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stardust-swan · 2 years

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My Marie Antoinette Inspired Wishlist 🍰🏛🧴

Beauty, Fashion and Bath Time

🍰 Anthropologie Retrofete Rosewood Choker

🍰 Anthropologie Chan Luu Crystal and Pearl Masquerade Choker

🍰 Evelyn and Crabtree Verbana and Lavender Hand Cream

🍰 Gisou Honey Infused Hair Oil

🍰 French Girl Rose Sea Soak

🍰 French Girl Rose Sea Polish

🍰 Fresh Rose Toner

🍰 Herbivore Botanical Pink Clay Soap

🍰 Hot Chocolate Femme Revolution Mid Heels

🍰 Hot Chocolate Marie Antoinette High Heels

🍰 Jurlique Rose Hand Cream

🍰 Jurlique Rosewater Balancing Mist

🍰 Ladurée Rose Petal Blush

🍰 L'Occitane Almond Delicious Hands

🍰 L'Occitane Almond Shower Oil

🍰 L'Occitane Shea Butter Delightful Rose Hand Cream

🍰 L'Occitane Shea Lavender Extra Gentle Soap

Mon Guerlain Eau De Parfum

🍰 Ouai Rose Hair and Body Oil

🍰 Panier Des Sens Rejuvenating Rose Soap

🍰 Pre De Provence Lavender Soap

🍰 Pre De Provence Honey Almond Soap

🍰 Rococo Pink Mule Heels

🍰 YSL Mon Paris Eau De Parfum

Food

🍰 Debauve and Gallais Thé Marie Antoinette

🍰 Billecart-Salmon Champagne Brut Rosé

🍰 Charbonnel et Walker Pink Marc De Champagne Truffles

🍰 Debauve and Gallais Marie Antoinette Chocolate Coins

🍰 Ghirardelli White Chocolate Crème Brûlée Duet Hearts

🍰 Godiva Chocolate Truffles

🍰 Jean-Paul Hévin Classical Chocolate Box

🍰 Ladurée Chocolate Squares

🍰 Ladurée Macarons

🍰 Ladurée Marie Antoinette Cake

🍰 Ladurée Marie Antoinette Tea

🍰 Ladurée Marie Antoinette Tea Delight Jam

🍰 Ladurée Pink Sugared Almonds

🍰 La Maison du Chocolat Dauphine Hatbox

🍰 Le Sirop De Monin: French Vanilla, Glasco Lemon, Lavender, Rose, Violet

🍰 Moët et Chandon Rosé Imperial Champagne

🍰 Nina's Paris Thé De Marie Antoinette

🍰 Pierre Marcolini Three-Drawer Chocolate Gift Box

Entertainment

🍰 The Affair of the Necklace (2001)

🍰 Eighteenth-Century French Fashion Plates in Full Color: 64 Engravings from the "Galerie des Modes," 1778-1787

🍰 Farewell, My Queen (2012)

🍰 Fashion Victims: Dress at the Court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette

🍰 The History and Haunting of the Palace of Versailles

🍰 Ladurée Macarons: The Recipes

🍰 Laduree: The Savory Recipes

🍰 Ladurée Sucré: The Sweet Recipes

🍰 Ladurée Tea Time: The Art of Taking Tea

🍰 Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution

🍰 Marie Antoinette: A Film by David Grubin

🍰 Marie Antoinette (1938)

