Always late but worth the wait

Wow. Has it really been three months since I last blogged? This is both highly unacceptable and highly unbelievable. Where has the time gone? The last three months have gone by so fast, and so much has happened since my last post. . .

First off, I turned 30 in April (insert giddy exclamation marks here). Overall the experience was a little underwhelming. I guess I assumed that turning 30 meant undergoing some giant epiphany about life and the future and all those "adult" things you see in movies. But let's be honest, I pretty much have life figured out so there were no new lessons learned. All I found out is that Swiss fondue really is my favorite dinner food (nom nom) and I can't get enough of fresh fruit tarts (another double nom). My parents surprised me with a nice Canon Rebel camera as a birthday present since I've been wanting one to take more professional-quality pics once the bébé arrives, and J bought me a little gold feather "freebird" necklace from Nordstroms that I've wanted. I was a little worried (read: ready to punch him in the face) that J wouldn't be spending my birthday with me since he had a trial set that week and had been staying up late every night leading up to April preparing his case, but luckily the case settled the week before my 30th so all was copacetic in our household. Thirtieth birthdays, after all, only come once in a lifetime.

Know what else comes once in a lifetime? (Well, once if you're lucky?) Five-year wedding anniversaries. . . which is what J and I will be celebrating on July 20th!! I can't believe it's already been five years since we tied the knot, but I guess you know you're in love when five years feels like five days. We don't have anything planned at the moment (although let's face it, a trip to Italy would be divine -- and also completely unrealistic), but we'll probably spend it picnicking in Napa for the day, maybe eat at a nice restaurant that night. I really have no clue and for the first time that I can remember, it doesn't bother me. Who am I? It's funny: The older I get, all I care about is just spending quality time with him. We don't need to do anything extravagant for me to be happy. Some of my favorite times with J are holding hands in the car on our way somewhere, or lying on a blanket together in a park. Sometimes it all feels too perfect, like I'll wake up one day without him and find out it never happened. But then I wonder why can't some love stories be nearly perfect? For right now it is and it has been and I hope it stays that way till we're into our 90s. For now just looking over at him reading before we fall asleep is all it takes to make me smile:

Aside from home remodeling, the past few months I've been busy writing and am happy to report that I've just hit about 100 pages into my newest book idea. I don't know whether it's all these extra hormones flying off me or maybe bébé is my new muse, but I feel a rush of creativity and I suddenly have the daily motivation to do something about it. Strange, right? When I'm not writing I want to be drawing or painting or doing something creative. It's a wonderful feeling, and I'm so appreciative that I have the freedom to do as much or as little as I want of all of this on an everyday basis. No excuses.

In other news, bébé is set to arrive in five and a half weeks! My hunt for Peter Rabbit-themed decor has petered out like a deflated fart over the last few months, so I decided to go with a French Garden theme for the nursery and it's coming along well. We put her crib together a couple weeks ago and bought her a little bassinet to sleep in by our bed after she's born. J also hung a crystal chandelier for me in the center of the nursery, giving the room a very French feel, and he was hard at work yesterday stripping a cute little French cabinet I found at a consignment store recently. The cabinet is an ugly walnut color now (think Grandma furniture on steroids), but we plan to antique it and give it a very Restoration Hardware feel. It'll go perfectly next to her crib. :D Once I'm done with the nursery I'll post pics.

And finally, (in case you're wondering what I look now) here's my burgeoning bump: 

So far this pregnancy has been beyond smooth in the sailing department. I've had no sickness, I'm not that exhausted, I have yet to waddle and so far I've gained just under 20 pounds. Pregnancy, it seems, really agrees with me.

Three years married (check)

Just wanted to post a quick Happy Anniversary to...me! (And J.) Today's our three-year wedding anniversary and though J will be studying for the Bar and I'll be in my office in the city all day we're going to make some time tonight to go out to a nice restaurant and make a toast to this crazy little thing called love. Back when we were this age:

(Yes, this is me wearing a Native American vest fashioned from a paper grocery bag as I play my oatmeal-can-turned-tom-tom-drum. In flip-flops and tapered sweatpants. Don't be jealous.)

we had no idea that someday, many years down the road, we'd meet through mutual friends and that overly talkative girl who once wore a grocery bag vest would be assigned to sit at J's table group in a certain math teacher's geometry class, and, nearly a decade later after non-existent contact, that girl would be the woman he'd spend the rest of his life with:


It's been a fun three years; here's to many, many more. Thanks for the laughter, my love.

