Natural Selection

I took Sabine on a junior hike the other day and it was fifty times cooler than I expected. I expected to come home with poison ivy, a rattlesnake bite and perhaps some cactus thorns sticking out of her knee, but instead little monster chased butterflies and dragonflies; quietly watched a creeping lizard; tortured tiny tadpoles; climbed rocks around a pond without falling in; and sang while marching in an empty riverbed.

This is splendid news because today we leave for a weekend camping trip to Malibu, where there will be nothing but the ocean, tide pools, sand castles to build, seashells to collect, canopies of Sycamore trees, and a trickling stream filled with rocks and twigs. No parks with playgrounds, no ice cream, no bikes or toys, no TV (but maybe an iPad) and no stores.

Whenever I'm outside, where there are no other people or cars or buildings, but just the greenest trees, the brightest flowers and a Crayola blue sky hemmed with craggy mountains that look like sculpture, I feel better. I feel like somehow my mom is watching Sabine and her heart is exploding with the same kind of fireworks that mine does every time I look at her; like she's right there and not without us in the same way that the sky is not without the ground and the trees aren't without branches. One thing gives way to another and they're permanently connected. And so are we--my mom, me and Sabine. Joined. For always.

Hope your weekend is beautifully outdoorsy. 

Images via Observando

Starry-Eyed

Sabine needs these. A.S.A.P.

Star sunglasses, $7.99 from Gap

Mama Said Knock Me Out

Last weekend, Sabine's auntie came over and babysat so Kadin and I could go out and be a civilized twosome vs. dragging tiny monster along while we guzzle drinks and devour meals in 3.2 seconds before she thoroughly upends whatever unfortunate restaurant we chose to terrorize.

It was fun. Really fun. But three drinks and falling into bed at 1:30 a.m. is not what it used to be. And neither am I. I was exhausted and in pain the day after, when I asked Kadin to get me a Tylenol. And since I like to "go big or go home," I asked him for a Tylenol and a half (700 mg). It turns out that he gave me the blue ones, you know, blue as in P.M. "That was all I could find," he said. Of course, moments later I found a huge brand new bottle of regular Tylenol sitting atop the kitchen counter.

At first, I freaked out. I have not slept more than six hours in a night or taken more than a thirty-minute nap in the past two years. Sabine is like a cold bucket of water dumped on your head. You not only have to be awake when she's around, you have to be alert, agile, faster than lightening and uh, I don't know, lucid? But I had no choice. Sleep was suddenly out of my control. Not long after those little blue pills were long-gone down my gullet, I felt lobotomized, narcoleptic. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I slept in the car, while sitting up, while talking, with my head on the table and on the couch while Sabine used my body as a trampoline.

And I have to tell you, it was luxuriously delicious. My couch felt like a bed at the Four Seasons. The bouncing toddler was but a footnote in my sleep story. I felt like Rip van Winkle. I love sleep and I've missed it so. I'm incredibly vigilant when it comes to Sabine; I rarely let her out of my sight or stop caring for her to do anything else. Those little blue pills were the happiest accident I've had in a long time. Sometimes, you have to be forced into taking a break--even if that means being unintentionally drugged.

Selma Blair Style

Selma Blair, who gave birth on Monday (and didn't name her son Superhero or Mango or Conductor, but Arthur), has beaucoup de jaw-dropping style. It was drool-worthy before she was pregnant, but I was particularly awestruck by how flawlessly insane she looked while sporting a baby bump.

Okay, let's just start with this. I mean, good for her, but I never looked like this in a bathing suit before I was pregnant, let alone while pregnant. What part of bloated, stretched, totally uncomfortable and morphed Moby Dick body doesn't she understand? Apparently, none of it.

Image via superficialdiva

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 Ridiculously adorable in a Bohemian Rhapsody kind of way.

Image via santabanta

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All three of these looks are simply perfect. And so are her boobs, her arms and her legs, apparently none of which have any idea that she's pregnant.

Image via stylelist

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This would look like a muumuu on almost anyone else.

Image via zimbio

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I mean, really? Who can go braless while pregnant? Those are teenager boobs, not almost forty and pregnant boobs.

Image via gossip.whyfame

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I adore these ensembles because I love just black or white. See, some women wear black because it looks impeccably cool, not because they're trying to hide stuff. Lord knows Selma has nothing to hide.

