My short attention span

So I’m already bored with the fish n chips idea. There I said it.

We went to yet another delicious Seattle fish n chips outpost last weekend: Lockspot Cafe. This time at the foot of the Ballard Locks.



It was all good things fish n chips should be. Fried, crispy, hot, and served with a heaping mound of fries. Service was genuinely friendly. Go Figure. Lockspot was quite reminiscent of many a NW beach town pubs. Lots of wood décor, a ship’s wheel hung on the wall, a pirate like statue complete with eye patch, good food for cheap with strong well drinks.


And they had these huge antlers that everyone took pictures under. So we did too. Because what the hell else is there to do when its 38 with spitting rain outside? What’d you say? Go skiing. That’s crazy talk. That would require gear.


So, all in all, thumbs up on Lockspot. Go there, especially as a combo effort with an afternoon watching the Salmon race through the locks or after a leisurely walk through Golden Gardens- just down the road (not really gardens at all but a So Cal-like beach with a state of the art playground).
But see I’ve already decided that we will indeed find many, many good options here in Seattle for this beloved comfort food. So the idea of ranking fish n chips features on a 1-5 scale is rather, well, boring. I’m not a food critic nor am I some veteran fry cook. This all feels too market research-y for me. I’ll leave that good work up to my friend, Michael.

Let me stick to what I know.

The cursor is blinking at me.


I guess I am officially not an expert at anything.

OK, here’s your chance. All of my tens of twenties of followers.

I know you’re reading. Now you have to actually COMMENT. Become part of the 20%.

What do you want me to wax poetic about next?

And don’t say the weather. We know where I stand with that.


PS: This was the after effect of yet another Sunday of eating fish n chips.


See, we have to stop. Really.


Fish n chips. Let the games begin.

In the spirit of making the best of our 7 months of 45 degree gray, wet weather (i have no strong feelings about the weather in the NW), we’ve decided to eat our way through Seattle’s best fish n chips joints. We’re taste testing what could be the city’s most iconic food somewhere new each week and reporting out to you. It’s like Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives but replace the convertible and bleached hair with an SUV and parka. The criteria we’ve decided to use is as follows, with a scale of 1 to 5 (5 being amazing, perfect, would buy stock in the place):

  1. Taste  & quality of fish
  2. Breading/Batter
  3. Taste & quality of sides (fries, cole slaw, tartar sauce, etc.)
  4. Ambiance of restaurant
  5. Value (portion and quality vs. price)

Our first stop was in West Seattle at this place:


Seattle Fish Co. got 4 out of 5 stars on Yelp so a good place to kick things off.

1. Taste & quality of fish: 4 out of 5. Good, fresh fish and lots of options including Cod, Halibut (my fav) and even Salmon. In fact, the restaurant is really more of a fish store than anything else. Fish n Chips is a side gig for them. So you’ll see that reflected in their ambiance score but quality of fish was very high.


2. Breading/Batter: 3 out of 5. We both liked it. Was crunchy and not too heavy or greasy. A classic traditional breading. No beer batter here.


3. Sides: 1 out of 5. Fries were undercooked and not well seasoned/salted and coleslaw was bland. Nothing remarkable. Clearly the attention went into the fish, as it probably should.


4. Ambiance: 3 out of 5. Like mentioned above, this was 1/3 restaurant and 2/3 fish shop. Likely most of their business comes from people in the neighborhood swinging by to pick up some fresh fish to grill tonight at home. So the atmosphere wasn’t exactly warm and homey. In fact, it was literally not very warm inside. I didn’t take my coat off. However, I don’t remove my layer of down until its over 75- so probably not the best litmus test.

That being said, the service was surprisingly good. Even though you walked up to the counter to order, they still had waitresses checking on you at your table, bringing you additional tartar sauce and refilling waters. If you’ve read my blog in the past, you’ll know I have less than a stellar impression of customer service in Seattle or overall friendliness of anyone in this city- so when people are smiling and checking on you, its noticeable and very welcomed.


5. Value: 4 out of 5. Prices were killer. $9 for cod or salmon, fries and slaw or $11 for halibut. I’ve been to many o restaurants where halibut fish n chips is over $18. The pieces were large, good quality meat (no squiggly bits or dark parts). The three of us ate and drank and even tipped for under $40.


Seattle Fish Co. is a great place for lunch or a no-nonsense quality basket of fish n chips. I’d give it a solid 3. Not a date night destination, but I’d bring my Dad here on a rainy Sunday afternoon anytime.