🍰 Marie Antoinette (2006) on DVD

🍰 Marie Antoinette (2006) Film Book

🍰 Marie Antoinette (2006) Soundtrack Vinyl

🍰 Marie Antoinette - Hélène Delalex

🍰 Marie Antoinette: The Journey

🍰 Marie Antoinette: The Making of a French Queen

🍰 Memoirs of the Court of Marie Antoinette

🍰 Trianon and the Queen's Hamlet at Versailles: A Private Royal Retreat

🍰 Versailles: A Biography of a Palace

🍰 Versailles DVD Box Set

🍰 Versailles: The Great and Hidden Splendours of the Sun King's Palace

Home

🍰 Diptyque Orange Blossom Candle

🍰 Diptyque Orange Blossom Room Spray

🍰 Diptyque Roses Candle

🍰 Diptyque Roses Room Spray

🍰 Fragonard "The Swing" Print

🍰 French Tufted Bench Mauve Pink

🍰 Ladurée Cups and Saucers by Gien

🍰 Ladurée Teapot by Gien

🍰 Marie Antoinette Figure

🍰 "Marie Antoinette With a Rose" Print

🍰 Royal Albert Polka Rose Cake Stand Two-Tier

🍰 Royal Albert Rose Confetti Tea Cup and Saucer Set

🍰 Royal Albert 100 Years Three-Tier (Bouquet, Blush & Golden Rose) Cake Stand, 13.8"

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ralkana · 10 months

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NaClYoHo Day 30!

LAST DAY OF THE MONTH!

Finished with a bang!

Paid the mortgage.

Took a box of unopened or mostly unused Bath & Body works stuff and Crabtree & Evelyn hand creams to work to see if anyone wanted them. Scents that I don't like that came as part of sets, or just stuff I overbought. My coworkers were very pleased.

Made the guest bed.

Vacuumed the guest bedroom, the guest bathroom (weirdly, it's carpeted), and the upstairs landing.

Brought down some bottles of water that were just hanging out in the guest bedroom so that I can use them up.

Stored away some unused luggage to get it out of the guest bedroom.

Put a new floor lamp in the guest bedroom because the lighting in there was abysmal.

Cleaned the rest of the junk off the dining room table.

Wiped down the dining room table with pledge wipes to at least get the dust off. It really needs a better oiling; I'm going to have to do some research on that.

Washed a small load of kitchen stuff that was sitting on the table and is ready to be donated.

Cleaned out a binder of video cds I don't want anymore so that my dad can take the binder with him when he leaves.

Put the last of the clutter on the barstools away, so they are now cleared off.

Hung my new behind-the-door hamper on the bathroom door to keep my clothes and pajamas off the doorknobs and counters. It's cute. It has kitty cats on it.

Continued going through the box of bills from '94 - '96. I swear, y'all, this box is never going to end. I worked on it for more than an hour last night and a couple of hours tonight, and it's still more than half full. Ugh...

This is a Montgomery Ward bill that says no payment is due as a measure of earthquake relief. Which was very cool of them. That's the January 1994 Northridge earthquake, btw...

NaClYoHo Task List Tally:

Starting: 50

Current: 107 (including completed)

Completed: 73

Partially completed: 7

And with that, NaClYoHo is done! But my adventures in decluttering definitely aren't. More on that tomorrow! And now it's time for mimis.

#naclyoho #ral's adventures in decluttering

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unfavorableinstigation · 5 months

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The hotel I'm staying at is almost certainly the fanciest one in town because they gave me a cookie (a WARM cookie!) just for checking in and also the toiletries are from Crabtree and Evelyn and FULL SIZE like they think I'm too rich to bother absconding with them. They have even included a mechanism for re-grounding me, lest all this splendor turn my poor silly head - from my vantage point in the hotel bed, my direct eyeline includes 3 separate framed pictures of wheat.

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kammartinez · 1 year

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I work in a blue-chip gallery, and it’s not unusual that I’m asked if I grew up in Newport when I say that I’m from Rhode Island. It often feels like a loaded question, more social barometer than casual inquiry, and it’s clear that my response will either indicate our mutual class affiliation or amplify the differences that I already know exist between us. Sometimes I can see the flare of pleasure that people feel when they say “Newport,” the word conjuring, as it must, visions of sailboats and private beaches, country clubs and rocky cliffs thrashed by the waves of a restless Atlantic. I always sense that there’s a secret on the other side of the inquiry, but I guess I will never know exactly what it is; I grew up half an hour west of Bellevue Avenue in a modest split-level ranch that my father built. I’ve seen only small slices of those gated houses, the quick flashes of stone and shingle that are revealed through a break in the trees.

