! There’s absolutely no middle ground when you want to live on your own: It’s either worth it to spend twelve months making do in a hovel, or worth it to live a year of squalor in order to afford a pretty pretty new place.

So it’s June first on Sunday and I still don't know where I'm moving. However, instead of getting stressed about this fact (though the condition of my skin would tell you otherwise) I decided to become passive-aggressive proactive by emailing a random craigslist landlord. The ad was posted by “Rise High Investments” and was offering a one bedroom, second floor apartment in a Victorian Annex reno for the lovely price of $1500.

These rentals aren’t uncommon, but what irked me was the fact that the place was advertised as “below market rent” due to its “reasonable price”. I refuse to believe that one person spending $18,000 a year is below market, even for the Annex. And so I emailed this opinion over.

Paige,
Thanks for your email - very constructive and useful. As such, we are immediately dropping the rental price down to $1000/mth for this unit entirely based on your opinion. HA..just kidding!


Fine, fair enough. I did call you greedy and foolish.

…Let me give you a tip, rents for condo's (sic) downtown are much less than rents in the Annex (right beside UofT where there are 70,000+ students). In fact, would you believe that you can rent an even newer condo and nicer place than our unit (or a downtown condo) for even less rent...in north Brampton. Imagine that...location matters.

A normal person would generally end the argument there, but I had to keep going. And this wasn’t just because I obviously already know I could live in suburban housing for pocket change. I just had to get my “stop pretending Toronto is Manhattan!” point across. After all, I’m a blogger—we thrive on online anonymous conflict.

So the emails continued, containing such gems as “it's not that I'm trying to say you don't have the power to choose your renting price—if some guy with more money than brains is willing to pay it, fair enough—but just don't say something is 'below market' when it's not” and “I'm just calling you out for false advertising”.

And how did it all end?

He asked me out for coffee.

Well, if a girl can’t find a place to live at least there is some comfort in knowing it’s always easy to find a date. Fortunately I’m already in a long-term lease with someone else.

Gossip Girl returns April 21st!

The Pixel Couch is dizzy-adorable. I have to imagine, however, that its “you need to get your eyes checked” effect is actually not so bad--it's just natural to squint and refocus when viewing something on a computer screen, right?


Designed by Royal College of Art graduate Cristian Zuzunaga, it's hard to find a blog that hasn't posted about it this week. If you buy it, do tell how it looks in person.



via Shape + Colour
and many other blogs.

No, it's not really me. But close enough that I’ve been asked about it all weekend--even an ex emailed with congratulations.

Do you always pose like me, doppelganger?

Thanks to Josh for the tip, ha.

We got “evicted” this week. The landlord’s father is moving into the house and so we have until June 15 to find a new place. So happy that we funded her renovations and lived through the constant nagging—from thermostat wars to passive aggressive snow shoveling—only to be pushed to the curb when everyone was finally getting along.

While I don’t mind the idea of house hunting (I like to spy on others, who knew?) for the first time in my life I’m not at all enamored by the idea of change. I’ve nested in this apartment and I’m just not ready to pack it all up and move.

(Then again, something went through the Laundromat window this week while my sheets were in the rinse cycle, leaving behind a hole which resembled evidence from Law & Order. So the opportunity to find a place with en suite laundry is rather appealing.)

Answer to question #1 you may be thinking:
No, I’m not going to move in with the boyfriend. Call me Katherine Heigl, but I’m slightly old fashioned—while also being terribly bored at the idea of living in a “couples” house. And besides, we still manage to sleep in the same bed most nights. We can wait until we're married to share a bathroom and everysinglemomentever.

Answer to question #2 you may be thinking:
No mom, I’m not going to move back home. Sorry!

Instead, the next three months will be dedicated to finding a place that will let me best replicate the design I’ve been building in this apartment. I’m annoyed that the projects I wanted to complete over the next month have to be put on indefinite hold. (Peeping toms, you may continue to window-lurk, those curtains aren’t going up anytime soon.)

And at the same time, I am getting excited at the prospect of new furniture: The aforementioned renovations included the addition of a smaller door frame, rendering our couch and wingback chairs into permanent installations of the house.

Answer to question #3 you may be thinking:
Yes, the landlord is definitely getting our cheap $20-from-craigslist couch as a moving-out present. The wingback chairs, on the other hand, are much too nice and are going to have to make it out a window.

A few weeks back it was fun to mock the thrilling "SNOW! WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW!" headlines that accompanied the non-stop blizzards of southern Ontario. But now, 90-odd centimeters later, we've heard it all and no longer care. The snow is coming and it's boring.