Something Other Than Listsicles, Or, Saturday Morning at 8:48am

I want to thank whoever recommended The Browser to me. A hunt through the blog comments and email yielded no name, so you remain our mystery informant.

In March, I wrote here that I felt uneducated, with respect to the world. Everyone gave me great recommendations.

Six months later, The Browser has made perhaps the most noticeable difference in my knowledge, or at least to my sense of my own knowledge. What I actually know or don’t know, well, who can say, of course. But in the past 6 months I’ve read articles on Putin, power politics, US foreign policy, historical research, the workings of the brain, and most recently an article from Outdoors about the effects of lightening strikes on humans.

How does the site work? The editor and staff read widely and digitally (if that is a word), hunting for intelligence. Then they clip and present the first few sentences of each article deemed worthy, with a link to the full original. We, the readers, have access to 5 free click-throughs a year. You can cheat the system, by searching for the articles yourself, but why, when a 12-month subscription is only $20?

I find that reading the beautifully written, occasionally arcane, wide-ranging articles from the Browser, along with general news snippets from the Internet, and a few sources in the areas of most personal interest (fashion, design, and women’s issues), makes me feel (at last) like a worthwhile citizen.

OK, throw in local TV for more discussion of the weather than you might think possible and breaking news about the Bay Area.

And, I subscribe to the Browser via Feedly, which is also how I read blogs. Now I think I’ll just add Refinery 29, for complete light-hearted nonsense, (also horoscopes), and I will finally have created the Privilege[d] News Of The World I’ve been waiting for since the first word was made binary.

New blog tagline? Making Fewer Uninformed Observations Since March of 2014.

Have a wonderful weekend, oh you citizens of the world, and thank you for sharing your non-trivial intelligence with me.

The One Piece Of Clothing I Might Buy This Fall, OK Maybe Two Or Three

Around the world, seasons are changing. Australia welcomes Spring, the East Coast of the United States prepares for Autumn, we here in Northern California await, well, black denim.

It’s a myth that California has no seasons. At least in the North. We’ve got them, of a subtle and simple variety. Above all, we live by Rain Or No Rain. This morning, as I write, it’s raining for the first time in ages, so happy in this year of pronounced drought. Beyond water, we feel our seasons in small shifts, the gold of the light in late afternoon, the first morning the front door opens to cool air, the smell of dust in the streets.

So we don’t, as our summer ages like whiskey and the sky burns just a little umber into its blue, rush out and buy sweaters. We’re likely to live with nary a wool trouser in our closets. But still, still, we crave the seasonal change. We’re humans, even in this land where the American Dream comes to reinvent society and buy a whole heck of a lot of German cars.

Right now I’m after some black jeans. This is the first urge for new clothes I’ve had in months. And, fair warning, my mpulsive clothing urges have been pretty darn predictive in the past. Party Pants post, circa 2011 . Brogues, circa 2010. Now add the impetus of GAP’s current and nifty campaign “Dress Normal,”and it’s quite possible we’re sidling up to a black denim explosion.

Let’s take a look at a few choices. We’ll start in the stratosphere and wend our way down to reasonable. Few sites do stratosphere with more sprezzatura than Net-a-porter.

Are you surprised that Victoria Beckham makes dignified pants? Cropped, refined, and thank you ma’am.  You’d have to wear them with heels, I think.

Black denim from Victoria Beckham

Don’t do Lady? How about the Swedish brand, Acne, and their boyfriend jeans? By the way, I saw this image on the blog It’s Not That Deep, and I’m thinking I just might try her trick of low black socks with brogues and loafers. Yup.

Black denim from Acne

How about plus size? I’m a huge fan of waxed cotton, these are from Eileen Fisher at Nordstrom.

Plus Size Black Denim from Eileen Fisher

How about under $2oo? Commenters across on the style blogs I read love Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. Also from Nordstrom.

Black denim from NYDJ

And because I love you so, and am retired and therefore more cautious in my wardrobe spending, and besides, black denim is what you make of it, these, from the GAP for less than $100? Dress normal, indeed.

Black Denim from the GAP

With sneakers. So one might, of course, also need new black ones. We of low-contrast are also going to wear these jeans with gray v-neck tees from UNIQLO, and a denim jacket. And black earrings.