Image via thefashioncult

*Disclaimer: Selma is paid to look perfect and probably does not enjoy food as much as the rest of us. And if she does, she's convinced herself otherwise.

Singled Out

You guys, before I met Kadin--at age 35--I was hopelessly single. Most of my friends were married with children. I was the bridesmaid, never the bride; the auntie, never the mom. I dated a gazillion weirdos, who said they wanted what I wanted, but really just wanted a piece of ass. I went out with too many men that I had either nothing or too much in common with in hopes that something would eventually click. It never did.

I'd resigned myself to being alone and perhaps adopting a child. Kadin came along just after this resignation and though I was immediately attracted to him mentally and physically, I didn't let him in for nine months. I'd gotten used to being alone, had become mistrustful and was told by the friend who introduced us, that he was "a player." The same friend told Kadin that I was jaded. I probably was. My mother died and I was dumped by some loser musician who I'd inflated in my mind and who convinced me we were in love until he got bored and things suddenly seemed "too intense." My heart was broken and I was too sad to even think about letting anyone near it again.

I cracked the door and agreed to spend time with Kadin as friends. After some months, friendship turned into something else. And I let it because I'd taken the time to know that he was the farthest thing from a player and the closest thing to imperfectly perfect for me. Our baggage matched. He liked me as I was instead of as someone he'd imagined. We dated for a year and a half before we married; and Sabine was conceived about one month after that. I'm thirty nine years old now and we're attempting to have another child, who will hopefully be born not long after I turn forty.

I think about all of the years I spent watching friends pair up or get married and have children or remain a twosome. I think about how hollow and lonely that felt even though I was truly happy for them. Everyone else was seemingly with someone else. When I traveled or experienced something grand, sometimes it felt less grand because there was no one to elbow or laugh or drop my jaw with.

After Kadin and I were solidly together, he admitted he would sometimes spend Sundays alone in his apartment sleeping when he wasn't tired because he was lonely. And I admitted that I sometimes spent entire weekends doing the same thing. My father did this after my mother died. When you're this lonely, there's sometimes no difference between daytime and nighttime; the hours run together.

I've friends and family, who are alone in the way I was. I'm relaying my experience to say I know what it feels like so maybe, even for a minute, they will feel a little less alone. And maybe, too, they won't give up even though they've given up. Because I think things really do happen when you stop looking; when you're okay with just you; and when you give something time or someone a chance to show you who they really are. There are a million wrong people out there and none of them belong with you. It's not about being picked or picking. It's about finding what seems like your needle in the haystack. And sometimes, that takes what feels like far too long.

Images via Observando

Good Ideas

I used to have tree branches for curtain rods. But I never thought to paint them white, which I think looks so clean, cool and fresh.

Image via Blue Velvet Chair via Canadian House and Home

We have books upon books that we've read and will probably never re-read. I say we get rid of most of them and do this with the remaining few.

Image via Blue Velvet Chair via Real Simple

Sabine would love this. I would, too. But how would I stop her from drawing all over every wall?

Image via BandWand LAO via Design*Sponge

Days of Summer

A guava margarita to match Sabine's top on a painfully hot, but happy, summer day. Confetti poppers  because they burst with sparkly, curly, colored paper and make the loudest, snappiest sound. Sabine falling in love with Copper, her auntie's teddy-bear-like Shih Tzu. Pink baubles to hold two deliciously curly pigtails.

Speaking of hair baubles, this photograph reminds me of a day not so long ago--then, Sabine sported hair elastics instead of baubles--when a Caucasian neighbor said that I should tie her hair "with those little ball thingies" because then she would be "culturally appropriate." Her words struck me because I always wore "those little ball thingies" growing up. And my African American neighbor, who was standing nearby during the conversation, commented that neither she nor her daughter have ever worn them.  

Mama and Sabine

Sabine's new best friend.

Waiting for Autumn

My first fall purchase...I'm waiting for things to cool off so I can wear this... but it's scorching outside...in a persistently brutal kind of way...I could always turn up the AC and wear it around the house...I love the idea of putting it with a white tank, skinny jeans, black heels and bright red lipstick.

Military jacket, Gap.

The End

Friday was Sabine's last swimming lesson. Introducing wild child to the water was so awesomely fun for so many reasons:

1 She was so afraid during her first lesson that she clung to me like a newborn wet kitten. But during the last lesson, she jumped off the edge and into the pool four times and kept pushing me away to try and swim even though she has absolutely no idea how to actually swim.