A light rain on my parade of overpriced tapas

So there I was the other day, spinning in the living room with J, our joined hands the still-point of our turning world whizzing behind us in slow motion. After the spinning and the dancing and jovial pouncing was over, we made plans to celebrate my job news at a fancy restaurant, "Va De Vi", nearby (I needed a good reason to drop an unmentionable sum on duck confit, and now I had one). He resumed studying for the Bar (like he does every day) as I left to hang out (like I do every day) at The Nana's, drinking iced tea and refinishing furniture and having lunch with other sweet, old ladies (which I am definitely getting used to. My brother mentioned I'm "becoming a Golden Girl." My response: "You say that like it's a bad thing." Age is really just a number, after all.)

After a good day of lunching and antiquing and discussing how movie stars today just aren't what they used to be (hello, Paul Newman and Cary Grant), I got back to our apartment in time to shower and head to Va De Vi with J. But he had questionably good news.

I guess I should preface this part by letting you in on the fact that J was flown down to Newport Beach last week for an interview at a law firm. The firm does exactly what he wants to do (corporate litigation), all the partners and associates he met clicked with him right away, and the office -- well, from what I heard the office was magnificent (think one of the top floors in the building, all glass windows, with a full view of Newport Harbor and the Pacific Ocean). They wined and dined him (at this point all I thought of was The Firm, minus the corruption and partially cheesy action scenes), and sent him back up to the Bay Area wanting the job.

Flash forward to yesterday. Literally HOURS after I got my job offer that I'd only JUST interviewed for two business days prior, the law firm called J with good news: They wanted to hire him. The salary they offered was (how do I put this) obscene, and the bonuses and profit-sharing were clutch. All in all it was an offer he couldn't refuse. Almost.

I was happy for him but tried to hide my disappointment: a.) We were about to visit a fancy restaurant (something that's been long overdue) to celebrate the good news, but b.) How could I be happy knowing he'd be leaving soon? Which I wouldn't blame him doing -- the pay is more than good, it's exactly the type of law he wants to practice, it sounded like a great work atmosphere and the lifestyle that comes with such opportunities...let's just say they make movies about such things for a reason.

"So why wouldn't he take it?" I thought. This is exactly what we wanted. What we'd waited for. This is why he worked so hard in law school. Or was it?

As we sat at a table in the posh outdoor alleyway, peppered with hundreds of white Christmas lights and low chatter from neighboring tables, I grew even more sad. Ordering a bottle of Malbec did not help (though said Malbec was a deliciously excellent choice) and neither did thinking I saw Robert Redford (my idol) walk by (turned out it was just some older guy with good hair). I was sad not because J was leaving, or because we'd see a lot less of each other. No, I was sad because it finally dawned on me that we were never given a fighting chance as a married couple.

We got married about one month before J started law school and for three years I've waited for him, meaning waited for him to be a "normal" husband, not one who is in law school full-time. Law school has been like the "other woman" in the first three years of our marriage -- years that newlyweds usually spend setting up house apartment and traveling and enjoying being together before things like kids and mortgages start to take effect. They're supposed to be the carefree, let's-spend-time-together-and-enjoy-being-married years. My first three years were not this.

Nearly every day, every week, was taken up by the "other woman" (i.e., law journal meetings and finals and mock trial competitions and internships). There was always something and though J tried his hardest to spread himself thin and be home as much as possible, there were many, many times when he couldn't be. So I tolerated the early years of our marriage, the him-needing-to-stay-late-at-the-library nights, when I'd come home exhausted from my desk job and eat dinners alone watching reruns of Little People, Big World because this was important. He was building the foundation for his life. For our life.

The saving grace during those years, when his seat on the couch sat empty because he was out hoofing it for some DC judge or legal internship, was that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. "The three years would eventually be over," I told myself. And almost as quickly as they started, they were finished.

