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Thanksgiving’s almost here!

I’m getting so excited. My plaid dress from Karen Walker is all ready, I just finished a beautiful manicure to go with it, now all I have to do is make final decisions about which tights and shoes to wear. I spent all day cleaning in preparation for the in-laws, so tomorrow is just finishing touches and a bit of laundry, plus a few fast, easy trips to grab things like fresh produce and flowers and whatnot, and then baking! M is working from home and the petite’s break started today, and everything is going to be lovely. (Even if the weather says rain. I hope my mother has lots of firewood. So cozy!)

I bet you’re wondering what on earth my crazy absurd collage is all about, eh? Well, they’re some of my favorite at the moment – I’ll kindly elaborate!

1. Zoya’s Dea nail polish. The description said it was a warm milky light brown, and that’s exactly what it is! So natural. My Thanksgiving manicure has this as a base, with dark berry tips (Jessica’s Sexy Siren). The two are lovely together!
2. Dahlias. One of my favorite flowers, especially mixed in bouquets with blood red, gold and muted pink blooms.
3. Rediscovering my old Besame foundation, I’ll tell you why when we get to No. 6!
4. Best Coast’s album. I know, I know! I can’t help it. The petite and I are obsessed. We watch this video (Drew Barrymore did it!) A LOT.
5. Silver spring clips! Mine are glorious and from a little trinket shop in Dublin. I took a thin piece of wood and put seven wee nails into it, hammered the whole shebang into the wall, and now I have a brand new place to hang my scarves in the bedroom! Just clip the corner of the scarf and hang it on a nail! It’s organized and gorgeous.
6. The Beauty Blender. I was kind of skeptical but figured what the hell, why not? I’m so glad I did, these things are fussy but worth it, I think. The Besame foundation (#3) is so pigmented  and rich that it was next to impossible to apply to get the finish I wanted, but the BB does it beautifully.
7. ALL THE GRAVY AND BUTTER AND ROLLS. It’s kind of silly because 2/3 of this is generally available to me all the time. Add my mama’s turkey gravy and the experience becomes elevated and holy. I don’t know. I’m a bread and butter, meat and potatoes kind of girl, so the Thanksgiving meal is kind of my jam. I focus on the basics and completely ignore the rest. In this regard M & I are truly perfect for one another, because she loathes turkey (and I ham) and gobbles up all the sides. Match made in heaven, kids.
8. Poppy King for Boots No. 7! I picked up one of these the other day on a whim. I chose No. 1 – History, of course, it’s the boldest true red of the bunch. On me, it’s actually a really wearable shade of red. It goes on semi-sheer in brick red with just a hint of rosiness, and this might be an odd thing to say, but it fades beautifully. Some lipsticks fade horribly, you know what I mean. That or they just disappear altogether. But this fades evenly and leaves a super fresh light red berry color behind, almost like a stain!

Happy weekend, kittens! Are you dry or are you wet? Are you in or are you out? We are in, but last night we were out – at the brand new Wilson bar, to be exact. I found out about this hushed, intimate place to enjoy cocktails in the same manner as one would a fully coursed meal a few weeks ago, and booked an appointment that very day. I then kept it a big, fact secret so that I could surprise M!

What the hell is this bar and why is it so fancy? Ah, yes.

Well, it’s tucked away in a dark back room somewhere in the moody maze at Bourbon & Branch. (Remember the last time I was there? Oh, but how long my hair was! So long ago!) You know the drill. At the big, unmarked door on the corner of Jones at the edge of the gritty, repugnant Tenderloin district, you press a buzzer and wait for a woman to open the door. After a moment she opens it and stares at you expressionlessly until you mumble your password. If it is the correct password she lets you in and, clutching a fistful of jangling keys, leads you and your date through the dimly lit, beautifully appointed main bar into total darkness, where she walks up to a wall that is a door and somehow knows exactly where to put in a key.

Once in, you are locked in. I have friends who, for this reason alone, will never step foot into the Wilson room. (Their loss, really.)

I’ll let the wankers at Urban Daddy tell you the rest:

The Wilson (named after a missing woman whose bloodstained purse was found in the walls during construction) still has the same 1920s Prohibition vibe as B&B. So you’ll feel right at home amidst the damask and exposed brick walls.

At your seat, you’ll find a personalized, date-stamped menu printed with your name—no two visits are alike. It’s arranged like a three-course prix fixe of cocktails, with an aperitif, a main and a digestif or punch. Of course, you can mix and match your drinks—or stick with the tobacco/bourbon/coffee Pinkerton.

It is as heartbreakingly wonderful as it sounds. Everything is beautiful, refined, and at the same time, so simple. It is easy to make beauty out of brick and metal and vast stretches of dark, oiled wood. All one needs for light is the soft amber twinkling off the hundreds of caramel-colored bottles lining the bar, plain tea lights on the bar top. The complexity is reserved for the cocktails, which are outstanding. I reveled in the butterscotch wafting off the Sarsparilla-infused bitters-tinged foam of a variant on a traditional sour; M expressed a deep appreciation for the house-made tobacco bourbon tincture and how gracefully it softened the other elements in her digestif – coffee, cranberry and orange bitters.

