Posting is going to be light for the next couple of weeks, guys: I’m booking it up to the mountains to be one with nature, do yoga, and finish up a special project—one that will be pretty exciting if it works out, and about which you will be the first to know. (Also: there’s a BIG hint somewhere in this post as to what that special project may be.)
At the risk of getting far, far more personal than I typically do, I’ve got to say that no decision I’ve ever made comes close to being as pivotal and positive as the one to walk away from my marriage. And you?
John Updike once said that the true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding. I’m a little ashamed to admit that on some level I can relate to that statement. But after waking up to this view for a few days, a person starts to realize that Northern Californians probably feel precisely the same way.
I saw my new spirit animal, Esperanza Spalding, perform Saturday night and have to say that even if you aren’t a jazz fan—and I am not—it is well worth checking her out. She is so talented and winning and drop-dead gorgeous and stylish it’s like she is another species entirely.
Yesterday I had the loveliest visit with longtime reader Claire Jarvis (she’s a fancy-pants English professor at Stanford): we met for coffee in the Mission District and talked shopping, her upcoming wedding (the bride shall wear Cornejo), love, and the relative merits of the west and east coasts. We’ve corresponded a bit over the time I’ve done this blog so it was a treat to meet her, but also just so wonderful to meet one of you. Makes me wish it could happen a lot more often.
My favorite of the stores we visited: Gravel & Gold, which is a little craftier than I usually skew, but thoroughly charming. They’ve got their own line of rather fantastic prints and a multitude of other items that aren’t on their e-commerce site, so if you are ever in the vicinity, do make a point of dropping by.
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?