The final stretch of this leg of the journey is taking the Bar at the end of July and since he has about two months to study for this test that nearly 40%-50% fail their first time in the state of California, he's been studying his little butt off. Every day. Which -- again -- I'm completely fine with. I see it as the last 100 yards in this crazy legal race and (of course) I want him to pass, so all summer he's stayed home studying 10+ hours a day while I chill at The Nana's, glad to be hanging out with someone who likes classic films and Mad Men and shopping as much as I do (these are the perks of knowing someone who doesn't have to work at all).

But now that the Bar is right around the corner, I'm getting excited about being able to see my husband again. ("Again?!" she says, "was there ever a time in this marriage you could?") I know that normal is a subjective term, but I'm ready for a normal marriage (read: one where it's expected that we get to hang out together without a timer beeping when our five minutes is up). And it was looking like things were going to become...normal. I just got that job. We just got this apartment. My friend just dropped off Moneypenny so both our animals are once again under the same roof. We're finally back on the West Coast. To quote Penny Lane from Almost Famous, "It's all happening(!)..."

Then this (otherwise amazing) offer from the Newport firm happens THE SAME DAY as my offer, which by this point I'd already accepted. And nothing felt like it was happening anymore. No more Age of Aquarius or stars aligning, nope, just one, big diamond-encrusted wrench worthy of Lil Jon's toolbox, thrown into the oiled gears of our Master Plan.

But I said none of this. I hid my sadness. This was supposed to be a happy day. One filled with reams of money and pretentious restaurants and funny quips Nana had said that morning remembered over grilled asparagus with panko crusted egg that night. That light at the end of the tunnel -- that pinprick of hope that this would one day be all over and we could actually walk down to the local Farmer's Market together on any given Sunday or finally see movies in theaters again or go out to dinner just because -- it faded to black. That realization alone was enough to ruin my good news. Paper covers rock, and so on. It dawned on me that it would never just be "easy" with us. Things were not, nor did they ever in the last three years, align that way.

As we continued feasting on the tapas that were brought out as prepared, J seemed on edge. Both of us were more quiet than usual. Obviously something was bothering both of us and so he started asking questions of how I felt about it, of what I thought, and everything I just wrote prior to this paragraph began trepidatiously coming out. (I say trepidatious because I'm just happy we're back on the West Coast, close to family and friends and excellent weather. With DC in our rear-view mirror, I really have no more demands.)

Turns out I was wrong thinking he'd automatically accept the position. He shared many of my sentiments and totally saw where I was coming from. His answer back to the firm was not a given "yes", much to my surprise.

Over the next two hours we talked, laughed, drank, ate and discussed the State of Our Marriage -- our wants, expectations, standards, dreams. It all came out on the table (for a couple who communicates all feelings, much of it wasn't new, just reiteration). But many of it needed to be reiterated because, as J put it, we were at a crossroads now. Were we okay with seeing each other on errant weekends (there'd be many weekends where we wouldn't see each other: I'd want to see family and friends, or he'd be expected to network with clients on some golf course)? How would we eventually start a family in a few years if we were apart during those pivotal years leading up to such things?

At one point J and I both got misty-eyed talking about all these real-life, marital issues (confession: I cry easily, especially at those SPCA commercials on TV with Sarah McLaughlin singing in the background) and that's when he said it. On his own accord, even after I insisted this was very much his decision, that I didn't know anything about the legal field and he needed to do what he felt was right for his career.

"I can't do it," he said, pouring himself another glass of Malbec. "I feel like it's a choice between the job and money or you. The firm's offer is attractive and you're right -- it's exactly the law I want to practice. ...But a life without you is pointless."

This is why I married this man.

Later, when we got the check (brought out not in a checkfold like most restaurants, but stuck within the pages of an old book called "La Princessa" -- clever, Va De Vi, clever!), I flipped through the novel as he signed our bill. Dozens of people had signed random pages within this same book, scrawling little notes like "Happy Birthday, Jim!" or "Happy 20th Anniversary, L + M, 2009" or "Life would be perfect if I could eat at Va De Vi everyday." I laughed and pointed out the hundreds of notes left in the margins to J.

He signed his name to our check then took the book from my hands. Turning to a middle page (I believe it was page 51), he wrote "To hell with the Newport job" in the margins, stuck our check in, and closed the book, smiling.

