"Honey, I'm Home!"

It's the designer who creates a mark from the first icon that comes to mind for a company (needle and thread for a tailor, hammer for construction, etc.) and yet I'm forced to admit I've never seen anything like it--and it's perfect. It's the musician whose song is so formulaic I can sing along the first time I hear it, yet when I find it on repeat in the back of my mind that afternoon, I don't mind.

And finally, this weekend, I can say it's me...

I had a lovely dinner party Sunday evening. I don't know whether to be ashamed or unabashed about the fact that I entertain more for the sake of using my favorite stemware than the conversation or the company--but it was a lovely dinner. As such dinners inevitably do, this one produced a mountain of [hand-wash only] dishes which I didn't even look at until several hours after my guests had gone home.

I'd tunneled a good distance through said mountain, up to my elbows in suds, when I suddenly caught my reflection [no joke] in the side of an overturned stock pot and realized I was washing dishes in high heels and pearls.

I--the 20-something, single, independent career woman who's been called a feminist since she realized she was a girl and seldom spends more than 2 waking hours a day at home--was standing in the kitchen the quintessential image of a 1950's housewife.

Dripping alone in my kitchen, I had a good laugh and on the wave of that thrill, I move forward with renewed faith that somewhere in my subconscious waits a capsizer of cliches, a refurbisher of the rhetorical, a transformer of the trite...a true creative genius.