It’s Not Goodbye, It’s C U Next Tuesday But From Another City

There are few things more precious in this world than lady friends. I can’t count the number of times that Taylor and I have sat on my couch, or at a bar, or atop a wooden box with a hole cut in it at a Korean spa getting our vaginas steamed, and talked about how fucking lucky we feel to be women who are aware of the complexity of their feelings and capable of verbalizing and expressing them to one another in a meaningful way. And yeah, I’ve been drinking some Prosecco tonight, and I’m feeling sentimental, and this is going to be mush because I’m moving back up north this weekend and holy shit I’m already missing my boo Taylorrrrrr. <insert James Van Der Beek crying gif here>

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Holy Shit It’s Finally Fall Y’all

Goodbye swamp-crotch, hello tights and boots and jackets and ALL THE GOOD CLOTHES.

Taylor and I have been holed up in our air-conditioned abodes with our pets and fams anxiously awaiting the apocalypse or the first day of fall… whichever came first. Turns out it was the latter, but seemingly by a pretty narrow margin amiright?

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Packing for Paris

I always overpack. ALWAYS. Three day trip to Nashville? Six dresses. Week-long trip to Chicago? Eight pairs of jeans. Weekend at the beach? Three pairs of boots. It’s a problem. And for someone who loves planning so much, you would think that I would do a better job of it when it comes to packing. I think what it is for me, though, is that my propensity for planning is far outweighed by my crippling fear of not having enough options, so I throw everything I can possibly fit into the suitcase… juuuuuust in case. This is stupid for many reasons, the main one being that once I get back home I have to then unpack all this shit that I didn’t even/was never going to wear, and unpacking is the piiiiiiiitts.

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Like a Lady

In one of my earliest memories, I’m four or five years old. My mom and I are in the living room of the house I grew up in, and I’m wearing the same dress I insisted upon wearing every day: long and red, with little white flowers all over it, and a ruffle at the hem that just brushed the tops of my feet. I had other dresses, but this was my favorite, and in this memory my mother is trying to convince me to relinquish it for washing, and I am staunchly refusing. “I’ll wash it right now,” my mother is saying. “You can have it back in an hour.”

“But then I won’t have anything to wear while you’re washing it.”

“You have a drawer full of clean pants upstairs. You can wear pants for one hour. It won’t kill you. Besides, wouldn’t that more comfortable to play in?” At this point she’s getting exasperated, because I’m being an unreasonable dick, as children are wont to be. Read More