When I was 13, my breasts popped up overnight, with the surprising jolt of a jack-in-the-box or dual airbags. They were greeted with a heady mixture of fear,
The 1940s and Depression-era girl reporter embodies everything I could ever want to be. The very quintessence of dame-ness, she’s smart, savvy, confident, independent, and quick with the comeback.
Lately I’ve been having all kinds of epiphanies up in here. Not “meaning of life” stuff, but staggeringly obvious insights that mostly annoy me with their tardy blatant-ness. Some
I have long been powerless against the cherry. Not the kind you eat, the kind you wear. For reasons not entirely clear to me, from time to time clothing
(Update to this post: Here is the finished result; I call our new-ish apartment “Anything Gauche”.) I avoided all sorts of grown-up stickywickets for so long, I guess it
When I was a girl I loved to get those little booklets they sold by the cash register at the supermarket. I’d read and re-read all the “1,000 Baby
I’m obsessed. I’ve long loved decorating and thinking about decorating, but now that my new husby and I are getting an apartment together, I have an opportunity to actually