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CONFESSION: Impromptu FFAF photo shoots are the best. We were on our way to BART to catch Where The Wild Things Are downtown, when we passed this relatively empty laundromat. It was so much fun, right down to jumping into one of the carts, playing shooter games and the old-timey Soap Stop (below). I realize the key missing component is the fact that we were just passing through, not doing any actual laundry (which I abhor), but still. SUPERFUN.

I cried and cried and cried through not only the trailers (that Sandra Bullock one and the Baby(ies) documentary – have you seen or heard of it? – it’s about the first year of life for four babies being raised in four very different corners of the world; San Francisco, Mongolia, Nambia and Japan), but through a bunch of the scenes in the movie as well. It was so great. I loved it. Max was fantastic.

SCENT: I really want this Victoria’s Secret experiment to be over and done with. You know, just the other day I was recalling my past refusal to walk away from something until I was absolutely convinced I had exhausted every available option (and unavailable, for that matter) and how absurd, unnecessary and masochistic it was, and this experiment is giving me the nagging s(c)en(t)sation that old habits die hard. So, it’s much too late to undo today’s torture, but I cannot promise completion at this juncture, folks.

Without further ado, I give you Dream Angels Divine and Very Sexy Hot. The former is awful and harsh. If powder settled into crepe-y skin could be bottled and made into a WMD, Divine is it. Vile. VS Hot comes out with a few intriguing top notes – marigold, freesia, berry (note again the lack of specificity regarding type)- but never softens into something softer and more complex, it just stays sharp and not in a good way.

Confession: Seeking fresh air and the smell of new books, M & I took the petite to the bookstore in between bouts of late afternoon rain at Jack London Square. I settled on a copy of Mirage and Fashion Now 2, inwardly cringing at the neglected stack of books back at home (The Gift Of Fear, Infinite Jest, The Doors Of His Face, The Lamps Of His Mouth). We strolled through the bookshelves while the petite browsed the YA section (she ended up with Pretties, the 2nd book of the Uglies trilogy for all you YA fans), and after taking some FFAF photos we passed a display of little squishy baby toys. I instantly lunged for the Max doll, from Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

Right then is when I learned that M has never read this book. M HAS NEVER READ WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. “What is that little thing?” she asked, almost distrustful. “He’s Max! It’s Max! You know…Max is very, very naughty and gets sent to bed without supper and then he goes on WILD adventures with the wild, wild things,” here is where I grab the little monster wild thing doll and shove it right into M’s furrowed brows, “THIS is the wild thing,” I say, “Remember?” “No, she says, “I’ve never read that. That one looks like a wild thing, too,” she pointed at Max accusingly. I gasped and shook my head sadly. I was beside myself, flailing both dolls around and hissing about how is it even possible that she’s never read nor seen nor heard of the book because HELLO!?!?

The petite wandered over, probably to tell us to shut up as we were embarrassing her a great deal, but she was 100% Team Skinny on the matter once I informed her. She just rolled her eyes and sighed as if the burden of M’s lifelong deprivation of this tale was simply too much to bear and left us standing there. I put Max into my pocket and followed M into the travel section and tried to explain the significance of the beloved book to M.

It’s just that M, in so many ways, is Max. All dressed in wolf’s clothes, a stubborn, brooding little thing, wears a crown and makes mischief? Likes boats and a good rumpus and bossin’ folks? Good grief!