That note said it all.

Happy Mother's Day

To the best mama in the whole world:

(My mother and I, sans the brunette locks that would eventually make me a household name.)

Current obsessions

My New Hats. These actually aren't that new (I bought them in February), but I haven't worn them out yet and so they're new to me. This first one makes me feel like I'm a character from a Fellini film wearing a dainty lilypad on my head:

This second one is a blatant Pucci knockoff, but I needed something to wear when I'm shopping at some exotic outdoor market in the Rio de Janiero sun laying out next to my apartment complex's peanut-shaped pool:


Mid-Century Modern. People, I cannot get enough of mid-century modern everything. Living rooms, homes, books, clothing, decor. I want it all, and have lately found myself staying up much later than I should googling the fine art of credenzas and coffee tables, wooden wall art and floating nightstands from the Eisenhower/Kennedy era. You know you're obsessed when finding a genuine set of Danish Modern drinking coasters makes your afternoon. Or when you're thisclose to ordering a boomerang-shaped red glass ashtray from 1961 -- and you don't even smoke. (Yes, this actually almost happened). One of my secret favorite things to do is scour the back area of my grandma's house in Walnut Creek where no one ever goes anymore to look through all her old books and decor from that period. By myself in that empty wing of the house I pull out old books about dining room etiquette printed entirely in Futura font, the binding yawning with loud pops and cracks after years of being unopened as I scan the text inside and bring the pages to my nose, close my eyes and deeply inhale that old, musty smell of "the past" from their surfaces. It's so...well...satisfying.

Once we have the means I can't wait to go antiquing and pick up pieces I can see in person, versus what I find on eBay. There's something fascinating to me about the potential stories behind authentic pieces of a certain time period (especially during my favorite period: 1950 to 1970). But even the brand new pieces that mimic the design aesthetic of yore intrigue me; the lines and simplicity of the furniture and decor speak to me, as weird as that sounds. Maybe in a past life I was this woman:

It looks like both she and he are totally appreciating that credenza. Check out my favorite tribute site to the period: The Mid-Century Modernist.

Simon's Cat. Since we gave our cat Moneypenny to my BFF in California to take care of until we move back next month, I've been missing her like crazy. (Who'd have thought that me, the hater of all cats, would eventually find myself missing one?) Fortunately I've found a cartoon version of her, otherwise known as "Simon's Cat". Apparently this guy in Britain began animating his cat in hilarious short sketches and they gained such popularity that now he's got a book deal and millions of YouTube subscribers (including yours truly). This video is older, but is still one of my favorites:

Jonathan Adler stuff. I never would have guessed I'd be pining over a ceramic dachshund, but I am:

Jonathan Adler is a genius when it comes to the art of mid-century modern. His sculptures and other design accoutrements encapsulate retro aesthetics with a contemporary twist. Adler's goods are definitely not cheap (the dachshund in question is $88), but a girl can dream -- and eBay.

Breaking Bad. While I wait for Mad Men Season 4 to premiere in July, I've found a new show to obsess over:

Breaking Bad is about a high school chemistry teacher named Walt White who finds out he has lung cancer and a couple years left to live. After coming to grips with his imminent death, he resolves to set up his family (a pregnant wife and teenage son) financially once he passes on, and so he begins using his talent at chemistry to cook crystal meth with an ex-student-turned-drug-dealer. The premise is what initially drew me in -- how desperate does a guy need to be to make and sell drugs to secure his family's financial future? -- but it was the theme of moral ambiguity that's kept me hooked. Walt is not a bad guy -- he's dying and looking out for his family -- and yet he becomes the "villain" when viewed through a social and legal lens. Fascinating stuff, reader-friends, especially when he gets mired in the dark underbelly of the drug world -- a world he as a straight-laced science teacher was never prepared to deal with. Bryan Cranston (the dad from Malcolm in the Middle) does an AMAZING job as Walt White, and the story arc is incredible (major props to the writers on staff). Behind Mad Men, Breaking Bad is one of the best shows on television.