2 Like Sabine, if you do something often enough, you're less afraid or hate it less--like maybe wearing your bathing suit in public in front of a hundred people after you've had a baby and are not as young as you used to be.

3 I only ditched one lesson! I suffer from chronic ditching disease. I ditched a lot of high school and college. And as an adult, whenever I've signed up for any class (sewing, screenwriting, Spanish, photography), I ditched at least half of them, which means that I still have no idea how to sew, write a screenplay, speak Spanish or use my camera if it's not set to "auto."

4 After the last lesson, we went to the neighboring park, where Sabine tried to play in the sandbox with two little boys. One boy said, "You are not our friend. Leave. We don't want to play with you." I breathed fire at him then uttered a few threatening words, before realizing that even mean little children have parents, who are probably mean, too. But luckily, this booger's parents were nowhere insight.

5 Sabine was so tired after each lesson that she took three-hour naps every Friday. I wish we had a pool.

6 I finally have a nice little tan that was basically free and makes me look like I went somewhere other than just down the street.

7 I discovered that this lipstick stays on even in the chlorine-filled pool.

8 I let go of having straight hair, dunked my head underwater and rocked my Chaka Kahn afro without caring how I looked.

9 I'm happy to report that Sabine is still little enough to fit in a locker, where she would hide and keep herself busy while I changed and organized our stuff. Sometimes I wish she would stop growing and stay this size forever so I can hold onto her and continue to hold her, too.

10 The same seventy-something-year-old woman would always talk to us in the locker room, while she was naked, making me VERY uncomfortable. But I'm happy to report that gravity has been very kind to said old lady in her old age and now I think there's hope for all of us.

11 There was one time when Sabine jumped into the water and I let her head go under a little. She hates getting her face wet. When she resurfaced, she didn't cry, but growled three times in the most hilarious, from the gut way. I think she's more monster than she is princess. Phew.

12 Sabine wore her beautifully curly hair down for the very first time and it was so deliciously cute that I wanted to take a bite right out if her.

Post lesson popsicle.

Yum.

Spoiler Alert

 Really? Really. Sabine is getting one of these--never. Cah-razy. But I'm wondering if perhaps we, as in our whole family, could live in one? Very affordable in terms of family housing. Well decorated, kitchen appliances, air conditioning...what more do we need? What more does a four year old need?

Child's Play, Grown-Up Cash, The New York Times

Megan Thompson Lovoi for The New York Times

Kristi and Sinclair Schiller's Houston Cape Cod is the same style as the main house.

APART from the open bar by the swimming pool, the main attraction at parties held at the Houston home of John Schiller, an oil company executive, and his wife, Kristi, a Playboy model turned blogger, is the $50,000 playhouse the couple had custom-built two years ago for their daughter, Sinclair, now 4. READ MORE

Real Delusional Housewives of New York

I'm sorry, but much like a train wreck, I couldn't stop myself from watching the season finale of Real Housewives of New York (a day late because apparently I can't stay up that late anymore). And I'm completely stupefied by their absolute lameness. It's as if they're parodies of themselves, except for the fact that they are totally, completely and sadly real (but for the plastic surgery and obviously scripted parts of the show).

Why, for the love of god, would Natalie Cole ever want to do a duet with LuAnn deLesseps?

Why is Jill such a nosy Rosy? Who cares if two women go to the bathroom together?

LuAnn, "steal" your "thunder"? You HAVE NO THUNDER. Your song is so bad it's bad.

For the record, Cindy and Sonja, you're both rude and wrong.

"When you're in your fifties, that's not pregnancy. It's menopause knocking at your door. Cluck cluck cluck."= hilarious.

LuAnn and her Frenchie boyfriend celebrating their boyfriend-girlfriend one-year anniversary? Um, I'm pretty sure THAT won't last much longer...

...DID YOU SEE the way he (Jacques) was devouring poor Natalie Cole, who was notably uncomfortable, with his French eyeballs? And LuAnn said, "He only had eyes for me." It's confirmed. She's officially delusional.

Does LuAnn really think she can sing? Her voice is painful. I'd break up with her for singing that song. Kim Zolciak is a better singer than she is.

I like Alex even though those facial expressions she makes while she models hurt my eyeballs a little.

I don't understand Simon's pants. Or his bowtie. Or most things he wears.

She's NOT a countess.

Just saying...