Alas, the night had to end, and let me tell you how meanly despondence swipes at a person when they step outside of a gloriously indulgent-yet-restrained slice of heaven, into the cold, raw cruelty of a San Francisco Friday night! We pledged to build a secret room in our first house that is as close to The Wilson as we can possibly get. It was a wonderful night.

Today was tax time, with all its usual joys and surprises. Disasters were averted and though we both have to file by mail (weaksauce), and federally as though we were single (WEAKSAUCE), it could be much worse.

Here I am with another braided bun! I saw a tutorial on another blog and thought, “That looks fun, let’s try it!” While my hair isn’t quite as long as I’d like, it’s such an effortless, elegant way to style it quickly. I’ll have to remember to keep it in rotation but not to fall back on it too often. Anyway, I just love this outfit. It’s so sweet and girly, but the severe black pleats, shoes and red lips make a wicked little wink that keeps it from veering into the precious territory.

Coat: Tulle
Blouse, Belt: Vintage
Skirt: The Gap
Tights, Earrings: Banana Republic
Peep-toes: Linea Paolo
Painted wooden cuff: Pier One
Cocktail Ring: H&M
Lipstick bullet: Besame Cosmetics
Cosmetics bag: Dollywood

E. C. Star dress. Franco Sarto wingtip pumps. Richard Chai for Target coat. Thrifted mini crossbody. Tegan & Sara scarf. I repeat, Tegan & Sara scarf. Red Velvet lipstick from Besame Cosmetics.

Today was shite. It didn’t start out that way; I crawled out of bed, wiggled into my favorite Peggy Olson dress and surprisingly sturdy, comfortable tights by Nina. M zipped me up and chattered away in bed whilst checking the stock market from her new phone, and I set off for work. A sweet colleague fetched coffees for us both when I arrived. At lunchtime, I met a friend in a toasty pub near our offices and we gossiped over grilled cheese and French dip sandwiches, and I ducked into Godiva afterward to carry out Day Two of Mission Find Outstanding Toffee. (Day One consisted of a trip to Fog City News, a lovely place where I picked up Richard H. Donnelly chocolates and the newest Gentlewoman. The latter is nearly perfect, has Inez van Lamsweerde and Chloé on the cover, the former not so much.)

It was all downhill from there. Godiva’s toffee was a joke. You’d do better to pick up a pink canister of Almond Roca! I ran into an infuriating issue at work. The old landlord still hasn’t sent us our deposit. (She still has a week or so to get it to us by CA law, but we can tell we’re probably going to have to fight her for it.)

After work, when I drove all the way out to the thrift store I’d left my phone at on Saturday, the workers were still there but the door was locked. They’d been closed for 15 minutes. My attempts to knock at the door and mime my desire to fetch my phone and only my phone went ignored, waved away; I am bad at charades, it seems they thought me either illiterate or simply stubborn (which I am, that is not the point): “WE’RE CLOSED,” the closest worker mouthed.

I remembered my fancy new phone. I googled the thrift shop. I jabbed my finger at the link to the phone number. It rang. I narrowed my eyes at the worker, standing just twelve feet away from me still at the register, focused intently on a stack of paper, watched her twitch and finally, after three rings, pick up the phone. P H E W. I helpfully volunteered a description of my phone, frantically making eye contact and forcing smiles, and suggested that it would only take her a few seconds to slide it through the mail slot or something so that I could get it back. “Yes, ma’am, we have your phone right here. It’s here. You need to come back when we’re open.”

My toffee was bad. My job vexed me. I am owed money. My data is held hostage at a thrift shop with rude workers. Bullocks.

Then, after a long and strangely soothing trip to the grocery store (maybe it had to do with huffing a fresh fistful of basil), I went home. It was warm inside. My girls greeted me; M helped me pull all the bags in from the car. Our handsome new striped armchairs had arrived, along with a great big mystery box. We were having piping hot lasagna with a loaf of garlic bread for dinner. Comfort food. I opened the mystery box. A sweet note from my friend Ali, who has recently launched a gourmet cookie company with her mom, and – heaven help us – piles and piles of her delicious creations. (More on that – and our first ever giveaway! – on Black Friday, so be sure to check back and enter to win.)

M made me giggle during this FFAF shoot out in the biting cold of our yard, she shined a flashlight on me and I fought to keep a candle lit in the wind. (“It’s supposed to be creepy,” I explained.) The moon was huge and shone eerily through the branches, which swooned and tottered around it like baby ghosts. (“It was orange and SUPER creepy before,” M explained.)

And just like that my day was right side up again. Hurrah!

Enjoy these spectacularly politically incorrect Thanksgiving pin-ups and have a dreamy, delicious holiday, everyone! We’re very much looking forward to my 90-year-old grandma’s brandy-soaked San Francisco Thanksgiving, with collard greens and pumpkin cheesecake, pop culture pumpkin pies and puppies. My mother’s given us just two assignments: an appetizer and a dazzling, festive cocktail for all to imbibe. I’m plotting something herbaceous, probably Italian, with spiced pear and sparkles. We’ll see how it goes!