Tom Ford Sunglasses. So maybe they look a little costume-y, but I don't care. I'd love to own a pair, they're so Mrs.-Robsinson-meets-vintage-Catwoman:

With Carolyn Murphy's tousled locks, '60s tan lines and black liquid eyeliner, this is an Anne Bancroft-esque look I'd love to rock every single day.

Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches. Does this even need an explanation? Oh all right, fine. There was a span of a few years where I absolutely abhorred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I know, I'm crazy. But it hadn't always been that way. In fact they were all I ate in elementary school, but by the time I reached 6th grade I was burnt out. I told my parents I would only eat turkey sandwiches from there on out. Fast forward to last week. I was in the throes of a Breaking Bad catch-up marathon when I witnessed Walt eat a PB&J sandwich at the beginning of an episode and suddenly found myself craving one. Badly. To the point of where I walked across the street to the supermarket that evening to buy the essential ingredients, and spent the next four days making PB&J sandwiches for dinner. (If you can't tell already marketing works horrifically easily on me.)

Now I wonder how I could have ever gotten sick of the things. If my kids ever complain that they're tired of PB&J sandwiches I'll tell them they don't know what they're talking about, that their "liege" -- which is what they'll call me -- once said that too, and that the subsequent 16 years were barren and could never be taken back. "I won't let you do that to yourselves," I'll tell them.

This T-Shirt:

Confession: I'm a total nerd when it comes to puns. (Favorite joke: What did the mother tomato say to the baby tomato as they were crossing the street? "Ketchup!" Terrible, I know.) I can't help but crack up at the cheesiest, worst puns, and feel the one above definitely deserves to be worn in some capacity. I'm not a t-shirt kind of girl, but this would be perfect as one of my workout shirts.

Overheard last night

Paul and Julia Child, one of my favorite couples.

9:45 pm. Our studio. I sit on the couch, feet up on coffee table, laptop balanced in front of me as I edit Chapter 7 of the book. J sits across from me on a pillow he's using as extra padding on the worthless Target chair we bought the year we married. Two or three thick textbooks are cracked open on the table in front of him as he outlines for his last semester of finals on his laptop. I've attempted to catch his attention multiple times tonight. . . dancing seductively near him with finger cymbals, pretending like there's a fire in the kitchen, even lying across his books like a petulant housecat. But to no avail. There's always some other legal pad or some other book that his overzealous eyes can devour in their quest for straight A's. Sigh. TV flickers silently in background as I wait for the season finale of Project Runway to start in 15 minutes. . . but I can always watch it later online. Tonight I want to run amok and howl at the moon.

Me: "Why don't we go paint the town red tonight?"

J (without looking up from books): "Because we can't afford paint."

Silence for a few moments, then we lock eyes and laugh out loud.

"I'm working on it, my Love. I'm working on it," he says, tapping the edge of the book with his pen.

"As am I," I say.

Studying slash editing resumes on both sides of the coffee table.

Teamwork, humor, patience. Julia and Paul had it. Apparently so do we.

(Ed. Update: Just got mentioned again on MediaBistro! Thank you J, for your witty responses to everything I ask you.)

How not to hit on a woman

Just in case you were wondering, this is not hot. In fact, it's quite terrifying.

The other day on my way back from the gym I stepped into one of four elevators in the lobby of my building. A normal-looking-enough guy stepped in behind me. I don't ever get awkward in situations where strangers strike up conversation (be warned: usually I'm that stranger), so naturally I didn't think twice when he asked how I was doing. We were neighbors, after all, albeit separated by seven floors.

"How're you doing?" he mumbled as he got on.

"Fine," I responded, Lola in my arms. I was still wearing my workout clothes, no makeup, hair pulled back.

Customary elevator silence.

"I need to say this. You're beautiful," he said. "A beautiful woman..."

"Oh, haha. Thanks," I said. "I just got back from the gym, but thanks for the compliment."

"Yeah, well, you're very beautiful." Pause. Apparently he'd been staring at me out of the corner of his eye. Creeper. "...Tight..." he said out loud to himself, and with that he began leering at me up and down.

"Heh..." was all I could manage to muster.

