For me, it’s a simple white button-down shirt. Also: I miss supermodels.
A trillion apologies for making my way back to you so slowly, people—as it turns out, my body was not quite down with my brain’s plan to bounce right back to work a week after a pneumonia diagnosis. So I’ve been spending my time alternately napping and lounging, marathon-viewing Broad City and The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, ordering takeout Pho, and wondering how it used to feel to actually, like, accomplish things. Next week I will be back to you; this I promise. Meanwhile, do please enjoy Joni Mitchell being absolutely divine.
It can be anything: a bad marriage, an unsatisfying job, a dress that fit you like it was made for you, but cost twice what you could afford. And, of course, any bad habit—many of which I’ve picked up and discarded over the years and the most pernicious of which was demon tobacco. I am fascinated to hear what you guys have to say on this one.
The relentlessly awful weather in NYC has played hell with my soul, so I made a (very last-minute) decision to get the hell out of Dodge and book it to Miami for a few days. Am in the Delta Lounge as I type and will be back to you for real tomorrow. Meanwhile, here’s a picture of the patio outside of my room. Pretty, no?
I did this the other day.
One might consider it a stretch to call anything denim an investment purchase, but I view R13 jeans as an investment in my self-esteem, and can one put a price tag on that? No other brand I’ve ever worn (and as you might imagine there have been a few) has fit me as exactly-right, been quite so flattering even on pudgy days, and generated nearly as many compliments.
OK, your turn.
I woke up in the very tiniest hours of Tuesday morning—right around when we were supposed to be experiencing the eye of Blizzard 2015 here—to see that it wasn’t snowing even a speck. But there was a pretty dusting over the streets, and the travel ban had turned the city into a ghost town. So I didn’t sleep for a few hours, and instead just sat up in the living room—two walls of which are windows—and enjoyed the kind of deathly calm my little corner of downtown never knows. Then snow plows came, and after that a rogue car or two, and as the sun rose, I spied a few early risers in the park across the street, and felt a sudden urge to walk the pretty virgin snow before it became ugly New York City snow. So I suited up the dog and put on my snow boots and the hulking, ugly industrial-strength parka I pull out on days when it’s really messy out and I especially don’t give a shit, and off we went. And then I came back home and passed out for a few hours.
Later, I went out searching for signs of life, and found more than I had perhaps bargained for in Nolita: stylish people in well-cut winter gear were out on the streets, in the stores, having coffee with one another and looking altogether smart. Did I mention that the industrial-strength parka is one size too big—adding a good ten pounds to my frame—and comes to my shins? And that my hairstyle was basically my hat? I had a sudden attack of giving a shit, and headed south on Mott Street to less perilously stylish environs. Which put me right in the path of No. 6, on whose website I had spied some surpassingly cute clogs just hours earlier. I was in no mood to encounter the stylish shopgirls and customers of No. 6, but I pressed on. And learned a little something about myself: the vain part of my brain doesn’t stand a change when pitted against the acquisitive part.
I won’t be able to wear them for months, but are they not adorable?
I love a really good snowstorm; there are few things quite so awesome as watching Mother Nature bring even this most frenetic of cities to a screeching halt. Still, this one looks like it might skew scary and dangerous, and so I’m sending my thoughts to all of you in its path. Stay safe, indoors—70mph winds, people!—and dry. It is precisely for days like this that those evil geniuses at Amazon invented Instant Video. Meanwhile, I have done my version of storm preparedness: checked the flashlight, water, and candle supplies, and had a truly epic top-of-the-morning visit to the local Whole Foods for provisions (my necessities, you might be surprised to note, are simple and few: I greet any excuse to live off of PB & J for a few days as the stuff of dreams).
Meanwhile, does my Sammy look like a handsome devil or what in his new Barbour coat?
Hello everyone, and apologies for my absence. It turns out I needed a little break. And I’m really glad I took it. But this is my promise to you: no more disappearing without letting you know in advance. I have missed you.* Meanwhile: here’s my favorite new neighborhood street art, discovered on Thursday morning’s dog walk.
Here’s where I spent Jewish Christmas (aka lunch in Chinatown). Best chicken dish in the whole neighborhood.
And here’s the inn where where I spent New Year’s. Tribeca Mom and spouse are part-owners. If you’re ever in the vicinity of Salisbury, Connecticut, do make your destination the White Hart Inn—dogs welcome! Take all of your meals there and by all means stick around for Trivia Night.
Tribeca Mom wore the perfect winter white corduroys, so of course I’m totally copying her. Just as soon as the holiday pudge subsides.
And I’m all set for parkas, but boy do I love hers.
I am duty-bound—due to my Maria Cornejo obsession as well as to my commitment to bringing you the chic—to let you know that their current sale is a little slice of heaven.
*And I’m beyond touched that so many of you checked in to see if everything was OK, and to rally me to come back soon.
A bag of Bean Cuisine soup mix, given to me by my first office crush—who clearly did not reciprocate—in 1989.