Capitola, CA
I still cannot get over the fact that we go to the beach in December here. I mean, we're hardly wandering around in swimsuits (that's exclusively November territory), but it's totally lay-down-on-a-blanket-and-nap-in-the-sun weather - and really, that's all I ever want to do at the beach anyway.
Los Angeles | California
Sweater Sweatpants Flats Camera Bag
I feel like I may need to start doing a photo series called "Looks I Rock At Kindergarten Dropoff," because really: some of them are pretty spectacular.
Apologies for this image, but come on: it's amazing.
(Also you have to go read the article I found it in right now.)
Let's put aside the disturbingness (by which I mean amazingness)of that image up there for a second. We have to have a discussion about my face. WHAT. IS GOING. ON.
I only look like a human being in that photo because of this stuff.
I am very, very bad at hiding things from people. If I’m embarrassed, my face helpfully alerts everyone around me to that fact by turning a lovely shade I call “deep eggplant.” If I’m annoyed, you know I’m annoyed because I sound annoyed, even if I say that I'm not annoyed (sorry, Kendrick). And if I’m excited, I am the very worst person in the world at playing it cool; my cartwheels are much better than my poker face.
If I’m stressed or upset, though – as I have been these past couple of weeks – do you know what happens? My entire body falls apart. My face somehow becomes simultaneously oilier and drier (whee!). I break out like a teenager. My hands (or, more precisely, my cuticles) require daily vigilance so as not to frighten casual bystanders. All this falling-apart, of course, makes me feel even worse, when I was already feeling bad to begin with.
What to wear on Thanksgiving Day is a bit of a conundrum. Because there are hours and hours and hours of cooking, and then the second the cooking part stops the eating part has to start because I’ve been asked whether dinner’s ready eighteen times per minute for the past two hundred minutes and now I need to feed my kids so they stop asking.
Which means the transition from “what to wear while cooking” (something I can spill turkey juice on) to “what to wear while eating” (something comfortable but cute enough to mayyyybe result in an actual, all-four-of-us-looking-at-the-camera-and-looking-non-miserable family photo) better be a quick one. And it better involve stretchy material, because food.