Welcome to my Party On! Pants Off! outfit. I really just cannot imagine a gayer outfit utterly devoid of rainbows than this, kids. You’ve got your sequins and your stars and your crazy ruffles and lots of leg and your body glitter and a completely nonsensical pattern / paint-splattered motif. In gold. There are lipstick bullets around my neck and an actual bullet-sized lipstick tucked neatly away in the warmth of my cleavage, and of course it’s in an obscene shade of red also used to color my lips and ARE YOU CRAZY don’t even think my nail polish deviates from the exact same poppy red.

The breakdown, because heaven knows this was no easy task (especially when it was time to pee):

Romper, Brooklyn Flea
Star-shaped tights, Betsey Johnson
Cut-out moto pumps, Modcloth
Lipstick bullet necklace, Culp Baubles
Lipstick, Besame Cosmetics

I’m fairly certain this number will never see the light of day, and I’m okay with that. The tights have runs in them a mile long and I’m okay with that, too. I flailed around so very enthusiastically with the tomboy to a Grease medley that night that I toppled over a very full whiskey sour of mine, fresh from the bar, and I’m okay with that (even if it still hurts, a little). A friend of ours gifted me with a Midori-issue tank top that says “ALL NATURAL MELONS” across it. I bartered a pair of neon green Wayfarers for an epic jar with a handle on it, which M now guards with her life.

When midnight came and it was officially M’s birthday, we dutifully did tequila shots at the bar and I crawled around rather helpfully all over the Supper Club beds and we danced to that really dirty reggaetón song we both love, Gasolina. It was a spectacular night, and not wearing pants was a pretty big part of it. I’m hoping Ms. Jackson and Party Ben and co. can be convinced to hold pants-free parties at least once a month, because the vibe is genuinely special.

And before you bossies call me a total tease for not posting waist-down photos of the infamous bandage dress from Flourish, here you go:

MORE PRIDENESS COMING SOON!

ZOMG, THIS BELT THING! When I first saw it at modcloth.com, it kind of reminded me of a cross between a sweet, worn-in leather gun holster and the Zana Bayne leather harness Laia over at The Pop | Geometric Sleep wore so effortlessly awhile back. I will try wearing it as originally intended, but I love this idea – slinging it across one shoulder and packing the pouch with night-out essentials: ID, Besame’s darling and elegant lipstick bullets, blotting papers, cash. Period. I’m sure many femmes can agree: Sometimes not having to carry around a bag or purse or clutch or tote is freeing and happy, and not ALL dresses are made with – or are even practically made at all – pockets.

Plus, it’s inexpensive.

Plus, it’s real leather, which smells good and is super fun to wear in.

Plus, because I said so.

Also, I cannot wait to rock this scarf (also from modcloth.com) even as it warms up. It’s not quite sheer, but wafer-thin and moves nicely. I can see it dressing up a wifebeater, cutoff shorts and cowboy boots, I can see it giving a pop of color to a lightweight cotton tank dress, I can see it at Baker Beach with a 50s pinup swimsuit and some truly excellent shades. For now, it shall keep my neck warm, and prettily!

CONFESSION A: So, last we heard, the tomboy was getting on a fancy yacht and leaving the femme behind…can you see her up there, walking away? So sad. Sad and alone. (Don’t listen for one second to that nonsense M commented about my slapping her…that was for something else and she knows it!)

CONFESSION B: As ever, all my silly pouting was for naught. Yesterday afternoon, I saw M off on her yacht  and she had a good time – the food was great, she said, and not only did they serve champagne but she had her fair share of rum & cokes, too. As they made their way toward the Golden Gate Bridge, I trekked my ass (in heels and fancy hair, of course) from Pier 3 to Pier 39 in like 10 minutes flat, marched into the first fancy restaurant I saw and very sweetly asked for a seat over the water on the second story outside. I figured it was worth a (long) shot. To my utter surprise, I was gestured in right away and seated just in time for the show to start. It was such a gorgeous, cloudless day to be on the water. I ordered a very delicious rose petal gimlet with a float of champagne to make a DIY French 75 and some tasty lunch and got my camera ready to take some pics.

Those angels wrought glorious havoc over the bay and SF skyline and Golden Gate, and I had so much fun watching it. Excepting M’s view, I couldn’t have had a better one myself. They really are something else to watch. They flew so close that one colleague of M’s almost dropped her drink in shock on the upper deck, as it tore past them. We texted each other back and forth like dorks, in total awe and, you know, because we missed each other. Like dorks.

And then it ended! Much too soon, but when I saw M’s yacht heading back toward Pier 3, I closed out my bill, stopped downstairs for some hot baby donuts and cotton candy for the petite, and met M back by the Ferry Building, where we chattered about fighter jets and our meals and cocktails and took a bunch of FFAF photos. It was a perfectly imperfect Friday!

Oh, and I took the trolley back, but only because I didn’t want the baby donuts to get cold! Clang-clang-clang!

I am so upset that I cannot get my nifty slideshow to work. I will keep at it and post as is for now. XO!

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