DIG, Saugerties, NY

If my husband had a blog, he might tell you this story.

But he doesn’t, so I will.

He’s always not-so-secretly looking for himself in a post anyway. 

He can be in this one.

He likes to go shopping with me. It’s one of the things that makes him a fun spouse, way above average fun, in fact. Lately, he LOVES to go shopping with me at a place called DIG Saugerties.

DIG is a boutique in Saugerties, NY owned and operated by the one and only Daisy Kramer Bolle and her husband Van Chagai Bolle.

Look how cute and in love they are. No really. Stop looking at that cake, and look at them.

photo courtesy of Daisy

You can read their bios here. Long story short: they met on a blind date at a Mexican wrestling bar in LA. Daisy had a glittering career as a celebrity stylist, Van was Director of Photography for Coachella, among a multitude of other projects. After the birth of their daughter, they decided to flee L.A. and cultivate the country life back in Daisy’s home territory, the Hudson Valley.

Which brings us to DIG. Daisy’s parents shared the wisdom they'd gleaned in the family business, and DIG was born in Saugerties in 2005.

I’d been hearing about it from my friend Martha Frankel for some time before I moved here. And I’d been in Robin’s (Daisy's mom) divine stores in Woodstock. So I was anxious to meet Daisy and see her store.

I was leery of finding anything there that I’d wear. On the Facebook page and the website, I’d clicked through image after image, thinking, “not me, I’m too old” or “that would look horrible on me” “I have to hide my arms.” Etc etc etc. All the things women say to themselves when our bodies start to look differently than we feel they should.

Off I went.

The window enticed me with color, beauty and energy.

Daisy welcomed me on that first visit with a warm hug and a “I’ve been dying to meet you.” My day immediately was flooded with sunshine. I started looking around and still felt lost. Daisy checked me out, grabbed three things and said, “I want you to try these on.” I laughed and thought, “That’s what you think, wait’ll you see.”

Tricky girl, that Daisy. In any other store, a clerk or owner finding something for you to try on might be annoying. From Daisy, it’s an offer you can’t refuse. She offers a comfy couch where your accomplice can wait for you. When I looked back at my accomplice as I headed for the dressing room, he had that look on his face that he gets at the State Fair, when he’s settling in for some prime people watching.

Remember, I told you Daisy was tricky. There are no mirrors in the dressing rooms, so you have to come out to see how you look. GASP. I slipped into a gorgeous SLEEVELESS Karina dress, after putting on the proper undergarments that Daisy expertly handed me for just this very occasion. Before I opened the curtain to go out, I knew I FELT good. How could it possibly look good though? It was sleeveless, I had these extra pounds, I didn’t…

“WHOA” was the first reaction from the couch. I hadn’t looked in the mirror yet. It was a good WHOA though, so I felt brave. Suffice it to say, when I did look, I was transported to the end of every episode of What Not to Wear, and I nearly fainted.

I left that day with a bag of goodies and a BOATLOAD of self-confidence. Shopping at DIG is the best kind of experience. I’ve made friends with other women in front of the mirror. There’s this great camaraderie there when you’re all feeling so good about how you look, and Daisy’s boundless energy, expertise, and encouragement is all around you.

So. You must go. If you can. But if you can’t, I’ll show you around a little.

Here's one of the best parts. Unlike a big box or a mall store, there are just a few of each thing. So you get to look through a rack and find surprise after surprise. If you want something Daisy's out of, trust me, she can get it for you.

The horror of trying on jeans fades away with all these choices, a DIG specialty.

The store is a fantastic mix of funky, hip and comfy. Accessories at every price range, some from local artists.

Look at these rings! Imagine how great popping one of these on and heading out for dinner would be. Or giving one to your BFF for fun.

New arrivals for fall. No accident that these two things are next to each other. Think of that comfy top with some jeans, those cute boots above, and this stunning jacket. You'd shut it down, so to speak.

Every space in the store is used wisely. These tank tops are kept between the dressing rooms, and one is often included for you to try on with your other things. Daisy says you should wear one under everything, all the time. Guess what. She's right.

These may or have been a purchase made here, in black, size 9. 

Gorgeous fall colors, again just a few of each selection.

The upper level has sale racks, with things you can wear right now. This would look so cool over your swimsuit, right? And picture it on a chilly fall day with a cute skirt and some leggings.

The sublime Karina dress, which looks this good on everyone. Not kidding.

Photo courtesy of Daisy

Little by little, I’m figuring out the obvious. The way women view their bodies after 50 can be just as toxic to their self esteem as having an eating disorder.

Daisy’s passion is to change that, to make it stop. She’s seen it all. She knows the media images of women that surround us aren’t real. I love her.

