This little lace jacket is the best thing ever. Well, the best $24.95 I’ve ever spent at H&M, anyway. (Since the time I got this dress.) Since it’s been all Tahoe! Tahoe! Snow! Snow! here lately (you didn’t think I was done posting those, did you?), I thought I’d give y’all a wee break to show you how delightfully sunny and temperate it’s been this weekend.

It was a perfect Sunday. We slept in, made Eggos and cooked our bacon in a bit of Macallan’s short-lived Amber Whisky Liqueur, which was a very clever idea I had while lying half-awake in bed this morning. A friend gave us about 8 0z. of the precious golden liquid last night and we are savoring every delicious, pecan and maple flavored drop. I gave the dogs some much-needed baths and M tooled around the yard, and then we fetched the petite from her grandmother’s, where we all had birthday cake for her auntie.

And then we went to go and see COUNTRY STRONG, and it was fantastical. Yeah, I said it. F A N T A S T I C A L.*

*This has nothing to do with my crush on Blair, I mean Leighton.

Last night we had dinner in the wine country, Yountville to be specific, to celebrate a friend’s birthday at a restaurant called Ad Hoc (for temporary relief from hunger, you know). Yountville at night is positively enchanting, all the trees alight and the picturesque road twinkling like a pristine Mamet set just waiting to be wrecked by humanity.

Ad Hoc was bustling just the right amount when we arrived, the service was almost impeccable and the courses came out at an indulgently languorous pace – we were there for 3.5 hours! There were two highlights for me: the fried Tolenas Farm quail with blonde castelfranco radicchio and a chili garlic vinaigrette, and their magical, magical monkey bread. I’d never had monkey bread! The birthday boy, who is from Kentucky, couldn’t believe we’d never encountered it before. It was served with pecan ice cream and miles and miles of sweet, golden caramel.

We drove all the way back home and had a round of festive nightcaps at the Forbidden Island Tiki Lounge in Alameda. That’s a pic of us in our little tiki booth up there – I should have worn my coconut bra!

Nothing much else to report except my excitement at having mastered the fine craft of careless, so-what French braiding! I was going to leave them down in pigtails, but the silhouette was so interesting that I twisted them just above the nape of my neck, tucked the ends in haphazardly and pinned the mess into place. On a whim, I clipped these feathers and rhinestones in like I would fresh flowers and that was that.

Lace jacket, hair clips: H&M
Cowboy boots: Nocona
Dress: Zara

The earrings were a Christmas gift from M – dainty, faceted citrine drops with hand-hammered silver rings, the watch is Guess with a vintage band, the talon bracelet and single feather silver necklace are from Banana Republic.

Welcome to my Saturday! Glorious weather, great beach, clear blue skies, short dress, hot tomboy. We stomped all over Ocean Beach in San Francisco, do you know what they say about it here?

The water is also quite cold, due to a process known as upwelling, in which frigid water from below the ocean surface rises up to replace the surface water that moves away from the beach as a result of the Coriolis effect. The rapid rip currents  and cold water make the ocean dangerous for casual swimmers or even for those who simply want to set foot in it, and many swimmers have been swept away and drowned as a result.

In fact, it is said to be the most hazardous and dangerous urban beach in the United States.

Which is why I’m hiding out here.

Just kidding. Here is where the surfers put their surfboards.

I can attest to the both the chill of the water and the hypnotizing pull of it. You can stand there as it swirls around your calves, freezing the blood in your veins, and nearly lose your balance with it all rushing about. It’s beautiful and yes, it can be terrible. We went back on Sunday and the beach looked completely different than it had the day before, the waves behaved differently, the birds flew together in spectacular bursts like fireworks.

I grew up in this water, being a native, and parts of my life have been played out against its bracing backdrop.  My aunt would tell us stories about swimming at the Sutro Baths there, I’ve tagged along with my big sister to countless bonfires and written a great deal of bad and sandy poetry on its shores, a childhood friend drowned himself there early one foggy morning years ago, meals have been had at the Cliff House, nighttime trips have been made – wrapped in woolly coats and the arms of my loverbird in the dark – when the moonlight hits all the sand blown sideways by the rough wind.

