For Fog's Sake!
I'm so sick of hearing about San Francisco's wintry summers. I'm so sick of feeling them. I trek downtown each day, then float a few dozen stories up into the sky where I watch the dull gray tendrils lap lackadaisically against the other skyscrapers in the fleeting pauses of my work, watch it all come lumbering over the gentle slopes of Nob and Russian Hills and swirl and settle quietly in the tides of the bay. In the dead center of July.
The tomboy gets into her little car, ambles down the freeway into Silicon Valley, and bemoans having left the house in a blazer because it's 20 degrees warmer there, and the sun is shining, and you can't see a lick of fog anywhere, not even if you squint as hard as you can and picture me pouting mightily from where I sit.
Today, I had to wear this shirt with a cardigan and a brocade coat with a vintage fur collar. It was very dreadful.
I remember when I told loved ones I was planning to vacation in New Orleans in the dead center of July eight or more years ago. They thought I was out of my fucking mind. They were very wrong. I loved the heat, I was delighted that my ice cream melted faster than I could eat it at 10AM, giddy about the thunderstorms that swept briefly in to curse you and left just as quickly (and the river frothing), I couldn't wait until it cooled down in the wee hours of the morning (and even then only by a few scarcely detectable degrees), when it was safe to sit outside with your beignets and Au Laits at Cafe Du Monde before stumbling back to the hotel.
That's a goddamn summer. Don't even get me started on summers in Barcelona.
Tomboy: Seven jeans, Vox shoes, Volcom shirt, Banana Republic blazer, H&M tie. Bulleit bourbon, of course. Femme: Skirt from the Painted Bird, suspenders from Buffalo Exchange (and made in Germany, of all places), boots by Bandolino, Truly Madly Deeply v-neck. Leggings from The Rack.
Today I scored an amazing vest of House of Hengst. Prepare yourselves!