In high school I had a friend named Vanessa whose mother was a nurse at Newport Hospital. We would sometimes catch a ride with her and walk up and down Thames Street, where we shoplifted scented lotions from Crabtree & Evelyn and searched diners and parking lots for the town’s seemingly nonexistent boys. I don’t remember that we ever once considered spending an afternoon following Cliff Walk, the coastal path that wends its way past Newport’s eccentric archipelago of Gilded Age mansions. We liked looking at things we couldn’t afford, but only if we could fit them into our pockets, only if we could take them home with us to scrutinize within the privacy of our own bedrooms.

I briefly moved back to Rhode Island following the collapse of my first marriage. It was the summer before I turned twenty-seven, and I spent three months hiding away in my childhood bedroom, grief-damaged and humiliated by the task of trying to figure out who and how I was supposed to be. My husband and I had managed to stay married for only four years, the last of which I spent watching from the sidelines as he enjoyed an unexpectedly rapid and very public rise as an artist. His newly minted success introduced a host of newly minted problems, and I drifted through most of that winter and spring weeping in the utility closet at the boutique where I worked and asking him where I fit into his life so many times that I eventually didn’t fit into it at all. By that July, we were completely estranged. I was living with my parents when his art dealer sent me a copy of The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton’s 1920 Pulitzer Prize–winning novel that lays bare the punitive cruelties of a leisure class as expert at collecting things as it was at discarding people. Partially set in the Gilded Age Newport where Wharton herself had summered from the late 1870s through the turn of the century, the book lifts a curtain’s edge on what once happened inside those hedgerow-protected compounds. I never asked the art dealer if he was suggesting that I was a May Welland or an Ellen Olenska, but maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he was telling me that all bad marriages are exactly the same, that it makes no difference where you live or what you have, because even glamour cannot temper the pain of being left.

I fell in love with Wharton during those lonesome months; I found fragments of myself in The Custom of the Country’s Undine Spragg, in The House of Mirth’s Lily Bart, in Summer’s Charity Royall, each one of them unable to foresee that folly follows when we expect too much. It wasn’t until many years later that I learned that the author who wrote with such precision about what transpires inside the unhappiest of homes had herself lived in a succession of them. Raised by a rigid society mother who was by turns remote and overbearing, Edith Newbold Jones was twenty-three when she married Teddy Wharton. The union helped her escape the control of a family that found her literary aspirations inconveniently vulgar, but so ill-matched were Teddy and Edith that Henry James once said that the marriage was, in retrospect, “an almost—or rather an utterly—inconceivable thing.” The young Mrs. Wharton soon realized that her new husband was a professional vacationer plagued by alcoholism and manic depression, a man who found his equilibrium indulging in the communal “watering hole amusements” that she went on to pillory with brutal accuracy in her novels and short stories. It was at Land’s End, the couple’s cliffside Rhode Island home, that Edith understood that she’d consigned herself to a new kind of domestic subjugation: a sexually and intellectually dissatisfying quasi-union that withered incrementally under the pall of Newport’s convivial excesses. “There are certain things one must possess in order not to be awed by them,” she wrote in 1900’s “The Line of Least Resistance,” a story, set in Newport, about a dissatisfied wife and her rich but gormless husband. One is left to wonder whether the line refers to objects or to women.

***

Wharton’s writing frequently draws parallels between the claustrophobia of an overstuffed parlor and that of marital suffering, and it is often through a rejection of architectural convention that her heroines express their hunger for freedom. (Think of would-be divorcée Ellen Olenska setting up house in her bohemian West Twenty-Third Street apartment.) In the late 1890s, Wharton, fatigued by the disorganized ostentation that she felt was transforming Newport into a “Thermopylae of bad taste,” began examining the relationship between architecture and psychology, ultimately developing a philosophy that called for the union of symmetry, classical proportions, and elegant utility. She outlined this trifecta of principles in her 1897 book, The Decoration of Houses, and later realized them in the construction of the Mount, the Lenox, Massachusetts, compound she codesigned following the sale of Land’s End in 1901.

