I try not to pay attention to all of the global warming/ice melting/birds falling from the sky stuff. There's not a whole lot I can do about any of it (aside from using my cute totes in lieu of plastic bags and avoiding water bottles when possible).
But this summer, I can't help but feel like someone is trying to tell us something.
These storms are freakin' me out.
The hail in June. The sunclouddarklight skies. The thunder that literally shakes homes.
Sure it makes for some pretty pictures but man.
Is this the rapture that creepy old man was talking about? I wish someone could tell me for sure because if it is, I'm gonna buy that new bag & quit showing up for work PRONTO.
There are very few things that irritate me as much as that tiny scratch you get in the back of your throat right before you get a full blown cold.
Each time I tell myself I'm going to beat it. I spray that Zicam stuff in my mouth like it's binaca. I pop vitamin C and drink so much juice I spend most of my day in the bathroom.
But I never beat it. I simply prolong the inevitable.
So when I woke up on Wednesday with that gross guy from the Mucinex commercials climbing around my throat, I knew the latter half of my week was shot.
I powered through Wednesday & 1/2 of Thursday before giving in and spending my days destroying my poor nose with Target-brand tissues and catching up on the latest happenings in Port Charles (net-net: Sonny is back with Brenda, the Quartermaines are old, and Jason still wears the same leather jacket).
Please watch. Someone took the time to make this.
Anyway, thanks to 12 hours of sleep per night and the aforementioned vitamin C regimen, I was at about 80% by Saturday. Good thing because I was not about to miss dinner at one of my oldest friends (the girl can cook) and a Sunday brunch with the girls.
Beautiful hostess.
One of my favorite couples ever.
This guy can grill a steak.
In an attempt to counterbalance the prior evening's gluttony, I went healthy for brunch.
The weekend made a comeback. The Mucinex guy is almost gone. I suppose I'm ready for Monday.
As mentioned in previous posts, I might be the only person in Chicago who isn't obsessed with summer. And the lake. And the Cubs. And tube tops.
But fall. Glorious, perfect September through November. If only Al Roker would report that the Global Warming trends indicate we're heading toward a permanent 60s and sunny here in Chicago.
Why do I love fall so much? Too many reasons to list. But if I had to consolidate...
1) I'm a Libra. I was literally BORN loving neutral temps and the color brown.
Look at me & my hippy parents just lovin' fall, 70s style.
2) The clothes. The colors. The layers. The boots.
To check these J Crew, Marc Jacobs, Tibi, and Vince items out, visit Net-A-Porter.com.
3) Football season. See? I'm interesting. I like clothes & sports.
Matt & I at the OSU/Michigan game, November 2010
Just gotta power through one more month of "summer fun" to get to the good stuff.
My mom always tells me that I if I ever have kids, I shouldn't bother taking them to the park, on trips, or to get ice cream, because they won't remember any of it. It's kinda true. I have 0.0 recollection of anything that happened prior to the age of 4. I've heard stories & seen a few pictures, but I remember none of it.
For example, this lovely 4th of July in the park? Could have been someone else (and I kind of wish it was based on the haircut).
Though I remember none of the moments - big or small - I know they shaped who I've become. All of those books we read (I assume my mom taught me to read) and weekend trips to new cities (I completely blocked out Colonial Williamsburg), left their mark. Even though I can't recall every detail, I know that we talked about things. We experienced stuff.
I was reminded of how much I appreciate my upbringing after reading a few excerpts from Lisa Bloom's "How to Talk to Girls".
She talks about the importance of what we say to kids and especially how we talk to girls. Having dialogs and experiences versus commentary on how pretty we are shapes who we will turn out to be. I'm grateful my parents provided this type of environment for me to grow up in.
Sure, my parents told me I was pretty (except during the awkward years, because then they would have been lying). But it was never the most important thing (which made the not-so-attractive years bearable).
My dad loves to tell the story of my first trip to the art museum. Apparently we spent hours walking around, talking about the art. When we were in route to the car, my dad asked, "What did you think of the art museum?"
I mean, I enjoy baking (sometimes). And nothing on TV relaxes me quite like Ina Garten's ramblings about her garden or making Jeffrey's favorite coq au vin. Confession: It will surprise exactly no one that I do not know what that is.
Anyway, my go-to excuse is that I don't have a kitchen stocked with all of the right accoutrements (insert sad single "I-never-got-to-use-the-radar-gun-at-Crate & Barrel" song here).
But that's kinda bullshit. I've got stuff. And I can afford to buy the spices for one-time use.
I just find it exhausting. It's so much easier to have someone else do it.
In other news, water is wet.
Every so often I feel like I should. Mainly because my boyfriend cooks for me and all I contribute is an opinion. So when his birthday rolled around, I decided to try a new pasta recipe (thanks Giada).
After going to 3 stores to find pancetta and debating for 30 minutes whether or not there's a discernible difference between fresh ground pepper and the stuff they pre-grind (there is), I finally got to this:
The birthday boy liked it (or at least he ate it).
Was I filled with so much joy & satisfaction that I have to admit this cooking thing is growing on me?
I believe it's a rule that if you're girl who lives in a city and decides to have a blog, you MUST like fashion. Sorry for being so predictable, but I truly do have an issue.
1) I get uncomfortable when my credit card balance is $0. It feels unnatural.
2) The high I get from shopping is better than any high a drug could give me (note: I've only smoked weed a few times and never done anything that involves snorting/shooting into veins/pill popping, so perhaps this is a strange comparison, but you get the gist).
3) Happiness = An endless Fall day wandering the streets of Bucktown, pretending I don't have to pay attention to the price tags.
With my brother's wedding coming up, I have an excuse to buy something fabulous for the rehearsal dinner.
DVF...Alice & Oliva...Tibi...Halston Heritage...My own Sophie's Choice.
One thing that I have no doubts about? The shoes.
I will be investing in my first pair Louboutins. Once I discovered the shoe king rocks a 3 inch model (versus the 4 or 5 that I cannot walk in), I knew it was fate.