Ouch.

On the Edge

I've been in a crap mood; have had a funk-filled bunch of grouchy days; I just can't seem to shake my urge to choke someone or call in sick--or both. And I have no idea why.

Maybe it's the two women who almost ran over me and my child on our bike while driving in their SUVs, you know, the giant-size cars wrapped in lots and lots of metal that could actually kill people riding bikes? Yeah, that kind.

Or maybe it's the fact that Sabine has taken to sticking her hand in her diaper and approaching me with her findings every time she poops, when she REFUSES to use a toilet.

Perhaps it's the fact that I will never, ever again know what it's like to be totally free because even when I do get a break, I feel like something is missing or I obsess over whether or not Sabine is okay.

Or maybe it's the fact that we have no air conditioning in our bedroom and live in a place so hot it feels like I'm trapped inside a wool sock inside a sauna in the desert while wearing a fur coat in the middle of summer.

Or it could be the fact that I've barely traveled in three years and I really need to see something other than these four walls. It's like watching the same television show or reading the same book over and over again.

Perhaps it's that the three of us (Kadin, Sabine and I) are getting sick AGAIN. When Kadin is sick, he turns into chicken little and the sky is in fact falling. And when Sabine is sick, she cries for hours on end and will do nothing but sit in my lap--and cry.

It could also be the fact that so many people SUCK and I can't stop thinking about my neighbor, who is apparently racist.

It might be that I HATE not having my own income even though it's much more important to me to be the one taking care of little Sabine during the day.

It could also be the fact that there's a child in our neighborhood who tortures Sabine on a daily basis and  as a result, I have an overwhelming urge to kick him in the balls even though he's only three and a half.

Maybe, too, it's that we live near a train stop and every time I'm in a hurry or just want to get home, the damn train comes and I can't move. It's like it knows it's me and chooses that EXACT time to approach THAT station just to f*ck with me.

Or perhaps it's that Kate Middleton seems to be disappearing before our very eyes. She was already beautiful--why does she have to starve herself so that her waist is the size of my wrist?

I think it could also be that if I watch Yo Gabba Gabba (Brobee is officially the whiniest, most high-pitched little booger on TV) or Sesame Street one more time, I might have to poke my eyes out.

Ugh. The good news: I'm also on the edge of the weekend. Happy Friday.

Image by Minga

The Best Kind of Popsicle

Just in case you missed this...have a yummy weekend...

Fruity, Savory, Creamy, Boozy (published July 14, 2011), The New York Times.

Yunhee Kim for The New York Times. Food stylist: Maggie Ruggiero. Prop stylist: Deborah Williams.

True Grit

When Kadin and I eloped, a friend who is a photographer took some formal--and not so formal--images of our just married selves. The elopement photographs we have hanging in our home look like this. But the other night, I came across a handful of images from that day that capture who we really are. I super love the other photos, but somehow these just feel extra right.

Photographs by Shannon Corr

Where the Art Is

I'm dying to see the Art in the Streets exhibit currently showing at MOCA's The Geffen Contemporary through August 8th. Curated by MOCA Director Jeffrey Deitch and Associate Curators Roger Gastman and Aaron Rose, it's the first major exhibition of graffiti and street art to be displayed in a U.S. museum. This is huge, you guys. This show means that graffiti and street artists--who create public work for free, making it available to the masses--are getting some long awaited credit and recognition from the arty powers that be.

On view will be work from major cities such as New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, London, and Sao Paulo. The show traces the development of the street art movement from the 1970s to today, when it stands as a global force to be reckoned with.

*Admission is free on Thursdays from 5-8 p.m. and on Mondays courtesy of British artist Banksy, who doesn't think you should have to pay to look at graffiti. But maybe we should since we are bringing tiny monster, who is sure to lick some paint and scale a shelf or two. Wish us luck!

Banksy, image via Fubiz

Wild Style mural by Zephyr, Revolt, Sharp. Photo by Martha Cooper. 1983.

Banksy, I Hate Mondays

Retna, image via thebrokenrobotz.com

Barry McGee, Houston Street and the Bowery, New York, 2010, photo by Farzad Owrang

Bora Bora. And I Don't Mean Tahiti.

As I continue to settle into my new(ish) role as a married person and Sabine's mama, I somehow remember story after story from the time when it was just me in the world of magazines. While in that world, my family and my oldest friends were impressed with my bylines, my office space, how I presented myself, and the fact that I traveled constantly. I was impressed, too. Until it got really old and I realized I was piecing together people's perceptions of me to create a sense of self instead of knowing and just being me.