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New Year’s Day in the Sun

It’s beautiful here. Really. Florida is striking.

It’s not beautiful everywhere in Florida though. I thought it would be. Having been to the typical places as a kid….Disneyworld, South Beach…you think the entire state is turquoise water, rainbow sherbet hotels, girls on roller skates that have bodies that don’t quit, Cuban restaurants on every corner, and palm trees. Everywhere.


Oh, and seashell decorated Christmas trees on the beach. Why not.


Well, there are those things here. But, having traveled down annually since my in-laws retired just outside of Tampa seven years ago, there are a lot of other things the state has to offer too. Like dry, brown swamp land. The number of outdoor boards here for ‘fixing your sink hole’ are only second to the ‘beautiful solid oak caskets.’ Trees that once were green billowy but now haven’t seen rain in months and are brittle and stick like, as if a fire has gobbled up everything else and left them as mere Halloween decorations. CVS and Rite Aids on every other corner. Paradise really.

I’ve also learned that much of Florida is rural countryside. But different from the rolling vineyards or green cow pastures you’d see in the Northwest or the agricultural land with rows of artichokes or garlic crops in California. It’s rural as in mobile homes, broken down pickup trucks and dollar stores. You see, Florida is this fantastic meshing of two very disparate worlds: the retired and the locals.

In every city I’ve lived, you see a bit of this. Those that are born and bred, who still live in the same zip code their parents do and whose kids probably have the same 2nd grade teacher they did. Then those that willingly moved to the city for a job or school or for the lifestyle. So that exists in lots of places. The difference is more marked here though. Partly because the socio-economic AND age gaps between the two groups is much wider.

So the resulting culture is actually really fun. It’s unbelievable people watching. On any given beach, like where we sit today, Pine Island, you literally have this melting pot of all walks of life. You’ve got the retirees, golden skinned, pot-bellied and speaking with accents straight from the Jersey shore. I even saw one at Willy’s Grill, the snack shack on the beach, rolling in a tropical patterned Rascal. For those that aren’t aware, a Rascal is a brand name for a “mobility scooter.” So this lady had custom cushions, basket liner, and handbag made all of the same floral pattern for her Rascal. I guess if you’re going to call it quits on walking, might as well ride in style. So many good pictures I should have taken.

But then there’s the locals. They’ve got cut off jean shorts, they’re fishing right next to a toddler looking for shells- which hardly seems dangerous at all. They’ve got a cigarette hanging out of their mouth and Stairway to Heaven blasting from their radio/cooler.

It’s awesome.

So all this said, the coolest part is that my in-laws have nothing to do with any of this. They aren’t overly tanned, sedentary Northeasterners who’ve traded snow for sun but still complain about how they don’t have good bagels in Florida. And they certainly don’t consider themselves locals. No Harley Davidsons parked in the Jensen driveway and no, they’re not familiar with Honey Boo Boo. Somehow, as they always do, they’ve transcended the clichés and paved their own path. I swear it’s the European in them. Even though they haven’t resided in Germany in 50+ years, they still eat open-faced sandwiches for dinner, walk every morning and turn the TV off at mealtime.


They love Florida because it’s warm and sunny. They’ve found good, solid friendships with other German/ New York transplants and they ignore the fray and savor every day. They are living the American dream. Truly. And while I know Roy and I stick out down here like a sore thumb, I couldn’t be happier that they’ve made a life in Florida. It’s what retirement is supposed to look like. Pastel colors, watching golfers from the lanai, drinks at 4:00 and taking a siesta in the glow of the afternoon sun.

Rednecks and Jersey girls and Bermuda shorts and bad drivers aside, Florida is a piece of paradise. And right now, on Pine Island, I feel it. I know in 48 hours, I’ll be back in boots, wool and gloves. I raise a glass to the sunshine state and say see you in 30 years. We’ll be back, cutoffs and all.


Birthday Gratitude

I really am the worst blogger of all time and space. I mean two months between posts. Really? I am thoroughly disgusted with my lack of commitment to this medium. But, hey, points for showing up even with tail between my legs. And it’s my birthday, so you can’t be too mad at me.

 As we all know, as we age, birthdays take on different shapes and meanings. Less silly string in the backyard and more bottles of wine. I feel like some people start to really give up. Which makes me a little sad. Don’t make a big deal out of it. Don’t do anything special. It’s just another day. Sad. Whether it’s displeasure with turning yet another year older or a refocusing on kids, I don’t know, but I still LOVE my birthday. I really do and I always will. It’s better than any single other holiday. Come on, it’s all about you.