But if you can carry off high drama, why then you might be thinking about tops in red, peacock blue, and all 657 shades of green and whatever the heck color shoes you like.

The Kind Of Garden Just About Anyone Can Grow


Of all my retirement projects, my container garden may provide the most small and bubbling happinesses. I started it back in July, from seed. I planted Grandpa Ott morning glories, sweet alyssum, purple basil, and delphiniums. If you are hypothesizing that this led to an all-purple extravaganza, you are quite right. But it took time.


The morning glories grew first. Like crazy.


The alyssum sprouted too. The basil dilly-dallied, the delphiniums did nothing. I pouted.

Then, before we left for England, I threw some petunias in one of the pots to compensate for my laggards. I set up a drip tubing system, of which I was very proud until I discovered that my 60-year old hose bib and faucet leaked. Cue Operation Cute Little Neighbor Girls to water in my absence.


Serendipitously, the tubing served as great climbing support for the morning glories. Such is gardening. Upon my return from travel, I thinned those purple trumpets mightily,  in order to add a bougainvillea from the nursery. Also scrounged up two more pots. Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.


I filled the two empty pots with petunias and alyssum, also from the nursery. I’ll do seeds again next spring.


The alyssum flourished, the petunias did not, inexplicably. Such is gardening. Don’t you like my watering can? Is it vain to like one’s watering can and say so? I should mention that all this plant hubbub sits right outside one of the living room windows, and I can see it quite plainly from my perch on the sofa. I have loved experimenting with different shades of one hue. Sustains me from morning,


to night.


As does the purple basil, which I pinch and eat, regularly. And guess what happened? Those delphinium seeds? About a month and a half after I planted them, this sprouted.

Yup, a delphinium.


I have high hopes. Such, my friends, is gardening, even writ small.


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Why We Need Women In Tech, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:20am

Did you know that when you look to start a business built on software, you are likely to be told you need a technical co-founder? Someone who can build the first working prototype of your  product, be it website, phone app, or refrigerator that can order milk? Someone who will code for free, for however long, before anyone will invest?

No? Understandable. I would expect it to be news to many, as, despite working in Silicon Valley tech since the 1990s, I am surprised. I found out in recent investigations of a business I might like to start myself.

But so what, right? So what if capital flows to those who can build vs. those who can imagine? Here’s the thing. Given that the ratio of men to women in computer science is incredibly high, we’re pretty much handing the future of American software-driven innovation to men and saying, “Here. Tell us what matters.”

OK, so I exaggerate. There are a few women who lead top tech companies now, and a good deal more at high levels in smaller ones. But my issue is not how many women work in tech.

I am concerned instead with the degree to which women’s ideas are now and will in future be represented in the field. Tech dictates the evolving stuff of life.

This is not new, technology has always moved society one way and another. Think about automobiles, electricity, and washing machines. Do you know how much time women, or their servants, used to spend doing laundry? Today we’re run by software and computer processors, humming no longer in the back room, sparking everywhere. That’s not news.

But given that software programming has gotten more and more accessible, meaning easier for everyone, and given that women now have control over their fertility, because let’s face nobody is going to do much focused cerebral work if they are at home with an infant, now is the time to seize the day. To seize the binary day.

I always wonder, if I’d gone to school 20 years later, would I still have majored in Comparative Literature? My instincts tell me programming would still have been too precise for my brain, but that I might have loved User Interface Design. Anyone else feel the same way? Or do you recoil in horror at the idea?

In any case, those of you with girl children, ask them to consider programming. Consider science. Not to say that our boy children shouldn’t consider science too, they should, but they may need less encouragement. Science learning already works for those boys so inclined.

I see some hopeful signs. There’s a group called Black Girls Code that’s going gangbusters. For the first time ever, the Nobel Prize of math, AKA the Fields Medal, has been awarded to a woman.

Which elicits one more thought. The rise of China and India is predicted in equal parts on inexpensive hourly labor and a focus on technology. I read, as I pass, stereotypes about Asian students doing All The Science. This is not genetic. It doesn’t have to be political, or national. Scientific learning requires focus and willingness to move past failure. It requires the capacity to delay gratification, as one waits for data, as one corrects errors. Parents and the environment raise children.

Here’s a great link to a female Chinese professor at Stanford, on why and how she came up with her solar power stickers.

