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Today, there is just the SLIGHTEST chill in the air, which always makes me feel most at home. I think of Fall, and me at my most happiest, wrapping my entire self in Sweater.

Being that I’m only back in bk for less than 24 hours, there were some errands to run, things to take care of: bank, pharmacy, filling up on toiletries, GOING TO ANTHROPOLOGIE AND BUYING EVERYTHING EVER, and then faxing some things. It’s not my fault that the new anthropologie is located DIRECTLY across the street from my bank, nor can I help that walking into one of those stories makes you feel that you are not feminine or cute, but that you WOULD be if you rub THIS candle on yourself, or wrap THAT ribbon around your head. I raided the sale rack, and decided that these items, lace shirt thing, and friendly morroccan party shorts? were both necessary. I realized at williamstown that I dress like a little boy a little bit, in cut offs and striped tank tops, so I think I will make an effort to be more feminine with my choices. And nothing says feminine like morrocan party shorts (?) and lace.

I don’t know if I’m totally alone here (I also might be the only person in the world who makes in involuntary weird face when I eat lettuce) but every now and then, when clothed, I suddenly feel really naked and this odd, deep shame. It passes pretty quickly, but where does it come from? Because I am weird and fun, I like to think that it stems all the way back to Eve, who I would be somehow related to – and just for a moment, I’m feeling the shame she felt when she first sensed her own nudity? These are just the sorts of things I like to convince myself are true.

The first not freezing, sunny day in what seems like forever makes me think of DRESSES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, dresses. And also, jelly beans. And iced coffee. I am not hard to please. This little number above might be my Anthropolgie splurge of the season. For merely the cost of one month’s cell phone service PLUS utility bills, this dress can be yours (Mine.) So: you can either look cute, or have electricity, and communicate with other human beings.

The choice is yours. (Mine.)

While bored and jury dutying, I decided that what I REALLY needed most in my life, the answer to any and all philosophical dilemnas, was a pair of clogs. And so, I searched. I found Jan’s Ugglebo clogs? One of those sketchy, old-timey looking websites that makes you think it’s a scam run by some guy in his basement in queens. But, the clogs were rad, made-to-order in Sweden, select your own leather, reasonably priced. But you couldn’t even order on the site, you just fill out this request form thing with your phone number. And so, I did.

Dun dun dunnnn.

I forgot about it until yesterday, sure enough, I got a call from Jans himself. Fans, Jans is real, and he is very Swedish, and he is very nice. We had a long conversation about life in New York ‘I come to New York in the Seventies and I make lot of money at Bank! But then I did not like it and moved to North Carolina! And now I sell clogs!’

 After a long heart to heart in which Jans and I shared frustrations of city life, credit card information and our feelings, I ordered my clogs (bright blue leather.)

So I say to ye: order some clogs from Jans!! He is so nice and they’re real affordable / adorable. He even makes man and baby clogs. Well techincally he doesn’t make them, I think his friends in Sweden do. But still, in my mind, I am hoping he looks something like this:

Grandma, I love you. I love you for many reasons, just ONE of them being the plethora of incredible jewelry you have left for me (and your other grandaughters, subsequently) to sift through. There is nothing more simultaneously fun, sad and immensely satisfying. I will choose carefully, and wear each item with memory / pride, namely the amazing old bracelet with our initials engraved upon it.

Lastly, thank you for the Mink coat, which I never knew I wanted, but Love, which I am scared to wear for reasons ranging from my deep love for Elizabeth Castoria and my liberal brooklyn-y surroundings / fear of read paint / being treated like an Olsen Twin. But oh, it is so soft. It is so. Soft.

Meet my slightly over-priced golden tape measure bracelet! Or: the direct result of perusing expensive Philly boutiques directly after a few glasses a wine. Never a good a idea. And by that, I definitely mean always a good idea. My new bracelet friend delicately snakes around my wrist and is an absolute conversation starter. Sure, these conversations lead to nowhere, but at least we are talking to each other and not just hiding in our apartments looking at pictures of each on the internet, am I right? AM I RIGHT?

Dear Eggs Florentine,

Hi. I just wanted to thank you for Being There. I was not that stoked about an 8 am meeting. I stumbled, blurry eyed and with coffee gut to the breakfast table, still asleep. Confused. But then – there was you. Your warm toasty english toastness, your fresh spinachy spinach, your eggy eggs, your hollandaisey hollandaise, and suddenly, all of the sudden, I found that I had thoughts, and could express them, with words, and so I did, and they all lived  happily ever after.

…..Amen?

Minions*! I have discovered the key to happiness!  And suprisingly it has nothing to do with sweat lodges, grocery store birthday cake, or Tuscany. It is simply the owning and wearing of red shoes. I have recently purchased two pairs and it’s kind of sad how much they brighten up my day.

I’ve got my  comfy Toms, which make me feel generous (for because of my purchase, some kid somewhere far away now has shoes and does not have to wade barefoot through cow pies / corn fields/ mud?):

And my hunter boots, which make me feel British and optimsitic, despite the rain.

 *This is how you spell this word.

Whaddup, fools. Today, Aaron and I are both sporting our White Denim. Screw you, coiture rules and post-Labor day dictums! Welcome, mysterious black spots! We look awesome.