That is never changes and yet changes always is what makes its constancy so perfect, I think. Like love, no?

We just wanted to take the fresh, clean, salty sea air. We walked up and down the same stretch at least a dozen times, collecting sand dollars, shells, with M gleefully poking at anything that might be dead and rotting. The hem of my dress was still soaking wet when we left, and my right boot was still damp. We were happy and felt well!

Alas. Here I am, home sick on a glorious Monday, chained to the couch in my pajamas (well, M’s pajamas) and to a lingering cold or flu or curse that wrenches deep, dry coughs from my chest and congestion that won’t quit. Despite the natural remedies passed on through the generations in my wife’s family, good old Western medicine, straight-up denial and everything in-between, I’ve been felled by whatever felled the tomboy last week. Bullocks!

She’s on her way home as I type this, which is good, because I need someone to pet my head and tell me that I’m still cute as a button even when sick as a dog.

(Dogs are really very rarely sick, you know, that expression is ridiculous.)

Dress: Fairground
Vest: Garage sale find for $1!
Bag: Betsey Johnson
Cuff: Dollywood
Boots: Nocona
Silver: Vintage

Also, I took this photo of some adorable high schoolers hanging out – they were so shiny and happy and really sweet:

I already miss the World Cup. Do you?

What a love affair. There’s this great big empty space where the only traditional sport I’ve ever loved lived for 1.5 passionate, glorious weeks. (UFC and bull-riding don’t exactly count as traditional.) We shared eight games together and it just didn’t seem to matter that I knew nothing of and had no interest in soccer before at all, the Uruguay vs. Ghana game sunk its big, sweaty, dramatic teeth into my neck and I was irrevocably hooked.

M was delighted to bear witness to this newly discovered passion. She’s not a sports maniac or anything, and I do occasionally enjoy watching football and baseball (but only ever at actual games, I find the latter dreadfully banal on the television), but it’s rare and we have never been so engaged as this. When we weren’t sneaking away during lunch to watch the games during the work week (or streaming them at our desks), we’d trek to the Stray Bar on the weekend.

Being a mixed-race baby with roots in Germany and Spain, it was very difficult for me to choose a side in semifinals. Who I picked is obvious, and I chose Spain because it’s where M & I had such a dreamy courtship the first year we met. (It leaves an indelible impression on you, that kind of spectacular free-falling someplace unfamiliar.)

It was the right choice. I couldn’t drum up any feeling for Germany’s team, anyway.

The photos above were taken right around the moment when Spain won the World Cup!

I cried. I actually cried with genuine joy. Over a sport. WHAT?! (I also toasted M so heartily that I shattered her champagne flute, which is why it moves from one glass to another up there.) This is so unlike me, and now every four years M will have to make room for my whirlwind love affair with this happy sport. I apologize profusely and in advance to the shocked friends who will likely never understand it and think it the beginning of the end of Skinny, surely.

I threw this outfit together essentially at Target the night before. M & I drove some friends of ours to their local store to get some new home essentials, and I scoured like 5 departments before settling on the shorts, black tank, red button-up from the Converse line, and the contrasting handkerchiefs that M & I chose. You know it’s ardent when I willfully don the ill-advised ketchup + mustard color motif with not a single trace of shame.

She psychically knew that they’d be wearing their blue uniforms.

Thank heavens for the striped H&M socks at home!

VIVA ESPANA!

Not entirely sure why I titled this post the way I did, but I enjoyed the way it rolled off the tongue, so let’s roll with it. ULTIMATE DISCLOSURE: This outfit was worn exactly one week ago, and just looking at it is making me long like mad for warmer weather. Of course more rain is headed our way, the loathsome weatherman says.

What gives, San Francisco? Why are you trying so hard to push me away? Is it because I love another place? Is it because I keep leaving you this year? Get over it. You’re being needy, clingy. It taxes me.

I love this simple cotton dress, purchased for a dollar or something like that at a thrift store weeks ago, and I love how pairing it with the cropped denim jacket makes it all look kind of soft and washed out. Practicality necessitated this recycled suede belt from H&M, which seemed all loved and worn when I bought it new recently, as well as my VERY well worn cowgirl boots. Throw in the oversized Lucite nugget necklace for a dash of fancy and that, my friends, is that. Just slap on some spurs and take me to the rodeo, already!