No other day do you get showered with so many cards, calls and texts all from people around the country thinking about you. And now with Facebook reminding your entire social graph of your big day, you also get lavished with post after post from people who you never see and rarely hear from, but you know they’re out there thinking about you today. I heard from grad school classmates, our mortgage broker, my girlfriend in London, and even a long lost coworker from my very first job out of college. I’m reminded of how truly small the world is.  I just love it.

This weekend I felt very lucky. A lucky girl I am indeed. Here’s how it went down…


Had neighbors over for dinner. Roy made a delicious dinner of braised short ribs in a coffee chili sauce with parsnip/sweet potato mash. They brought wine. Good wine. They like wine. So we like them. But seriously, we haven’t had the easiest time breaking through the Seattle freeze. Meeting friends here has been harder than I expected, so finding neighbors who we just might have something in common with is pretty cool. So you’re saying there’s a chance?!


Roy planned an evening out for the two of us. We went to SAM (Seattle Art Museum) which has been on my list for two years. The exhibit, all about women artists, was a bit dower and dare I say too feministy for our taste (naked woman hula hooping barbed wire). Yep. But hey, it was kind of fun to both look at each other and in that ‘we’ve been together for nine years way,’ and say, let’s go. So then we went to Zig Zag underneath Pike Place Market for a Whiskey cocktail followed by dinner at Café Campagne and shared a lovely French meal over a bottle of Pinot. I liked that it wasn’t the newest, trendiest place in town. It was a classic and one that we hadn’t been to yet. Even though we live 28 blocks from the market, we rarely go down there. So it’s so nice to be a little tourist in your own town.


My actual birthday. Today. Was. Lovely. I got to sleep in. Enough said. Roy also bought me a happy light for my office and a large poster of a tropical island. You think he knows me? Armed with these two weapons, I’ll totally ignore the 45 degree rain that will bury us until July. Etta made me a sequined birthday girl shirt and a cake. That tasted terrible. We are a family that finds lots of time to cook and imbibe, not so much on baking. Then I got to go to a special yoga class with a live guitarist at my favorite studio, just down in Leschi, Sol. And now, as we close out the weekend, Etta is in bed and I’m unwinding on the couch as Roy reads yet another book about building a sailboat. And I get to digest it all. Ending with a glass of Cava, some stinky cheese and Etta James on the speakers. My favorites.

Sometimes I forget how good things can be. Today I was reminded.


Are we dumber or just exhausted?

I’m sitting here listening to Etta yell “unicornio” into the television. Dora. I’m not exactly sure if unicornio is real Spanish but I am pretty impressed at her early adoption of a second language. Driven purely from exposure to Nick Jr. and my repetition of  counting stairs in Spanish and saying Donde esta blank. If only our minds could absorb at the pace a toddler’s mind. And now I will officially begin waxing poetic…

Last night Roy, Etta and I took a tour around Lake Union on one of Roy’s wooden sail boats. We watched the sunset and waved a sad farewell to summer then followed with dinner at one of many newly minted restaurants adjacent to the Amazon campus, called Sal’s American Kitchen. While out, we often make 3-4 minute attempts at having the kinds of conversations we used to have before we had a child. Last night we talked about the seemingly universal ADD we all have due to tech overload. No more boundaries about when and where you’re working or playing,. You just are. Always. And you hate yourself for it, but you find it virtually impossible to just turn off. So it begs the question, would we be smarter if we weren’t obsessively glued to our tech. Are smart phones making us dumber? I’m sure I stole that line from someone somewhere.

Do toddlers actually have different brains than adults do or do they just pay more attention? Focused attention. I’m sure some neuroscientist physicist scholar has already figured all of this out. Good thing I stopped by subscription to HBR. I am just in awe of, well, many things about Etta. Her ability to not hear me ask her to get dressed 5 times in a row, her interest in nature and massive collections of sticks she’s collected from our neighborhood, and her quick of absorption of all new things. Like tonight, I taught her a new word. Cheetos.

I just pray that as sharp as her brain is, I can soon break her will. That girl is tougher now than any other time in her 3 years on this planet, short of those first few months of total unpredictability the summer she was born. It’s trying being a parent. No doubt. Maybe we need all of our tablets and phones and social networks to distract us from the truth. The reality that this is, by far, the hardest job on the planet.

Wish me luck.


