In which I remember Quora exists, dive into its question-and-answer depths, and come up with some much needed inspiration.
“Not to sound mystical but little of lasting importance is especially clear. Only details are clear, and they come and go.” Beyond thrilled to share this interview with my favorite food writer, Mark Bittman, who not only has a knack for making the most unappealing veggies seem delicious, but does not mince words or honesty when reflecting on his “twenties” and life at large.
The Sephora perfume shelves have beckoned to hordes of young girls since my own middle school days, when ones choice of perfume began to connote something more than just simply what they reeked of. My friends and I spent ample time spraying ourselves with various scents and hoarding perfume tester strips that would build up at the bottom of our purses. A detritus of aspiration, if you will—for the seemingly glamorous womanhood that was just out of our grasp.
Inspired by the brilliant Meh List published every week in The Sunday Magazine of The New York Times, I thought I’d start crafting my own, in a similar spirit to my Dear Diary posts.
Hedi Slimane’s collections for Saint Laurent continue to convince me that he is perpetually stuck inside the mind of a fourteen-year-old girl longing to be Kate Moss, and his most recent for Fall/Winter 2014 was no exception.
Amidst the non-stop tears that came with saying goodbye to my childhood pet, I was reminded that there’s serious relief in unabashedly letting it out, and that–despite evidence to the contrary–the little girl I once was is still here.
Welcome back to THE WEEKEND GRAB BAG, also known as the loudest detritus left over in my noggin after a weeks worth of the usual cultural-social-life bombardment. Today I’m dabbling in haircuts, stepping up my getting-weird-with-beauty game, societal critiques of relationship age gaps, “cougars,” my love/hate relationship with film, and of course, The Oscars.
Celebrity gossip rags aren’t ALL bad, because, sometimes, it’s nice to pretend that the world’s axis revolves around who wore a Cynthia Rowley sheath better, or the natural birth preferences of whichever faux-hippie baby mama is most popular today.
Growing up ‘girl’ is not all tea parties and lavender scented day-of-the-week panties. It isn’t easy, or subtle, or clean—it isn’t in the realm of femininity in which we’ve been taught to remain. Though a new photography exhibit claims to be ‘disrupting’ these preconceived notions, I argue that it’s just caving to a similar strain.