I quit my job at Allure magazine in New York for one at Architectural Digest in Los Angeles, where I grew up. Allure and AD are both Conde Nast publications so I was switching magazines but working for the same company. Within my first two weeks at AD, the ever so notorious editor-in-chief Paige Rense called me into her office. Now, mind you, practically no one was called into this woman's office but for maybe three people who worked just under her and had been at the magazine for decades.

When I entered Rense's office she asked me to review a stack of manuscripts with editors' marks. She wanted to know what I thought of the corrections since I'd worked in New York. In her mind, since I'd learned on the mothership (most Conde Nast magazines and editors, including Rense, were based in Manhattan), I was well seasoned and could help her measure what worked vs. what needed fixing. Naturally, I was completely flattered and soon began walking down the halls with confidence instead of like the new kid.

A few days later, an editor who'd been at the magazine for awhile and who was also in Rense's good graces told me to be careful because Rense was known for loathing someone just as quickly as she'd decided she loved them. That was in June. Before I knew it, it was December and time for the annual holiday luncheon at a Beverly Hills hotel. It was an intimate affair for only the small editorial staff. When I arrived, I discovered my name card was placed at the head table with Rense and the other top-level editors. Again, I was somewhat impressed with myself. I laughed and drank champagne and talked shop, feeling very fancy and important.

Rense's gift to her employees every year was a donation to an animal shelter in each of their names. She would essentially pay to have a certain number of dogs rescued and a picture of one of those dogs was part of each employee's place setting at the luncheon. The dog Rense saved in my name was called Cowboy. He was a particularly adorable little mutt with only three legs. After we'd finished eating, we were sharing dog photos and smiling about all the little doggie lives we'd saved when the editor sitting directly next to me picked up Cowboy's picture and said, "Paige, look at Laura's dog. Isn't he just the cutest one?". Paige, who was about seventy two years old at the time and who hadn't spoken directly to me during the meal--or since my proud visit to her practically royal office, replied (remember, my name is Laura), "What? BORA? WHO'S BORA?".

There's nothing like being called "Bora" in front of your co-workers, who you were feeling very tall around, to slap the fancy pants right off of you. It was suddenly crystal clear that I wasn't the experienced editor from New York anymore; that Rense didn't remember my name; and that there had been an empty spot to fill at the boss's table. I was unbelievably relieved when chairs began to move and editors headed toward the exit. I took my picture of Cowboy, my tattered fancy pants and headed for the valet, where I waited for my Honda in a sea of Mercedes and Land Rovers.

These days, for me, being married and a mother means I don't see myself through other people's eyes anymore. I get to be only exactly who I am and not who anyone wants me to be. The best part about that? The more I'm me, the more Sabine and Kadin are beautifully, authentically, simply themselves.

Image via Elite Choice

Bottle It

Because they're oh so pretty. Bormioli Rocco.

Super Sizing It

Watching Sabine swing is the kind of thing that makes my heart swell so it feels like the size of Texas. And how can I contain Texas within my chest? I can't. When I see her throw her head back in ecstasy; smile so it takes over her entire face; and stare at the sky as if she's flying and can touch the sun and take a bite of the clouds, well, it's pretty much the best thing I've ever seen and I hope my Texas-size heart doesn't explode right out of my chest.

Stefani Style

Gwen Stefani will lend her deliciously imaginative style and design aesthetic via a clothing collection for babies, girls and boys to Target stores this fall season. The two-part collection is called Harajuku Mini and was not surprisingly inspired by Japan. “The whole idea is about being creative, expressing your own individuality and having fun getting dressed,” says Stefani (quote via fashion.elle.com). Prices will range from $3.99 to $29.99.

I remember being one of not too many audience members at several No Doubt shows in Santa Barbara, California, in 1992 and '93. I was fascinated by the fact that Stefani wore combat boots with fishnets and a cheerleader skirt. I love that she's such a ballsy individualist. I can't wait to encourage Sabine's imagination and expression through the crazy outfits I let her assemble all by her wondrous self as she grows--something tells me they're gonna be good (and by good, I mean fabulously insane).