So last weekend we drove down to Portland for an annual family picnic, among multiple other excursions. We always pack a lot in when we go home. Lots of people to see and things to do makes for an exhausting weekend for Roy and an exhilarating one for me. Roy lived in Portland for over ten years but I was born there and lived more than half my life there. So it’s his sort-of home, second to NY, but it’s true home for me. Either way you slice it, we both have a huge heart for that city.

I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with Portland on a beautiful July day? Especially when all boys are required to wear short-sleeved plaid shirts.

Roy always describes it as your favorite pair of old jeans. They just slide on, button effortlessly, and always feel great. Portland is such an easy place to be. It’s not the intensity and concrete jungle of an LA or NY. It’s also not so remote and small that you’re forced to do all your back to school shopping at Wal-Mart. It’s one of those beautifully sized middle cities. Like an Austin or Denver or Madison. Just the perfect size. It’s the Tall if the world came in Starbucks sizes.

Part of the advantage of not being massive is that it’s very approachable. Parking is relatively easy, even downtown or in the Pearl. You can get from the eastern suburbs to the western suburbs in under a half hour and I don’t need any type of GPS. My brain is GPS in Portland. I credit much of that to my Father who has an unreal sense of direction. In Portland, I can always find my way. Getting lost, when it happens, is simply a game of creative navigation. And as I always tell people not from there, if you know where you are in relation to Burnside and the Willamette River, you’re golden.

But there is so much more.

Has anyone picked up the New York Times or Gourmet or read a single food blog in the past ten years? Portland is the poster child for locavore. There are as many amazing restaurants per capita there as there are parks. And with cost of living just a notch lower than the other major west coast cities and no sales tax, you can eat salt cod fritters, homemade meatballs, aviation gin cocktails and marion berry cobbler for two, for under $100. It’s just a beautiful thing. Don’t even get me started on the plethora of food carts in every east side neighborhood. Grilled cheese school bus? So easy to eat really well there. And have fun doing it.

That’s the thing. In Portland, you can NOT make a lot of money and live a pretty great life. People actually still get by on one teacher’s salary in Portland. Really. Between good cheap eats, reasonable housing prices, tons of free outdoor activities (e.g. hiking Forest Park or cycling the Spring Water Trail), and the total acceptance and actually coveting of repurposing and reusing things- it’s a little bit utopia for the middle class.

So. Why don’t we still live there? Well, I’m not sure some days. But in all reality, I’ve learned that sometimes I have to get out to grow up. So we’ll see.

I must admit the pull of running into someone you know within 24 hours of crossing the Oregon border is quite alluring. It’s really nice to be known. To be in your backyard. To be so proud of where you come from.

If you haven’t been there. Go. Just know it’ll be hard to leave.


First of all, I’ve realized I’m a terrible blogger. I know all the rules of how to get your social media socialized and I’m following none of them. So for the tens of twenties of you still following my blog, thanks for hangin on while I struggle to post even once a month. Ugh. Must get better at this.

So I’m back on the horse. Promise.

I’ve also become keenly aware that the content I write about is not as much about packaging things beautifully (AKA in French), as I had originally intended. In fact, it’s more about how I feel about the weather. My husband has commented that the only thing I post about on Facebook with any tinge of emotion is the rain or the sun. Kind of pathetic considering 70% of my posts are about Etta. Not sure how that bodes for my chances as Mother of the year.

Until we moved to Seattle, I truly didn’t realize what a chord it struck with me. And I find this very odd because it’s not as if the weather in Seattle is terribly different than Portland. The town I spent over half of my childhood in. Why now? Why have I suddenly come to realize the profound effect it has on me? Maybe some strange cocktail of starting over in a new place combined with coming into what many have referred to as the good years. I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t say things get so much better in your 30s. Meaning you stop apologizing for not being like everyone else and start just living. I feel like maybe this is me settling into who I am. It’s like I was born into some Native American tribe in the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico and switched at birth with hippie parents in Portland. A piece has been missing ever since. It’s called the sun.

Today is one of those Seattle days where you just revel in it. It’s a touch over 80 degrees, light breeze, clear blue skies as far as you can see. Daughter and husband are napping and I get to sit on the back porch with a glass of bubbly and just be. Well until our neighbors start tokin it up and the air of weed makes its way into our backyard. That’s how we know we’re living somewhere between Portland and Capitol Hill.