Remember how I promised make-up experiments and tell-alls? We’re going to discuss mascara and explore a few comparisons. GET READY, OK!? Here’s a teaser:

I’d talk about how abhorrent The Lovely Bones is, but I prefer to discuss pleasant things. Like the fact that we’ve all kicked off a three-day weekend. Like the fact that I came home to a cheeky tomboy with a gorgeous bouquet of blush roses just for me, and lasagna baking in the oven, and an array of tiny Haagen-Dazs cups of ice cream in the freezer, bottles of bubbly chilling in the fridge and fat, happy cinnamon rolls waiting to be baked in the morning for breakfast. Very pleasant things.

I’m going to curl up with my newest collection of locally penned shorts (Instant City, Issue No. 6, snagged at Gypsy Honeymoon in the Mission) in bed, with a brand new sparkling cocktail that is so, so good: splash of spiced pear vodka (ours is crafted by Hangar One, of course), splash of raspberry pink lemonade, topped with your sparkling beverage of choice. Not-too-sweet, perfectly crisp and refreshing!

Please to meet the wonderfully brilliant and gorgeous Kate. She came to stay with us for a few days and we had some excellent SF adventures together. The photos above are from a nice little walkabout we had through the Mission, in search of carnitas by the pound, chili/salt/lemon-drenched mango slices and Humphrey’s Secret Breakfast ice cream. It was overcast and cold, but we bundled up and dragged our hungover asses through the Mission and were met with much success (and an angry drunk, but that is neither here nor there). We stopped to take a few photos by some of the many, many amazing murals that can be found in our ‘hood.

Below, you’ll find Kate & I all sassed up and ready to go dancing. The tomboy snapped these before an epic night of Osha Thai (Kate ordered this massive fried rice dish served in half a pineapple! We all drank lychee cocktails!), a George Michael singalong at the Lexington and shaking what our mama gave us at Cockblock. It was all very wonderful and we had enough fun for the entire mafia. And then some.

CONFESSION: On our 5th consecutive day of blissful holiday PTO, M took me to see A Single Man (remember when I mentioned it here back in November?). Despite the dreariness of the day, we bravely set out on BART to catch it playing down by the water at the Embarcadero theater. I really, really enjoyed it. It was delicious. There’s an old L-Word actress cameo, model cameos, a Mad Men cameo, and one other that I cannot quite recall. It was a touch slow in places, but it’s so visually saturated that it really doesn’t matter, and it made me cry. On our way home we took these silly photos, and then it began to rain, so we hustled inside, made a big spaghetti dinner, opened a bottle of tasty red from Spain, and then FINALLY got around to the Johnnie Walker Black Label blending session we’ve been postponing forever. Dreamy.

Y’all can have special insider pics of the super elaborate scotch whisky blending set-up, because I love you like that:

CONFESSION: Today was a day for the bank. I attended a private tasting of Dalmore’s 12, 15, Gran Reserva and King Alexander III single malt scotch whiskys, plus a very special bonus tasting, at the methodically handsome Laszlo in the Mission. The dear Scottish man who led the tasting said that I reminded him of a lovely, elegant Lowlands single malt scotch whisky, when he wasn’t spitting onto the floor at any mention of the French. (You can eventually read more about all that here, at my “other” blog. I don’t want to spoil it.) They were kind enough to let me pop upstairs before and after the tasting to take some super awesome FFAF photos, hurrah. Just a moment ago the UPS guy arrived with a very important package, and I was so excited that M said I made a big old ruckus of “kitten noises,” whatever those are. It contained a new dress (not-so-LBD) and super badass new shoes. I can’t wait to show y’all! M is well enough to drink a bottle of cava with me (finally!) and lasagna is baking in the oven with some fluffy garlic bread in hot pursuit. DREAMY.

