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Hi, there. Have I mentioned that I joined a book club and we’re gearing up to read Anna Karenina? It’s true. I’m so excited. Nevermind that I’m concurrently working my way through a half dozen or so books right now, a book club is just what I need. Assignments, discipline, discourse! The timing also excites me. We might be in the throes of an Indian summer now, but this 838-page edition, translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, will last us well into Autumn.

There’s also this rather modern version, you know, they’re calling it Android Karenina.

I’m told my translation is by far the superior one, by someone who would know.

I’m just a little bit fretful that my copy is brand new. Time constraints prevented me from purchasing a more storied, gently loved tome. The result is that it’s got zero street cred and no personality, as far as the lovely tactile nuances of books go. Sadface. I’ve already appealed to the book club not to laugh at it’s horrible shiny newness when they see it.

Compared to one other girl’s edition from the 1960s, mine is like an obnoxious Marina girl standing next to a chic Parisienne who dates moody beat poets and nonchalantly poses topless and smoking for artistic black and white photos, and so on.

What else is knew? We’ve had a series of incredible cocktails at home this week, created on-the-fly by yours truly and as I type this, the handsome one toils away in the kitchen while dinner cooks, peeling a cucumber to whip a batch of something boozy and delightful, I’m sure. Tuesday night we enjoyed French 75s with Boodles London Dry gin and a nice Charles de Fère Réserve Blanc de Blancs Brut. Last night I slapped together some Ketel One vodka with lavender-infused simple syrup, Domaine de Canton, fresh lemon juice & a sugar rim, and it was delicious.

M has emerged with the cocktails: Muddled cucumber with gin, Combier and Domaine de Canton, fresh lemon juice. It tastes like eating dirt and drinking lemonade at the same time (in a good way).

My round won the night’s experiments, however. Gin with French Berry sparkling lemonade, fresh lemon juice and lavender-infused simple syrup.

Let’s talk about this book! It’s called, obviously, The Secret of Scent, and it’s a fascinating read on the science of smell, very heavy on  olfactory theory. It is chock full of the most amazing diagrams of molecules and compounds and, I mean, I may or may not have googled whether or not there are tattoos for, say, tuberose or Astrotone out there. Luca Turin, the author, is a world-renowned biophysicist and a true giant in the world of fragrance. I had no idea that there was so much we still don’t know about smell.

Anyway, this outfit!

Tunic: Staccato
Leggings: Calvin Klein
Bag: Betsey Johnson
Boots: Lamica
Cuff: Dollywood
Lips: Revlon’s Just Bitten Lip Stain in Frenzy

These are all M’s favorite looks and pieces from Zara’s F/W Collection for Men. What do you think? She’s very into (as always) bulky, shawl-collared sweaters with bold patterns, sweaters that look like dead animals, and military detail. I like it all, but the oversize infinity scarf really threw me for a loop!

It is Friday! Pardon my weeklong absence, dear readers. I’ve missed you!

We are upon a three-day holiday weekend, which is wonderful because I’ve scarcely had time enough to recover from the last.

Last night M & I celebrated five years, to the day, of the exact night that we met, with French 75s and premature Valentine’s Day candies.

Yesterday morning I woke up (late, of course, bangs sticking straight up, shuffling sleepily from the bedroom to the french press and my – well, M’s – laptop) to a world without Lee Alexander McQueen, a true genius, a would-be visionary, a brilliant legend. Ever the late bloomer, I explained to a dear friend that it wasn’t until it dawned on me that I was a lesbian, at long last in my very early twenties, when I truly became interested in fashion. Not in any deliberate, studied way, at least not that I can remember. So it’s really just the last decade or so that I have lived with this heightened sense of it all, the awe and skepticism and obscurity and blatantness.

It is more than enough time to recognize that the man was really and truly something else. It’s not fair to lose that mind and all the incredible, staggering, in-your-face beauty it produced. Loving what he made often required you to bend and twist your mind in ways other designers haven’t and won’t, and I’ll miss it all dearly.

You were beautiful and terrible, McQueen.

Y’all love hard on Sunday, you hear?!?!

Because I said so.

PS. Silly me. The ring is also Laundry by Shelli Segal and the gloves are vintage.