You might ask, “What about your kids, Lisa?” Fair question. My scientific daughter majored in Psychology and Neuroscience. Had I been on the ball, perhaps I would have encouraged her to learn programming early. It might not have taken, of course. She is moved by humankind more than sheer problem-solving, and has gone into medicine. Science enough. I strongly encouraged my son to take Comp Sci in college. He did, good kid that he is, but after one semester in which he performed swimmingly, he knew that he needed to work in a less binary medium.

One can only encourage one’s children as they grow, directing causes more harm than good.


Here’s the only thing of note in what I’m saying. Don’t encourage your girl to enter science so she can get a job. Do it so she can shape the future.

Have a good weekend.

Packing With Good Imagination And Imagining A Good Pack

I’m usually pretty good at packing. This trip to England, erm, well, um, spotty. I failed to use the Use Case Method to its best advantage. Specifically, I packed for special events like The Dinner With Friends and A Hike Through The Cotswolds, while neglecting the more common Long Walk Through London As Rain Threatens. To say nothing of the Repeated Paying Of Entrance Fees To Enter Overly Warm Buildings.

By the end of the trip I was quite certain as to what I ought to have brought. I will offer up my suitcase and resultant outfits here so we can all learn from my experience.

What I Packed For A 10-Day Trip To England

7 Pieces Of Outerwear Even Though I Wasn’t Going To The North Pole

  • Powder blue MaxMara peacoat
  • Small black Quechua parka bought in China 10 years ago for $25
  • Old black house label Nordstrom trench coat
  • Navy UNIQLO IdlF linen blazer
  • Cadet blue UNIQLO field jacket
  • White ribbed cotton cardigan
  • Heathered purple sweatshirt (brand is American Vintage, purple no longer available)

1 Scarf

  • Very long and old Loro Piana hot pink cashmere muffler
  • A small black umbrella. Yes, I know an umbrella isn’t a scarf, but aren’t they cousins?

5, Yes, 5 Pairs Of Shoes

Underpinnings And Their Friends

  • Enough underpinnings and pyjamas not to have to wash anything except I counted wrong. Luckily the place in the Cotswolds had heated towel racks for drying underwear.
  • A pair of Wolford tights I thought were plain black when packing but turned out to be wild lace.
  • Yoga pants, sports bra, and workout tee. Never worn, as it turned out. Walking through London > working out on machines.

1 Dress & 1 Skirt

3 Pairs Of Jeans

  • Very old and loose Levis 501s for the plane. Worn cuffed, with Birkenstocks, in London.
  • Close-fitting GAP 1969 boyfriends.
  • Distressed Citizens of Humanity to wear cuffed, with navy blazer, white tee, and Valentino Tangos because it’s a really cool outfit and I wanted to be cool hanging out with young friends.
  • Oh and 1 pair of shorts that I never even looked at.

A Whole Lotta Tees

  • Gray
  • White
  • Black
  • Blue
  • Leopard-print
  • Navy & white stripes


How Did This Packing Job Actually Work, In Situ?

Monday afternoon with Jane Potrykus of simple+pretty. I’m in the UNIQLO field jacket, and Dries. Too bad you can’t see the dress.


Wednesday night dinner with my cousins. In Max Mara peacoat, Loro Piana muffler, gray UNIQLO tee, black J. Crew pencil skirt, Valentino Tango pumps. Lace Wolford tights, because at 57 our ankles haven’t quite left the building.


Thursday morning in Kensington Palace Gardens. 15-year old leopard tee I bought at Galeries Lafayette in Paris, 3-year old GAP 1969 sexy boyfriend jeans, 18-year old Doc Martens, 4-year old sunglasses from Costco, Rolex Cellini. Note to self: Leopard+Docs=Yes.


Sunday in Oxford at Christ Church meadow. Max Mara peacoat, GAP 1969 sexy boyfriend jeans, Doc Martens, black J. Crew tee, and Bottega Veneta hobo in Blue. (In gray, here.)


Somewhere in Oxford. Purple heathered sweatshirt over a J. Crew striped vintage linen tee, Loro Piana muffler, GAP 1969 jeans, Birkenstock Arizonas.


What I Should Have Packed, In Retrospect

Looking back at these photos, I actually quite like the way I look. Verging on Artsy Cousin, with a touch of British grit. The thing is I didn’t feel stylish as I traveled, mostly I felt hot and pothered. Yes I mean pothered, it’s bothered squared.