As much as I distress over the month after month of gray here and never-ending days of 55, when it’s sunny in the NW, it’s remarkable. It’s really glorious. All that rain and those days of moderate temperatures create a green house of sorts. Everything grows here. Everything. So when the sun shines, it’s like a spotlight on all that’s been hunkered down for months. It’s like every tree and flower lift up and raise their petals and branches to the sky and smile. Every tree is emerald, every marigold is neon orange. You can see the yellow stripes on the bumble bees hovering around the lavender on our front steps. It’s just vibrant. The kind of place that inspires art. If Nirvana = January here, Jack Johnson = July.

If only this happened more often.

But then, many would say, you wouldn’t appreciate it.

Roy and I passed a billboard for Honest Tea on the way home from a birthday party today and he was commenting about how as much as he liked all these new organic blah blah tea options, he still held true to the original Snapple Iced Tea. It’s what he grew up with. From New York. Are you surprised? That lead to a discussion of how iced tea was only sipped on in the summer in his house, just as my Grandma Cherie used to only bake apples in the winter. We both loved this idea of certain things at certain times. If you drink Snapple and eat buttery, sugary warm apples year round- what is there to look forward to? That could be a motto for life, I suppose.

So it’s not to say that seasonality or anticipation of the flipping to the next month on the wall calendar (if those still exist) isn’t rewarding and part of how memories are made, it’s just that I want it always to be August. In fact I tried to convince my parents that we should celebrate my half birthday. My real birthday is in November, which I always thought blew. They wouldn’t go for it. I also tried to change my name to Kate in the 4th grade. I’m much more Kate Winslet than I am Jessica Simpson. Wouldn’t you agree?

So here it is. My perfect year if I were in charge:

  • April-May: 60-65 degrees, flowers popping, days getting longer, rains 2 days/week (at night)
  • June-Aug: 75-80 degrees, fresh berries, flip flops, tank tops, eating outside every dinner
  • Sep-Oct: Leaves are glowing red, orange and yellow, remembering a jacket sometimes, getting to dress my kid in a Halloween costume that shows
  • Nov-Dec: Holiday parties, lots of cute boot + skirt outfits, scarves (silk not wool), and eating Roy’s pumpkin ravioli
  • Jan-March: cancelled


The Creamsicle

So we went for a bike ride today on the Burke-Gilman trail to Gas Works Park and back. So we can check that one off the Seattle bucket list. The trail was great, except for this oddity we discovered:

Yep, you read it right. In between the lavender bushes & UW science building is the one and only Wall of Death. Roy’s reaction was classic: “So that’s where it is.”

As always, I digress.

All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed a Sunday of carefree frolicking in the sun winding our way through the U district, Wallingford and over to one of the best views in the city. Gas Works gives you literally a 180 from Capitol Hill to Queen Anne. Breathtaking on a clear day.

But what this post is about is not the trail or the sun but riding a bike. Actually, my ridiculous love for riding my bike. So, can we just talk for a second about how good it feels to ride a bike? I mean, it’s a drug. Really, it is. Ranks easily in my top 3 things to do of all time. Especially when it’s 78 degrees and blue sky for miles. You are at the perfect pace. So you can make great time. Way faster than walking or even running. Which I love. You can cover 5, 10, even 15 miles pretty comfortably, without being in amazing shape. BUT you also are slowed down vs. a car’s speed AND physically outside, without distraction of NPR or Nikki Minaj or your phone- yep I said it. I still use my cellular device in the car most of the time. That’s a different kind of drug.

So this perfect combination on your bike allows you to smell the lilacs and notice the varying architecture of Montlake to Madrona. You get to wave to people and why? Because you can and you’re happy. Riding my bike is a beautiful, freeing, just love. It’s just love.

Now, I’m still in a little bit of denial though. And this is because of that glow referenced earlier. Seattle is not the same town to ride a bike in as Portland or let alone, Santa Monica. Seattle is not a flat town, by any stretch of the imagination. From reports I’ve read, it is the hilliest town in the US, only second to San Francisco. There are virtually no neighborhoods on the city or east side that are not steeped in hills. Upside: Killer views. Downside: Brutal to ride an Electra Townie.