Shhh, She's Mexican

Last week I was walking to our front door with Sabine, when my blonde-haired, blue-eyed neighbor from Portland stopped with her nine-month-old baby to ask me a question. The conversation went like this:

Neighbor: Did Sabine have blood drawn when she was nine months old to test for lead in her system?


Me: No, she's never had blood drawn.


Neighbor: Well, we went to the lab at our doctor's office today to have this done and I don't think it was necessary. And the nurse who was drawing the blood was (she looked left, then right and whispered) Mexican. And she had all this makeup on. She looked like a clown. And she was (again, whispering) Mexican. She didn't even know my baby's name even though her chart was right there. She couldn't find her vein and the baby was crying. It was awful.


Me: (SILENCE. TOTALLY SPEECHLESS. AND THINKING, I guess she has no idea that I'm Mexican.)

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I ended the conversation and walked inside my house and shut the door. Because Sabine is not deaf. Since I'm Mexican, she's Mexican. And I don't want her to hear such hateful things at such a young age even though she doesn't have any idea what they mean. But also, Christina was with us. Christina is our six-year-old neighbor who does know what these things mean. And now I know why Christina told me that day that she's American, not Mexican, even though she's definitely one hundred percent Mexican.

Does our blonde neighbor think nurses who are Mexican are injecting cocaine into her child's veins? Does she think the nurse is inept because of her skin color/nationality? What is wrong with people? She's a certified nurse in the U.S., where it's mandatory that she's just as educated and practiced as any Caucasian nurse in that facility.

The problem with being half one thing and half something else is that people never really know what I am. So I'm an uncomfortable fly on the wall of sorts. I can "pass," as they say, which means I'm in the position of knowing exactly what people would say about Mexicans assuming there were no Mexican people within earshot. If I wore my Mexican ethnicity on my skin, said neighbor never would've let on that she thinks "Mexican" is a dirty word.

The ability to pass affords me a certain luxury: I'm accepted as Caucasian because I don't look Mexican. That means that I, for the most part, haven't experienced racism in a direct, personal way: I haven't had someone overtly treat me as less than because of my ethnicity. But what I have had is many people, such as my dear neighbor, be so uninhibited by my appearance that they confess hatred or disdain toward Mexicans--toward me. When a hater doesn't think their subject is listening, their words can be more cutting, more brutal and there's no mistaking hate or disgust for anything else.

I think it's funny that my judgey judgerton neighbor thought her nurse wasn't good enough because she was Mexican. Especially since it's become crystal clear via several conversations I've had with miss Gladys Kravitz, that I can run circles around her when it comes, to intellect, ability, experience, and clearly, cultural awareness--and I'm only half a Mexican.

"The problem with being half one thing and half something else is that people never really know what I am." Image via Observando

Latest Obsession

Sabine's latest fixation is Where The Wild Things Are. Which is incredibly appropriate since she is one of the spicier, saucier, wilder toddler babies I've ever laid eyes on. She loves monsters. She loves to roar as loudly as possible. I think she's a monster trapped inside a baby girl's body and we actually should've named her Max. 

The Movie

The Book

A Peek Inside My Head

Staccato Thoughts and Photos Because I Don't Feel Like Writing:

I'm jealous that my sister is taking a cooking class with Fabio Viviani from season five of Top Chef even though he's wearing really bad shoes in this photograph and I hate cooking. 

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Happiest birthday to JFWH. The day you were born is pretty much the first best thing that ever happened to me. I'd be lost, an island, without you, bf. You've been there for ALL of it.

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I'd really like it if I stopped acting like The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I think I need to be locked inside a cocoon for two weeks so that I can eat less and feel like a butterfly again.

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Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. Or just twelve.

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KH and DM, do you remember this? It's the Mandrell sisters. I hope Sabine has a sister some day so she can have what we have, which is the best. 

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KJC, pretend there's an "r" at the end of this word. I've been dreaming about running away to the Caribbean (remember that day at Coki Point Beach?) or Big Sur or Paris with you--just you. But I'm pretty happy being only right here, too.

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Sometimes I wish I could call in sick.

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Grey skies during July in L.A. are totally underrated. Image via Eyrie.

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Why, for the love of god, can't I return a library book on time? I owe a small fortune to SPPL. At least it's going to a good place and one that needs it.

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The best thing about our money-sucking library: A tree with roots so huge and ever reaching, I'm sure it can come alive a la The Lord of the Rings.

All images--except for Fabio, the Mandrell sisters, grey sky, books and tree--via Observando.