My husband’s happy that I’m kind of starting to believe what he’s been telling me for quite some time now. Pretty good, huh?

Norman Rockwell Museum, Stockbridge, MA

My mother's favorite artist was Norman Rockwell.
Growing up, this embarrassed me to no end.
He just wasn't hip enough for my sensibilities.
During high school, my bedroom walls featured thumb-tacked posters of Klimt's The Kiss, Picasso's Hand with Flowers (such an ironic title, so clever) and whatever M.C. Escher thing was in vogue at the time.
I pretended to find meaning in Mark Rothko, tacking Red, Orange, Tan and Purple over my bed.

The hallway in our house was lined with her Norman Rockwell plates, which she collected and treasured, saving the boxes and all the written documentation inside.
I scoffed at these even as she opened the new ones we ordered for her every Christmas.
How could she like this pedestrian illustration and call it art?
I remember once telling her she could just cut out photos from a magazine and tape them to the wall, it would be the same thing.

Aren't you sad you didn't know me then?

After she died, I inherited all the Rockwell prints, plates and books.

One afternoon when I was cleaning out her house, I sat in her chair and paged through the Rockwell book she kept next to it.

It'd been years since I'd even noticed any of the prints on the wall, they literally had blended into the background along with all the other odds and ends in this house she'd lived in for over 40 years.

Looking at the book, I saw illustrations and paintings of Norman Rockwell's that I'd never seen before. I had no idea about his amazing gifts as a painter, where he was from, or that his work was done from photos taken of the people who lived around him.

(I'd also learned, post high school, to appreciate illustrators. A lot.)

I noted that I should look into this some more some time. And I didn't get rid of the books or the plates, packing them away with the other things of hers I saved.

A few weeks ago, we took a road trip to Stockbridge, Massachusetts, to the Norman Rockwell Museum.

I somehow felt like going there for my mom, since she never did.

We left the Catskills and headed to the Berkshires. (pronounced Berk-sheers, you sillies)
Happily, the museum's not in some steel-sided hut along the thruway.
It's in this gorgeous setting:






I took those photos walking around the site, the day was spectacular.

As we approached the museum itself, we were greeted by a smiling gentleman in a blue blazer, sitting on a bench. In reply to our how are you, he said "Great, now that you're here!"
We found out later that as a kid he'd posed for a photo that became one of Rockwell's paintings.

The museum is in a beautiful, light-filled building, and as soon as we walked into one of the galleries, I was struck by how large the paintings are. Here's a shot of a gallery from the museum's website, just to give you an idea of size.



The first thing I saw, before any paintings, were the faces of the people looking at them. People were looking at the work as if they were seeing an old friend, an old friend they loved very much. Smiles of recognition, laughter, and awe were all around me. I've never seen this at a museum before. No one had that look of, "I'm pretending to like this, but I haven't a clue what it means."

The first painting I saw was The Problem We All Live With, 1964.



To my complete surprise, tears immediately sprung to my eyes as I stood in front of this. It was the detail. The care that had been taken to show every nuance of this afternoon in American history: the girl's pristine white dress, shoes and socks, the ruler she carried, the determination on her face, all painted with Rockwell's incredibly sure hand and amazing sense of detail. I'd seen this image many times, but how had I never noticed the tomatoes?

I now understood Norman Rockwell as the brilliant American historian he was, capturing every shade of what it is that makes us who we are.

These were some of my other favorites.


Jury Holdout, 1959.


Lineman, 1947.
Originally painted as an AT&T promotion, donated to the museum by Verizon in 2008.
(Thanks, Verizon! I feel I had a small part in allowing them to afford this.)


Going and Coming, 1947.


Breaking Home Ties, 1954.

A bonus for us on this visit was the gallery displaying Rockwell's movie posters. They're displayed with some of the original oil paintings beside them.
The painting of Jennifer Jones, below, is breathtaking. Combined with the graphics on the movie poster, it makes a stunning package. If only movie posters still looked like this.




Calling Don Draper!



After seeing his work, a opportunity to visit his actual studio on the grounds was icing on the cake. The studio is set up to look just the way it did when he was painting what's on the easel, recreated from photographs. The detail again is incredible, down to what's playing on the radio.
An informative guide/docent who clearly loves his work can answer any/all questions about the studio.





An additional gallery was offering the work of William Steig, which in itself would have been enough to get me to visit. Another bonus!

The museum has a great education program, classes for kids, and all sorts of on-going events.
The gorgeous setting for this collection of American treasures couldn't be more perfect.

My mom would have loved it.

Lessons Chelsea Taught Me

I may be guilty of starting one of the early rumors.