My suitcase relied on layers, perfect for San Francisco, too much fussing for England’s changeable climate. Next time I’ll tend to my spirits as well as my look. What would my suitcase hold were I to do this again? This.

Untitled #190

And I’d still bring my earrings and a good collapsible umbrella, of course.

Note that I include Belstaff instead of Barbour. Why? Barbour feels country and suburb to me, I like Belstaff’s city edge, and besides, the conceptual oxymoron of a British motorcyle brand appeals. However, if the City Master Jacket is-  understandably – too pricey, there’s always our stalwart favorite, J. Crew’s Field Jacket, now in moss, navy, and black. And note that I wouldn’t take all 5 shoes, I’d choose between the black and the khaki booties.


Waterproof Jacket: Belstaff City Master (also comes in black) // Waterproof Shoes: Black Quilted Booties, Aquatalia (sold out) Khaki Booties, Aquatalia; Quilted Platform Sneaker, Aquatalia// Sandals: Birkenstock Arizonas in Copper// Pumps: Valentino Tangos // Large Nylon Tote: Tory Burch // Small Zip-Up Crossbody; Skagen // Jeans:  BoyfriendComfort, Dark Wash Straight Leg// Cotton Scarves: Blue, Block Shop; Pink, Jonathan Adler // Tees: Blue Leopard, Debenhams; Plain: J. Crew Vintage Cotton; Comme des Garçons Play: J. Crew Men //  Wowza Print Dress:  Mary Katrantozou of type on sale here, and here // Trusty Pencil Skirt: J. Crew // Lace Tights That Would Go With That Wowza Dress: Wolford

The trip, somewhat arduous in the taking, has survived brilliantly in memory. Almost as though I was simply gathering the experience like tufts of wool as we traveled, to be combed, spun, and enjoyed in full fluff when I got home.


Affiliate links may generate commissions. You can read the agenda of the trip I was packing for, and more on why I really needed that nylon tote and a small cross-body bag, instead of the Bottega Veneta, here.

All The Beds Of My Life, And Now For A Good One

Have we agreed yet that decorating a house is harder than decorating one’s corpus? “Corpus,” used in the sense of the original Latin here to mean physical body, the word more often refers to one’s literary body of work. But I digress. Nothing like word geekery to reestablish one’s sense of competence.

So I ordered a sample of this blue green rug, discussed more fully here, only to find that what appeared to be subtle striations were actual stripes. Too much noise underfoot for me. So back goes the sample, and we’re trying another. This one, from Garnet Hill.

Moroccan Rug Garnet Hill

Which also implies a return to my vision of rumpled blue linen sheets. With stripes,

Libeco Home Catalina Sheets

or without.


Maybe some vintage toile on a bench at the foot of the bed? I like the idea of old fabrics and textiles,but will need to start small to see how to use them.


But I digress again.

Which also brings us to the question of a bed to house said rumpled sheets. I had been thinking wood, because I have no imagination, but you all have sent me down the path of an upholstered piece and I don’t think I’m coming back. I’ve done the hard headboard thing to death. I bought my first bed to live alone in Manhattan, it was new brass, and always wiggled. When I was first married, we slept on a futon on the floor. Remember futons? Then we bought a melamine platform bed with a bookcase as headboard. How misguided is that? Trying to sit up and read with books behind your head?

When we remodeled, in 1992, I ordered a forged-iron canopy bed with blond wood headboard. It was beautiful. In place of a canopy I wrapped a maroon and fuchsia silk sari around the top bar at the foot of the bed, the ends hanging down part way on either side.

When we divorced, in 2006, I was doing a lot of business travel. I moved to an apartment so my ex-husband, who worked from home, could be there for our still-in-high-school son. I bought the Valencia Sleigh bed from Pottery Barn. Why, I cannot say. Perhaps for the same reason I got two moving violation tickets, painted one wall in the apartment red, and bought a sequined Brazilian bikini.

I also watched all 7 seasons of The Sopranos that summer. But never mind.

Now we need a new bed. A king-size bed. A comfortable one. And I want it upholstered. A reader suggested Restoration Hardware. who do show beautiful designs.