This wasn't a hot Don Draper-esque come on. Not that I would have reciprocated that kind of come-on anyway (I'm married, people). Instead, it felt predatory. Like an I-think-you're-beautiful-and-want-to-wear-your-skin-as-a-mask-in-a-cellar-surrounded-by-mannequins kind of predatory. In other words, it dawned on me he seemed a little cray cray. I've watched Silence of the Lambs enough to know about these things.

At this point the elevator suddenly seemed way too small to fit the both of us. My eyes flitted up to the digital numbers passing each level. All I could think was: "I don't want to put any lotion in anyone's basket. If he gets close to me I'm roundhouse kicking his head off. Not like this elevator would be big enough for my leg to freely swing around at the 50mph+ it would actually take to seriously hurt him. But I could try..."

He continued to stare at me full on. Smiling. Like I was some diamond-studded Faberge egg in a store window that he just had to have to store the molars of his victims in. I kept my eyes on the numbers above us. As I deliberated the physics of my leg mid-kick in the elevator, the doors parted. Freedom. Whew. I began to step off into my empty 10th floor hallway and heard him take a step toward me as I left.

"Shit! American Psycho, anyone?" I thought, as I realized that my long curved hallway looked exactly like that one in the movie that the naked Christian Bale ran through with his chainsaw.

What if he follows me out? I didn't want him to know where I lived, but it's not like I had anywhere to go 10 floors up. The concierge in the lobby downstairs felt so far away. Afraid he was going to follow me out into the empty corridor, my eyes darted toward the stairwell. But then what? I get trapped in a stairwell with a potential rapist? Yeah, great idea, Crystal.

"Can I call you or something?" I heard him say, his hand holding the elevator door open. His question was direct, more like a demand then a question. Did he not see the ring on my finger? I mean, it's not like you can miss the thing, the cut of the diamond picks up every hint of light in its presence. But I suppose this wasn't something men like him cared about.

"No!" I half-yelled as I hurried down the hallway. I heard the elevator doors close and looked over my shoulder and...

He wasn't there. He had stayed in the elevator. Thank God.

Men, take note: Picking up women is a two-way street. There is a huge difference between borderline sexual harassment and a little harmless flirting that scores you a phone number. Maybe the Crazy Elevator Guy was actually just a lonely, normal man looking for love. But his tactic not only seemed desperate, it creeped out the girl involved. And now he will forever be known as Crazy Elevator Guy. (Something tells me he's earned this name with more than one circle of women.)

"If you talk to a woman on an elevator and she is giving you one-line answers or stock uninterested/unengaged answers, probably not a good idea to hit on her," J opines. "To do so is like jumping into an ice cold swimming pool when you are looking for a hot-tub. You're going to walk away with shriveled testes."

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Many men these days take either one of two approaches:

• The shotgun approach to picking up women. Hello, you're not a caveman anymore and I'm not on display at a strip club. Telling me I'm beautiful? All right, that's cute. Especially if you ease up and leave after I tell you I'm married (This has happened to me more times than I can count and you've got to hand it to the men for having the guts to do so in front of an entire audience of Border's coffee-goers). Whistling at me from across the street slash honking as you pass by? Not a big deal; will elicit a smile and a head-nod acknowledgement of my awesomeness. Telling me I'm beautiful and then standing there leering at me and assuming I'll give you my phone number afterward? Caveman behavior that deserves a lonely, celibate life. A little discreetness goes a long way.

• The "I'm amazing approach". These men are so infatuated with themselves they think "I'm awesome, so she must be in to me by default." Sadly this is not how it works. Generally these men also think dressing well, owning a snazzy sports car, getting reservations at Dorsia and bantering on about their ivy league educations will earn them major brownie points. And for some women it will. But, if you're still a jerk with all these toys and accolades, then others will see you as a pretentious asshat who needs to get over himself.
  

Basically too many people think it's about putting yourself out there no matter how you do so, but most of it is being perceptive to how you are being received. And believe me, it's not so hot when you are being received as a human flesh-wearing psycho. Or the newest member of the Crazy Elevator Guy club.

