[Sam Edelman Vancouver lace up booties + Madewell tights + Mike & Chris leather shorts + Shopbop Bop Basics cashmere sweater + Bop Basics hat.]
Returning to a frozen tundra is not so bad when you have new shoes waiting for you. I’ve been wearing a variation of this all week—these sinfully soft tights, booties, and this sweater. Pity to hide a weak, but A-for-effort tan under so much wool.
So this is pretty sad—our camera is away for repairs. Forgive any degradation of quality that may ensue for a few weeks, Rob has to get back in to the swing of no viewfinder and I its delayed snap.
A Burt Reynolds lookalike (now Rob’s mortal enemy) wouldn’t let off trying to take a picture of us on the tender to Jost Van Dyke late one night, so after much prodding, Rob gingerly held the DSL-R out by its strap—and Loni inexplicably whapped it from his open hand. The resulting crash on the teak floor sent a shudder down many a spine, but apparently not theirs—as he sat with nary a “I’m sorry,” smiling vacantly, his left hand cupping her old boob.
Thinking about getting a Christmas tree today, but sort of can’t see the point. I was saying to Rob as we walked back inside, “It doesn’t even feel like Christmas. And then Christmas will be over, and it will just be cold. For months.” So you see, without a tree, it’s really just the absence of warmth and the sun bleating into the windows at weird angles.
Cold is the ogre which drives all beautiful things into hiding. Below the surface of a frost-bound garden there lurk hidden bulbs which are only biding their time to burst forth in a riot of laughing colour (unless the gardener has planted them upside down) but shivering Nature dare not put forth her flowers till the ogre has gone. – P.G. Wodehouse
The limbo of holiday spirit that goes with being too old for toys, but too young to have subjects upon which to dole those gifts. Maybe I’ll look into eggnog this year.
p.s. check out prior post if you are a size 6 or near and want something free.