Lenox, which lies in the shadow of the Berkshire Mountains, had already established itself as a summer enclave for wealthy New Yorkers by the time the Whartons purchased their 113 acres of lakeside farmland, but for Wharton the area retained a vestige of “hideous, howling wilderness,” as one unnamed traveler had described it two centuries prior. The outskirts of the land were still populated, albeit sparsely, by insular pockets of the “Swamp Yankees”—local vernacular for New England mountain people—that haunt the pages of Summer and Ethan Frome.

Wharton found in the countryside a respite from New York’s surveillance, relief from Newport’s extravagance, the freedom to choose her own company, and material. It was on Hawthorne Street that Wharton’s friend Ethel Cram was fatally injured by a horse kick to the skull, an event that served as the impetus for her 1907 novel, The Fruit of the Tree. One can drive past the train station where Wharton received out-of-town visitors like Henry James and English novelist Howard Sturgis. The steep decline from the town square was the site of the deadly 1904 sledding accident that inspired Ethan Frome. Kate Spencer, an assistant librarian at the Lenox’s public library, was injured in the accident; visiting the library this past fall, I found myself imagining the hours Wharton must have spent quietly studying her young friend’s scarred face and limping gait, searching her for evidence of the distance between public and private pain.

“It was only at The Mount,” Wharton recalled in her 1934 memoir, A Backward Glance, “that I was really happy.” The two primary—and parallel—themes that run through its pages are the histories of her writing and of her homes, mutually informative and enmeshed passions that surface even in her earliest recollections. The Mount is presented as the site that allowed Wharton to consolidate her power as a novelist, a house on a hill from which she could regard, from a slight distance, the life she was born into yet was savagely critical of.

In 1980, nearly a half century after the memoir’s publication, a cache of three hundred letters written by Wharton to a protégé of Henry James’s named Morton Fullerton was brought to market by a Dutch bookseller. Dated between 1907 and 1915, the letters—long thought to have been destroyed—offer proof of an extramarital affair with Fullerton that began at the Mount when Wharton was forty-five. Though the painful longing and ecstatic satisfaction that ricochet through these private missives is predictably missing from the memoir, the experience clearly inflected her recollections of the house and shaped the novels she wrote there. “You told me once,” she wrote to Morton in 1908, “I should write better for this experience of loving.”

Regardless of the revelations borne out by the affair, it was only after discovering that Teddy had embezzled nearly fifty thousand dollars from her trust to fund a Boston apartment for his mistress and the pleasure of several chorus girls that Wharton brokered a deal for her escape. She let go of the Mount to let go of the marriage, leaving in 1911, after handing the deed to Teddy in exchange for her freedom. By the time her boat arrived in France, the house had been sold.

***

The Mount, a gleaming white H-shaped jewel dressed in candy-striped awnings and marble balustrades, is located two miles from Lenox, and accessed via a winding, wooded driveway. Incorporating elements of French, Italian, and English styles and built into the side of a large hill, the building is a master class in visual harmony. I visited this past fall with my second husband, my first time there since the eighties, and joined a late-afternoon tour group that convened under the golden light of a slowly dipping sun. Outside the house, our tour guide, a fifty-something woman with a no-nonsense bob, sensible shoes, and a large yellow service dog, pointed out Wharton’s devotion to symmetry, evident not only in the labyrinth of formal gardens that bloom in the summertime with phlox, lilies, hydrangea, and dahlias, but also on the building’s facade, which features a set of dummy windows that compensate for an architectural imbalance. I thought it an unusual gesture, though I soon realized it wasn’t so for Wharton; inside the house are false doors, decorative panels that feign access to nonexistent rooms, and strategically placed mirrors that offer the illusion of depth. I was reminded of Lily Bart’s fatal reliance on artifice and of my own desire, all those years ago, on reading the novel for the first time, to believe until the very end that she might actually survive in spite of it.