Current obsessions

Claudia Cardinale


That profile. That hair. That obnoxiously fabulous eyeliner. Along with Marilyn (who I also adore) she's one of the undisputed sex kittens of the last century and I'm not going to lie: She makes me want to move to Italy, do away with my car, buy a Vespa and take up chain-smoking cigarettes as though they were going out of fashion. (Did I just admit that out loud? Cigarettes are BAD, people. Terrible. But it's people like her and Draper that make it look so sexy.) Love her in the original Pink Panther and as Marcello Mastroianni's muse in 8 1/2. They just don't make women like her anymore.

Case Study Houses. Remember that scene from Charlie's Angels where Drew Barrymore goes over to that young millionaire's house and ends up dangling from a bed sheet out his giant shattered picture window over the Los Angeles skyline? (Don't lie, you know exactly what I'm talking about.) Well that to-die-for house was one of the original Case Study Houses, which were experiments in American residential architecture between 1945 and 1966. These houses are so yummy to look at, I can spend hours staring at pictures of these pieces of art:


These coffee mugs:


Designed by Peter Ibruegger.

Goat cheese. Nothing makes me feel more like a beret-ed farmer living in a country cottage in the vineyards of France quite like a good ol' log of herb de Provence goat cheese. Or like a goat-herding Spaniard in the foothills of the Castilian region. Not that I want to be a goat-herding Spaniard, but if it landed me in Spain for at least one summer I would not rule it out. It can come plain, on eggs, on Sour Patch Kids -- I don't care. Give me goat cheese and I'm a happy girl.

The Oatmeal. The Internet begins and ends with this website. It's like someone scraped some of the most un-PC humor I have hidden away in my brain and jotted it down, with illustrations. The creator, who writes and illustrates everything on the site, is a genius. My favorites are "How Twilight Works" and "The 9 Types of Crappy Handshakes."

The amahzing typewriter J bought me as a late xmas present. I say "late" because there was no way he was going to lug 30 pounds of heavy steel to California and back, so he just had it delivered in late January when we were back on native soil. I love this little machine; it's captured a piece of my retro-obsessed heart:


Best of all? It's 100% Internet-free. No distractions, no low battery. If I could I'd cuddle with my 1958 Royal Futura 800 on the couch every night and laugh at Leno and take it for long drives by the beach in my non-existent sporty convertible, top down of course.

Valentine's Day. Ugh, no words. It's fantastic, it's extraordinary, it's a brilliant way to celebrate any kind of love, in all its hybrid forms. Contrary to popular belief one doesn't NEED to be in a relationship to make the most out of this holiday -- in fact I've had some great Valentine's Days where I was completely single. Those were the days when I could eat a whole tube of raw chocolate chip cookie dough without a.) gaining any weight thanks to my now-faltering metabolism, and b.) did not have to endure any mockery or criticism of my peculiar raw cookie dough slash brownie batter habit. (Ahem, J).

Anyway, I will vomit in my mouth a little if one more person rolls their eyes at the mention of Valentine's Day being a "holiday created by Hallmark" that feeds purely off consumers pressured to show their loved ones how much they care. No one says Valentine's Day HAS to be that way (besides, isn't that what Christmas is for?). If you feed into all that tripe that's your problem. What's wrong with a day to remind yourself that love is all around? Insert the cliche retort, (in my mind most often said in an acerbic British accent): "Well, you shouldn't need a day for that. You should remember that all year 'round." That's a given, honey child. Why don't you sell crazy somewhere else; we're all stocked up here.

I swear, the vehement hatred toward Valentine's Day usually comes coupled with some subconscious shortcoming slash insecurity on the part of the perpetrator. Perhaps they just need a hug? *Chases them down if necessary and forces bear-hug on to them.*

It doesn't take a lot to make V Day fabulous for me -- throw me some spicy cinnamon hearts, swath me in red and pink, let me watch Casablanca and I'm set. This year, like the past few years, J and I plan to have a special, but low-key, V Day. On the docket are heart-shaped pancakes for breakfast, Swiss fondue for dinner, cheap champagne (taking it back to the pre-J days of 2003 with the Andre Brut, people) and an in casa screening of Paris Je'taime. If I wasn't so lazy I would attempt to make this cake:


...but I don't have the energy (at least this year) to undertake such an endeavor. If any of you dolls do, let me know. Here's the recipe.

V Day is what you make of it. So instead of knocking it, try to make it great. You'd be surprised at how great it -- or most things -- could be with this method.