A month or so ago I read the news of Chelsea Clinton’s upcoming Rhinebeck wedding in one of the local papers. I don’t remember which one it was, and whichever paper had the scoop became a debate in itself. But I read it and called my husband to tell him. He was out of town.

“Chelsea Clinton's getting married in Rhinebeck! Right down the road! This weekend!” Astor Courts is right down the road. But “this weekend” was the end of June. I told several people this. Then I read the article again, and saw the date was July 31. Oopsie. Oh well. She IS getting married here, just not right now, I said.

As for Astor Courts being right down the road…us being new in town and all, we took the liberty of a little exploration, and set off to scope out this place. Wouldn’t you? This was back before the snooping helicopters had the same idea. We drove down the lane, thinking we’d get a peek and turn around.

Out from the bushes stepped a cute young man wearing a suit coat and khaki pants, holding a cell phone. He walked up to my husband’s side of the car and said, “Hi. Can I tell the lady of the house you’re here?” Husband: “Sure!” Me: “No, no, sorry, sorry, sorry.” After a brief conversation in which he denied that anything might be happening nearby, we turned around and prepared to leave.

He saw our license plate and said, “IOWA? You’re from Iowa?” Husband: “Yes, and we drove all this way to see this place, and you aren’t going to let us in?” Hardee-har-har. Turns out the kid had family back in Iowa. As we drove away for real this time, we saw him writing our license number down. “Laugh it up, people, tell it to the Secret Service,” I imagined him snickering to himself as he jotted down our descriptions.

Before I proceed, let me just say that back in Iowa, before the days of CNN and the internets bringing us news as live tweets, by the time we got our news from either coast it was filtered down to the consistency of white bread. All we ever knew was the way things really were. The only rumors swirling around us were the ones that started at the barbershop downtown.

Here’s where what Chelsea taught me comes in. Living at ground zero for this “wedding of the century”, we’ve been able to observe the media coverage versus the truth first hand. Wowsa, as my friend Martha likes to say.

I saw a rumor actually walk itself down the street. Last Friday, we found ourselves outside Gigi’s when Bill Clinton was inside for lunch. Seriously, it was an accident. I know that’s hard to believe after I’ve already confessed to trespassing on the grounds of the estate, but it’s true. We just drove into town to check out the scene and make fun of the gawkers. Like we do at the State Fair.

However, the buzz seemed a bit amped up somehow. We decided to park and walk around. Turned the corner, and heard Bill was inside.

We hung around and waited to see how this unfolded. I saw a reporter from one of the foul tabloid shows breathlessly telling viewers as she gestured towards the darkened window, “He’s inside. Eating. We saw him go in. We’re not sure who he’s with. Bystanders tell us it might be Steven Spielberg.”

The people around her started turning towards each other, relaying, “Spielberg’s in there too!”

Bill came out, without Steven S. But we did snap this photo.

Not bad, right? Don’t judge. What would you have done? And he LOVED the attention. Hillary probably told him to get lost for awhile. So he went to eat pasta, a couple hours before the rehearsal dinner.

A reporter standing next to me yelled to Bill, “What do you think of your new son-in-law?”

Thank God no one from Extra was on the scene of my wedding to yell that to my mother-in-law and get her answer on film.

Watching the coverage of this frenzy that night on the news, it dawned on me that what I was seeing on TV was nothing like what I had seen and heard in person.

No wonder Chelsea didn’t want reporters to know anything. Your own wedding already seems like a dream. Why let the media make you doubt what you pray is real? Especially when you're Chelsea, and you've had to do just that for your whole life.

So many rumors, so little time. In spite of the crowds of people on the streets of Rhinebeck straining at the kinds of barricades you saw at the MJ trial, hoping for a glimpse of Streisand and Bono, the only celebs who could be conjured were Madeline Albright, rocking shades like a champ, and Steve Bing. I know, Steve Bing? Don’t even bother to Google if you’ve never heard of him.

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, we’d had more than enough, and planned to sit on our deck in our jammies and watch the fireworks that supposedly were going to be shot from a barge on the Hudson.

Our friends Martha and Steve dropped by to join us.

Martha and I began updating her Facebook page with her made-up reports from inside the wedding. Some people thought they were real.

Wow. New Yorkers are way more gullible than Iowans.

I now think this is because they’re used to being at the epicenter of these news events. They just tell it as it happens. Back in Iowa, we counted on them to sort it out for us. Maybe that’s it, I dunno. I have to think about that some more.

Meanwhile, I find it funny as hell that the rumored Oprah sighting placed her standing in line for a banana split at an establishment called Holy Cow.

Funnier, still, is the truth: Oprah wasn’t even invited to the wedding.

Finally, you gotta read Martha’s report. Then, pass it on.

Chelsea and Marc don't care now, they're on their honeymoon.