Lazy Sunday in Lambertsville

After spending a few hours allowing my body and mind to wake, slowly and leisurely, the filmmaker and I decided to take an impromptu adventure into Pennsylvania. Lambertsville is a quaint and not altogether sleepy town, where the economy and cultural loci share a particular nexus: antiques and art. Local shops of antiques, vintage, and artisan crafts scatter about a silent railroad track and a bridge to cross a river. Despite the seeming isolation from the bustling urban maelstrom of the New York metropolitan area, Lambertsville boasted an obvious crowd of weekend visitors, presumably drawn by the allures of aforementioned antiques and art.

Our first stop, following paying homage to the exorbitant sacrifices requisite of the parking meter goddesses, a nickel for three minutes to be precise, was a used book shop: Phoenix Books. It seems almost customary that small and delightfully cramped used book shops in small stores, wafting a permeating bouquet of almost-must and binding glue, and thankfully, Lambertsville and Phoenix Books did not disappointment. In one alcove, I found philosophy, linguistics, and poetry; as I often get quite distracted and overwhelmed in these situations, I focused my search energies here. I picked up three absolute gems for about 20$; my reading rate has been depressingly decrepit lately, thanks to perpetually starting at a mind-numbing computer screen whose glow assaults my retina, and further to reading equally mind-numbing tedium for my profession. Perhaps my personal reading life will pick up with these additions.

(image taken from Woodstock Wardrobe)

(image taken from Jane Hayes Consulting)

(image taken from About)

(image taken from She Finds)

(image taken from LA Times)

(image taken from In Style)

The array of Betty Draper image inspiration is not some error splice; after we meandered through a few antique stores, I convinced the filmmaker to jaunt down the main street to a charming vintage clothing shop I had spied on the journey in. Every garment, or nearly every garment, was neons, creams, whites, and navy, with perfectly cinched waists and full skirts, essentially a materialistic fantasy realm for any 1960s housewife, thriving on ennui and powerless unfulfillment. In particular, there was a navy and white wicker handbag that I adored, coveted, but, practicality triumphing, ultimately let alone there on the shelf.

The costume design for Mad Men is obviously ridiculously meticulous and has the luxury of discerning eyes cultivated by the last few decades to preen selections for perfection; I specifically love paying acute attention to the costume jewelry. Antique stores are always resplendent with various baubles and beads from bygone eras; our adventure did lead to some awesome rewards. Though I am trying pinch a penny or two or three, tickle a nickel, for my trip to Paris, I ended up with a few new jewelry acquisitions.

The filmmaker and I agreed that if this lad were not several hundred dollars, and thus quite a comfortable permanent resident here on this antique store wall, he would have accompanied us home; a fine coat rack.


After I had concluded ogling costume jewelry and the fantastic tiny waists on beautiful dresses, we went to dinner, a place called Lilly's on the Canal. The fare was mostly basic contemporary American, with a few nuances, and the soundtrack and decor were quite eclectic, a strange hybrid between bed and breakfast and new age dance club. At some point during the meal, a water hose turned on behind what appeared to be a wall of scalloped aluminum, creating a trickling industrial waterfall effect, simultaneously soothing and hilarious. Small towns can be quite creative.

To start, as we were immediately famished, we had homemade fried tortilla chips with guacamole, salsa, and a bean salad; each chip was large and probably sufficient for a single person appetizer. I devoured a number of them.


The filmmaker likes chicken, a lot; he also likes bacon, a lot, thus ordered this grilled sandwich, but, unfortunately, bacon does not return the congeniality.




Most of the time, I find it hard to turn down a Kobe beef burger, medium rare, garnished with a heavy helping of sharp cheddar cheese and rich bacon. This type of dietary preference may be indicative as to why my wardrobe has been leaning towards the over-sized, some almost old western and others more investment banker, button-down men's shirts. They, if nothing else, are quite forgiving.


I have not had a root beer, a real root beer, in ages; alas, vanilla ice cream could not be procured. I know what my summertime secret dessert is going to be.



This window pane patterned button-down was an appropriate choice; perhaps my ordering the larger than my face burger was inevitable, a beautiful act of fate. Pairing this type of shirt, such a piece of stereotypical casual masculinity, with my carved cameo was an ideal juxtaposition.