You might ask, if you haven’t spent much time in Venice Beach, what a Townie is. Pretty much the best bike I’ve ever owned. 7 gear beach cruiser. Mine happens to come in bright orange with a white seat and basket. I refer to it as the creamsicle. It’s another thing that just make me happy. So the Townie worked perfect, of course, on the strands of Santa Monica. And it worked 95% of the time in relatively flat and über bike-friendly Portland. But in Seattle, I look like a freak. Roy and I are the ONLY ones not in spandex here. We are the only ones not in a tri-club on a thin as a dime road bike. We have no logos pasted on our backs. So it’s actually relatively comical. We are wooshed by on our left by “cyclists” and they are true cyclists at like 5x our speed. Body fat is under 10% people. These guys aren’t messing around. Here we are pushing, pushing up a very mild hill in a bike that, while it has 7 gears, was never intended for leaning forward or standing up on. Because it’s a beach cruiser not a forest cruiser.

But I don’t care. I will still ride. I love it so much. It’s one of the few things in life that I can still do with Etta, doesn’t involve alcohol of any sort, is free, and makes me just beam. And there is no question in my mind that I will keep the Townie. The forever imprinted mantra from my parents’ silver VW bumper sticker that read “Question Authority” incites (to Roy’s chagrin) a bit of a rebellious streak in me. Oh, you think this is the wrong bike for this town, for these hills- hmmm…then I’ll just keep riding even longer. How you like me now? I’m on a bright orange bike with a bell on it. Yep a bell. And you know what that says- happy. Not practical, not competitive, not killin 800 calories-  just happy.

Days like today are healing. Truly, truly medicine for the sun-deprived. Today, I heart Seattle. Hills and all.

When you have time

We’re in Maui this week. Family vacation with Oma & Opa. Weather is a perfect 82, blue water outside the room, and an entire week to unplug. When we have this kind of time, it’s funny how quickly we grow tired of the five books we brought for Etta. So we venture into town to Barnes & Noble to pick up a few new ones. BTW, it’s always so strange to go to a “normal” store when on vacation in a completely not normal setting (i.e. tropical island). It’s such a reminder that the world is small and so connected now. Wherever you roam, within reason, you can still find a copy of Hunger Games or a Rachel Ray cookbook.

I digress.

So we buy a classic: The Little Engine that Could. One I know my parents read to me. Lesson = Perseverance pays off. Don’t know how much schooling Etta needs in that arena though. The girl has stamina and the ability to persist in the face of opposition like no other two-year-old I’ve known. She’s already on track to be a car salesman or a litigator.

We also buy a book called Fancy Nancy. Apparently there is a Fancy Nancy series, but we’re just discovering this world now.  Fancy Nancy, I’ve learned, is the children’s version of this blog. It’s the exact same sentiment. She literally writes “I like to write my name with a pen that has a plume. That’s a fancy way of saying feather. And I can’t wait to learn French because everything in French sounds fancy.”

I didn’t make this up.

I’ve officially become some odd sort of evangelist for all things French. I even serendipitously am purchasing books about it for my daughter. Let me remind you, I have NO connection to anything French other than the two years of language I took in high school (just so I could change my name to Joelle), the two weeks I spent stranded in Paris in 2010 during the Icelandic Volcano incident (yes I said stranded, stop laughing), and my love for French 75s (well pretty much anything with champagne in it). Otherwise nothing.

But it’s true. Saying things in French just sounds sweeter. Fancier. Packaging and naming and positioning things in a pretty/extra special way makes everything brighter and happier and more lovely.

You see it here in Hawaii too. You pay $14 for a mango martini. It’s mango puree and vodka with a pineapple on the rim. But you’re in Hawaii and the sun is setting and you just feel like being a little fancier. And who cares if it’s 50% more than you’d pay at home.

I guess I should stop being surprised and embrace it. Sometimes, you pay for form not just function. And there’s nothing wrong with it. We aren’t robots who make decisions solely based on a cost benefit analysis. We’re human. And people like beautiful things.

I know I do. And apparently so does Nancy, whose favorite color is fuchsia the fancy way of saying purple.


AMC’s season debut of “Mad Men” on Sunday night was the series’ most-watched episode—attracting an estimated 3.5 million viewers. Only they could get away with a year plus hiatus and do that. The day after buzz was heavily focused on one steamy scene with a performance by Don’s wife, Megan, during his surprise 40th birthday. The little ditty was the 1961 Gillian Hills song, “Zou Bisou Bisou.” It became an instant hit on Twitter and is now available on iTunes. Boom. That’s the power of Mad Men AND all things French.

So I told you I’d explain the blog’s moniker at some point. You say ANYTHING in French and it’s instantly cooler, sexier, and provacative- as Will Ferrell would say.

Mad Men proved it but I said it first. 🙂

I hear they have a Microsoft office in Paris.