SCENT: Tom Ford’s Black Orchid. I must confess something. I broke up with Tom awhile ago, but after reading about his directorial debut starring Colin Firth (and Julianne Moore) in A Single Man, I’ve realized something very, very important: My love for Colin is greater than my hate for Tom. Does that make sense? Of course it does. (He’s Mark-bloody-Darcy, after all.) I digress. Black Orchid is a hot, heady, stunning mess. The jury is out on whether or not that’s a good or bad thing. The opening is almost like scorched black licorice drizzled over jasmine and sundry florals, like in Absinthe or Drambuie. It does kind of smolder, all bared teeth, glossed lips and super dangerous bedroom eyes. This smells like the kind of woman you should stay away from – you know better, of course – but you can’t help yourself. I’m going to have to come back to this, because it’s too complex!

Here are some notes, FYI: Black Truffle, Ylang, Bergamot, Black Currant. Then the black orchid, dark florals, rich fruit, Lotus Wood. At last, there’s Patchouli, Incense, Vetiver and Vanilla Tears, Balsam and Sandalwood.

Watch this and tell me you don’t find it completely gorgeous. Seriously.

And since it was one of the most beautiful stills:

CONFESSION: I know the rainbow heart print is a bit twee, but the button-up backline sold me on this dress. It’s a fairly well-made H&M number that I scored at a local thrift store for $5. It’s sweet and comfortable, and I love that it can be belted or not, paired with sky high heels and a skinny, studded, layered belt to punk it up a bit. Or not. (In fact, I’ve got a pair of killer moto-chic heels headed my way that I can’t wait to pair with this dress.)

SCENT: ARE WE READY FOR THE LAST OF THE LAST? I can’t say how pleased I am to be done with this sad, trashy collection of Victoria’s Secret fragrances, I honestly can’t. A friend of mine tweeted today about the arduous task of finishing a book she disliked. She started reading it in March. I think she read a bit of it each day. That’s torture. It’s exactly how I feel about this little scent experiment. Thank heavens it’s over with and I can now return to reviewing sniffs worth their salt.

Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy: I spritzed a bit on, turned to M and said, “Sweet, sharp floral…” and she added “…with citrus!” and sure enough, it’s described as a “sultry blend of sensual vanilla orchid, sparkling clementine and juicy blackberry.” It still smells like shitty potpourri and continues to on the drydown. I fail to comprehend why all of their scents are pitched as hyper sexy, alluring, come-fuck-me irresistible when they couldn’t be further from it. It’s so bad I can scarcely take satisfaction in the fact that I was right – and I love being right – the quality and caliber of their fragrances parallel the quality and caliber of their lingerie. I was open to being proven wrong or humbled, alas.

In summary, it’s all very black and white, kids. Like so:

PS. ZOMG, someone hold me back before I ruin everything I’ve been working toward and DYE MY HAIR these 84,000 colors:

CONFESSION: I love this dress so. It’s easy and comfortable, but pretty. It looks better without the white tights (points to anyone who gets the lyrical reference), and I’ll post it that way someday but it is COLD here, so tights you are. (Get it? Tights you are! Right you are! Ha!) My little kitty friend came to take pictures with me, she’s very affectionate; she’ll jump up and paw at me like a puppy might. It’s adorable. I love her!

SCENT: Let’s not dilly-dally, I’ve got a different Victoria’s Secret perfume on either arm just waiting to be scrubbed off, ach so:

God, just look at that packaging. Cue involuntary sneer! OK, OK. Super Model out of the vial makes me think of soft vanilla and citrus, orange, actually, like a creamsicle. (M’s favorite!) It’s terrible. She likes it, which concerns me, but she is sick after all. On the drydown, it becomes something like stale, matted cotton candy.

Dream Angels Heavenly (America’s No. 1 fragrance, according to the VS website) shows some promise right away – quince, cardamom, white peony – but fades into boring, stuffy mediocrity. I will definitely have to hold this up against Dream Angels Desire to compare the two.

Y’all? I only have one more of these crap vials to test and report, and the epic experiment is final. To celebrate this, I have a very special fragrance post in the works. All I can say is that it involves intimate peeks into the cologne closets of two roguish tomboys, and you will want to go to there. Just in time for the holidays, too! I can’t wait, and I bet neither can you. Until then, kittens!

XOXO,

SBJ

PS. This chair had a cold puddle. I sat in it. Bugger.