But ever since my experience with the memory foam topper, I’ve been suspicious of polyurethane foams. Not that I wouldn’t have been suspicious before, but I didn’t know they existed. And it turns out that Restoration Hardware uses these foams in their beds, so, out as a source.

Enter Room and Board.

Manufactured in the USA, which, while I do not have a nationalistic approach to manufacturing, does often imply higher quality control. And for their headboard stuffing? You have to ask a sales rep on a case by case basis, but for the most part they seem to use polyester batting. I’m torn between the Hoffman,

Hoffman Bed In Dwell Flax Linen

and this one. The Wyatt. Do they give beds boy names so that men won’t mind women making the choices?

Room and Board Wyatt Bed Desmond White

It’s a tradeoff. I prefer the legs on the Hoffman, but could do without those buttony tufty things. The Wyatt’s covered platform feels a tad corporate, although it’d be fun to put paid to dust bunnies under the bed, once and for all. I’d match the upholstery to either white walls or the grayish-brown rug, if everything goes according to plan.

Right about now, somebody’s thinking, “Well THAT looks boring!” And it doesn’t pop, anywhere. But remember I’ve got lots of gold-tone hardwood flooring, and floor to ceiling windows that look into a very green back yard. I will try, as always, to layer subtle, low-contrast patterns. And let us not forget my well-nigh gaudy pink and gold-flecked Murano glass turtledoves on the dresser. For a High WASP, that’s a vivid interior world indeed.

The Art Of Helping, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:33am

Night Bloomer II by Lily Stockman

Last night the Gallery had an opening. Among other artists, they featured Lily Stockman. Those are her flowers, above.

I would have loved to have attended. I own one of her paintings, Her Favorite Time Of Day, and I love it. But as it turned out, I have been struggling with fatigue, and couldn’t get myself out of the house last night. Why fatigue? The easy, fun answer is jet lag from the UK. The harder reason is that after I returned from overseas, I set off alone to Santa Barbara to see my mother.

Mom’s losing her memory. I drove there. Stayed 4 nights and then drove back, this time with Mom in the car. She stayed with my aunt for several days, and that same beloved aunt has now driven Mom back home, where my stepfather awaits.

Not my story to tell, all that, the details, but the resultant exhaustion has been nothing to scoff at.

So I couldn’t make it to the art exhibit. I felt bad, because I should have supported Lily, and like I’d missed something that would have fed my spirit, if I’d only had enough spirit to get out.

I also wanted to say that recently some of my younger friends have thanked me for my help, and I’ve been surprised. Two of them told me I’d mattered in the early days of their new babies, that somehow my presence or my words had made a difference.  You know how it is, when you are simply telling your true story, and it feels confessional, and heartening, to say it all, and then absolutely unpredictably it turns out to be helpful to someone else?

And then there was the thank you that put me in a magazine. A teeny me. If you read Redbook, open the September edition and look for the section where magazine staffers recognize their friends for style. Lauren Oster, the Senior Research Editor, included this photo, as a thumbnail, and thanked me for teaching her that being fabulous is a process. I am still surprised. That someone as brilliant as Lauren, and as creative, for she is both to the nth degree, felt I had anything to teach her.

Because I’ve never been teaching her, only relating.

So I suppose I wanted to say today, help someone. Even though you can’t always know when you’re helping. I have been the most useful when I am both truthful and focused on the person to whom I’m talking. And in those times when I have done that simple hard thing, like a long drive, physical or emotional. That which just needed doing.

Listen, tell the truth, amuse someone with stories of your own failings. Bring food, make the spreadsheet, drive.

But then you’re also going to have to make peace with the times when you can’t help. You’re not going to make it to the art opening, you won’t make dessert from scratch. You’ll get used up. So then you have to prioritize. Only one thing can come first. It was right that my daughter and my mother tired me out, albeit disappointing for paintings.

It’s just so hard to know. So hard to know when to push yourself and when to surrender, when to say yes and when to say no, when your reward will be your own pleasure and when it will be the also real and more flinty joy of doing something for another. How in all this we become and remain good people, I don’t know, but I am absolutely sure that we should all keep trying.

Have a wonderful weekend. See some art for me. Or for yourself. Or someone else.