Our group of eight included two teenage boys, a woman nestling a small curly-headed poodle to her breast in a baby sling, an elderly couple, and a man who did not once remove a pair of wraparound sunglasses. We entered the house through a grotto-style front hall finished with stucco walls and a terra-cotta-tiled floor, and then went up a staircase to a vaulted-ceilinged gallery on the main floor, outfitted with a series of arched doors. From there the rooms unfold enfilade, redirecting traffic flow away from Edith’s private rooms, the places Henry James referred to as the Mount’s “penetralia.” In her lifetime, Wharton was frequently accused by both friends and critics of an impulse to reveal much about the lives of others while giving away very little about her own, and the latter is evident in the way she policed her personal spaces. “It shall be born in mind,” she once wrote, “that, while the main purpose of a door is to admit, its secondary purpose is to exclude.”

In Edith’s bedroom, the two young men in our tour group, who had at some point produced what looked like a photographer’s light meter, began running the device over the room’s bed, a vase of flowers, a mirror, an empty bureau, a disconnected telephone, and a small stack of books. I watched the lights on the device flicker anemically, emitting yellow and green flashes in short bursts that seemed to indicate nothing at all. “Is anyone here?” one of them asked. “Are you here?” They were not looking for Edith Wharton—just her ghost. “They shouldn’t do that!” I said to my husband, loud enough for everyone in the group to hear. “The House of Mirth was written in this room!” By this point my spoilers had begun to fatigue our guide, a nice woman whom I had unfortunately made an enemy of with my repeated interruptions and various usurpations, with my impulse to anticipate future turns in the tour’s script without concern for how it made either of us look. She didn’t seem to mind when my husband and I opted to linger in Wharton’s room so I could look out through the window at the forest and the lake, and no one said a word when we decided to break off from our group and head out on our own.

Walking the property’s grounds, I thought about what it means to be allowed entry into a stranger’s Eden, how impossible it is for the dead to protect themselves from the violence of our curiosity once we are allowed access to their private spaces. I thought of the hours I’d spent scouring passages from The Life Apart, the secret erotic diary the author kept for the duration of her affair with Morton Fullerton and the only place where the author was ever able to address her own carnal appetite. From the sentimental little hill of the family pet cemetery, I looked out to the mountains at the view that inspired Wharton to revisit a short story she’d written in French many years before. It was 1910, and the writer’s turbulent relationship with Fullerton had reached its inevitable conclusion. Provided with the distance to compare an unhappy marriage with the thrill of illicit erotic distraction, Wharton began to write Ethan Frome, coding herself as the title character, her husband as his infirm wife, and Fullerton as Mattie Silver, the servant with whom Ethan is in love. Wharton so often wrote about herself that we don’t need to pry to find all the things she never meant for us to see. There is a short passage in Ethan Frome that I return to, sometimes, when I feel my curiosity becoming caustic, when my fascination turns invasive, when I begin to run my ghost meter over someone’s life just because I can. “I had the feeling,” the narrator states, “that the deeper meaning of the story was in the gaps.”

#edith wharton #books #reading

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outragedtortilla · 1 year

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Nights, the confectioneries waft into sleepy memory. Heart shaped chocolates on a stick. Saltwater taffy. Lemon meringue pie. Chocolate sheet cake. With the richest chocolate icing. No bake cookies, shell shaped candy in little molds that looked like the shells from Crabtree and Evelyn. Toffee. Cinnamon candy. A candy thermometer and bags of sugar. Ginger snaps and more taffy. Banana nilla wafer pudding and homemade ice cream. Aimee Gramblin

#aimee gramblin #poetry #prose poetry #WRITEBLR #93030

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spicegrenada · 2 years

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Website: https://www.spicegrenada.org/

SpiceGrenada is an Online Store that markets and sells Grenada Worldwide. Established online and fastly growing is what we meant by business. Founded by its founder Ms. Tamara Philip operates the day-to-day transactions of this business, keeping our customers always satisfied.

We specialize in: Authentic Arts and Crafts, Clothing, Rums, Confectioneries, Beauty products, Perfumes and Many More.