A Fairly Brief But Happy Review Of The Shangri-La Hotel At The Shard, London


Americans thinking of a splurge stay in London might first focus on hotels of mahogany, brass, leather and old paint. Understandable. England does historic luxury pretty dang well. But in our recent travels my daughter and I stayed at the Shangri-La at the Shard, and there’s a good case to be made for skyscraper hospitality.

Even in the city of Today’s Most Famous Queen.

The Shangri-La’s got a nice intimate modern lobby. No milling throngs, as you might find at the Savoy, for example. Tourists visiting the top of the Shard for viewing use a separate entrance, which for whatever reason we never did. The clerk at the front desk will send you to the elevators, and you’ll check in on the 35th floor. The rooms are to be found on floors 35-52, we stayed on the 47th.


In many fancy hotel rooms, the first thing one does is pat the bed linens, or ooh and ah at furnishings and fixtures. Not here. You are going to want to take a picture.


From the Deluxe City View rooms, to which we were upgraded, here’s what you’ll see.


No I am not kidding. Looks like a Dutch painting, almost. And for some odd reason, not vertigo-producing, which as one not good with heights, I had feared.

We stayed at the Shangri-La because Significant Husband does significant business travel, which generates a lot of Shangri-La loyalty points. Thank you Significant Husband, I’d rather have you by my side than a view, but it does lessen the sting.


Eventually one’s thoughts will turn to sleep, especially in light of a 10-hour flight in Economy Plus. One will be not disappointed.  My daughter and I often share a bed when we travel, this one was big and fluffy. And yes, reaching out to hold her arm as I drift off is immeasurably sweet.

Do not worry that the view has disappeared with the sun. It’s still out there. The London Eye was blue that night.


The rest of the hotel is modern, but not coldly so, and luxe, but not too gaudy. I suppose I could do with less marble, but I suppose nobody is listening to me. (One note for the long of hair, watch out for the shower, the step-down is shallow and if the drains get slow water leaks onto the bathroom floor.)


Eventually you’ll leave your room. Yes that hallway is blurry in the photo. No in real life it’s not. And you’re going to want it to be navigable, because you should get the breakfast package and eat at Ting in the mornings. Wonderful waitstaff, brilliant service, and yes, a view, albeit south instead of north.


They put out the usual pastries, yogurt, and fruit for the buffet, as well as a hot breakfast that includes eggs and dim sum. The Shangri-La’s Asian heritage in evidence, as befits cosmopolitan London of 2014.


And nobody cast a disparaging eye at my purple sweatshirt, so, bonus points. Nor did they sigh when I ordered the 6th gallon of tea our first morning. The second day we showed up, they brought me a pot without being reminded. I loved that.


I also loved staying on the South Bank, amongst people going to work. For one thing, the Borough Market is right nearby for lunch as you return to the hotel after a morning’s sightseeing. This allows you to feel all frugal, kind of like a sale at Neiman Marcus but hey. Crossing London Bridge, which one does if one walks a lot, you enter the City of London, its financial center. Not picturesque, but there’s sufficient awesome and quaint to be found elsewhere in the city, and I enjoyed the more binary thrum of modern commerce.


Finally for those who cannot leave their room, entranced by the view as though it were Morgan le Fay, there’s fruit.


Which might not be your first priority, but is lovely when jet lag or strikes, or you just want to put some food in your mouth that nobody has sauced, fried, or seasoned. Even those of us who love luxury occasionally just want a simple green grape.

BTW, the rumored peeking into your neighbor’s room? Not apparent, I guess I’d have had to climb over the corner desk and plaster myself against the window with craned neck? It’s an absolutely lovely place, that became part of the fabric of our stay in the way that memorable hotels will.


A Phalanx Of Earrings To Rescue A Very, Very, Very Casual Wardrobe


Warning. This post has way too many pictures of my ears.

Remember how I thought retirement-wear meant hunting down fancy sweatpants? Hey, turned out to be a big trend, but not for me. I make my way through this new world in jeans and more jeans, in the company of their friends, tees and sweatshirts. All the while yearning for a little shine on the side.

Earrings to the rescue. To be specific, danglers. A trick I will forever credit to Alyson at That’s Not My Age. Thanks!

I’ve posted everything in my collection before (hence the large collection of auracular* images) but I thought it might be interesting to show them all together, with some similar options,  in case anyone else was as lazy but demanding as I.

For example, we shall not soon forget these Beladora chandeliers. (Although I have to move on quickly otherwise I’ll start thinking about this Chanel bracelet again and that way lies danger.)


Or these gold hoops, worn hereHandmade-Gold-Hoops

I’ve owned the antique Swedish danglers below for decades. That’s the best thing about being in my late 50′s. I can refer to “decades” in the plural. Sounds so authoritative.


These little turquoise guys are from Barneys, and still available, but I’m no longer recommending you run out and buy them since I lost one for the second time, in London. Boo. I know, I should have worn a plastic back as you advised but that lazy business got in my way.


How about some indie flowers?


Or optical quartz?


My collection works, for me, because:

  • All but the quartz are very lightweight. At 57, almost 58, heavy earrings are too hard on my poor flesh.
  • Color bases all checked, with neutrals – silver, black, gold – and turquoise, my talisman shade. And I can’t overemphasize the value of clear as a color.
  • All the earrings are just visible enough to elevate my jeans and tee, and none so visible as to overwhelm, or demand that I dress up
  • Shapes vary, from danglers, to drops, to full chandelier

Hang on a sec. My somewhat gaudy jewelery roll is demanding a glamor closeup. Well, after all it’s done for me, OK then. Turn and turn about.


And here are a few options you might like, these available from online jewelry merchant, Max & Chloe. Dangle on my wayward friends. And that just might be the perfect song for a raucous Tuesday staff meeting, if you’ve got one on the agenda.

*Made-up word meaning prophetically ear-related, see, lazy:).

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Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, Or, Saturday Morning at 7:42am

Do you ever get an uncontrollable urge to contradict popular memes? If only for the sake of argument? While I have vowed never to become she who grumbles that society is going to hell in a handbasket, one who finds fault daily with the points of modern thought, I give up when it comes to overly popular concepts. I mutter, under my breath, as the media rehashes ideas.

Oh what the heck. Let’s mutter out loud.

For example, anyone else tired of the French? Not as actual humans, they’re lovely, as is their architecture and embroidery. But as benchmarks for skills of all sorts? It was probably The French Make Better Parents Than You that put me over the edge. I worked as a camp counselor in France for two months, when I was 18, and I lived the good and not so good of that country’s child-rearing ways.

I scarcely dare mention French style.

Yeah, yeah, I get it, Parisians are less prone to totally dowdy outfits than, let’s say, tourists in Santa Barbara. But that’s an imprecise comparison and lack of precision always renders me both ornery and logical. We need a tighter analysis.

If Paris has 2.2 million people, we might reasonably compare Parisiens to the most stylish 2/3 of Los Angeles’ 3.8 population, relying on the political gerrymander to choose whichever cluster of zipcodes gives us the best result. Where’s the book on Pacific Palisades Style, we wonder?

Or take Houston. A city of 2.1 million, it matches up quite well to Paris. Houstonians do a bang-up job of raising their children. They’ve also got amazing food, by the way. Who will write that manifesto?

OK. We’ll leave the French alone. And wave to Tish Jett’s book, as we go, which is lovely.

Can we move on to the much-celebrated introvert? The book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, markets the introvert’s case well. We know that Them What Invents The Language Own The Discourse, a fact that makes the logical almost as ornery as any afore-mentioned imprecise comparisons.

The logical find themselves parsing out statements. For example,  what if we actually had a world that DID stop talking? Without extroverts, who will run the meetings? I mean, nobody’s going to write a book entitled “Loud: The Power of Extroverts” and think it a good thing. But have some compassion. It’s not easy to be the one compelled to present, the one who glad hands, the one who stands up.

In the end, I have nothing against either the French, or introverts. I understand that the French have become a symbol of graceful restraint, in both aesthetics and mores. (Except the male politicians and their behavior towards women, of course, but we so need the idea of French that we ignore that cognitive dissonance.) I also understand that introverts have suffered through How To Make Friends And Influence People for decades, and are now having their moment in a time characterized by the irritating talk of millions.

It’s the principle of the argument. Let’s honor the human capacity to reason.

Were I the marketing sort, I’d start a new meme, In Praise Of The Logical, arguing for more rigor all around. Ah, but if it took off I’d probably find myself taking the contrary stance and arguing the case for pure sentiment.

So in that vein, my friends, have a wonderful weekend. Or feel free to share any contrarian urges here, you’re amongst friends.


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