Next time you are thinking about the Caribbean, let us at SpiceGrenada bring the essence of Sun, Sea and Sand to you.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SpiceGrenada.org

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greatfinds · 9 hours

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NWT Crabtree & Evelyn Hat Box Pomegranate Shower Gel Body Lotion and Hand Cream.

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mrsvalbaker · 5 months

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Sorry if it’s been asked already but, what would horror bimbo wear to a concert date with Eddie?

It hasn't been asked yet and even if it has been, I love this reply. I’ll make a moodboard, but horror!bimbo would look very Danzig girl, like a vampire nymphette. Black, white, or deep red velvet little dresses and tiny articles of clothing, lace ups, poetry blouses worn as dresses that hardly pass her ass, she will wear garters up her thigh, bdsm chokers and collars, dead girl eye makeup that makes her look dreamy and sleepy. She always goes for otherworldly slut,

–

She always spent the whole day of a concert preparing,

If it was a school day she would play hookey,

Eddie would hate it because he wouldnt get to see his sweet little moth, and would complain dramatically to her about it.

Hands splayed on her provocative hips before squeezing them possessively as he would bury his face in her sweet smelling neck that smelled of her lilac perfume and vanilla body powder, his mouth actually physically water. “You gonna leave me again until nighttime?” he complained.

She giggled and stroked his fluffy chocolate curls.

“Id invite you to stay, but I dont wanna bore you bear.” She always could call him that because to her he looked like a human teddy bear, a very sexy teddy bear.

He lifted his head from her neck, his doe eyes widened and pupils darkened. “Yeah? Youd let me watch you get dressed? Maybe help you wash that back…” he started kissing down the back of her neck causing her to shiver and preen against him. He was half hard thinking about it.

He spent the day getting ready with her. She ran a nice bubble bath with Vaseline vitamin e bath beads that turned the water teal, Crabtree & Evelyn rosewater bubble bath, and apricot kernel bath oil. She had to have Eddie join in her pre-concert ritual naturally, and no one was home but her. She lit lavender candles and played the Icon album Night of the Crime theyll be hearing tonight in Indianapolis.

She had Eddie joined her in the bath, she put an avocado masque on his face and hers and the Rave hair masque with a V05 hot oil treatment, She wanted him to feel pampered too, and they started kissing, he held her in his lap, she warmed his cock in the bath She felt so full like she ate a big meal, he is that big. She couldnt stop herself, felt too good, she started moving.

“Ooh fuck baby, if you dont stop that–”

“Youll what…daddy?” She put on her baby voice, the one that got small and sounded squishy and cute,

He stroked her back and she started to drool in anticipation. He took her face in his hand, turning her to face him and lick up her drool, his other hand squeezed her ample ass, “Fuck you have a perfect body for a whore.” He thrusted his hips up and she squeaked, feeling dizzy with pleasure. “Oh my fucking God!”

“Too bad youre just mine.” He laid a sloppy kiss on her shoulder and grabbed her waist before raising his hips and slamming up inside of her tight pussy, that gushed all over his cock. “Baby girl, making such a mess for daddy, what a messy baby.” He cooed.

After a steamy bath session, they got dressed. She used hot rollers for a sultry look, and slid on her french cut, black, lace panties, her puffy pussy sort of swallowed it a bit, and naturally Eddie had to have a quick taste.

She had a satin white garter with a pink rosette slid up her left thigh by his truly, her right leg adorn with a thigh high fishnet stocking, a revealing neo Victorian, lacey little slip with gaps terribly tied together by dainty bows, exposing her generous cleavage, the thin straps of her negligee falling down her shoulders, She slips into combat boots that contrast her attire, and one of Eddie’s leather jackets that was too big for her frame. She had black under eye to make her look like a haunted doll, and her lips were painted the same color as her nipples.

Her signature lilac perfume kissed her wrists, neck, and cleavage. Eddie realized the importance of getting ready for a concert.

@thepurplelovewitch

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x horror!bimbo reader #stranger things 4 #eddie munson headcanons #st4

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