What I wore for yesterday's meetings in the city: gold heels (and Sorel Slimpack boots for the ten-foot journey from my front door to my car, which is really pretty intense), glasses, and the best sweater in the universe, which is so huge and slouchy that it basically feels like wearing a rug. Which is exactly what I like sweaters to feel like.

It's Express from years ago, but I haven't worn it in ages and ages; I figured I'd lost it, but when I was at my mom's house the other day I discovered it in a drawer, and it has now returned to Favorite Status. I love it when that happens; it's like shopping for free.

Some lovely oversized sweater options for you:

I stayed in the city with my son and dogs last night to attend a ShopStyle dinner at Toro (tapas, yum yum yum), and was super excited to find street parking near my parents' place, which meant that I got to skip handing over the truly unconscionable amount of money that New York City parking garages demand in order to keep your car overnight.

It also, however, meant that I got to spend the early-morning hours digging my car out of a two-foot snowdrift using only an umbrella (because Kendrick unwittingly made off with my scraper-thing), and then basically forded a slush-river to deposit three creatures - all of which were extremely unhappy about the whole situation - into carseats and the trunk, respectively. And then I forded more rivers to go grocery shopping, just to keep myself on my toes.

Anyway, it was horrible and kind of amazing, in that I felt like an umbrella-wielding SUPERHERO.

When I was about nine years old, my parents started toying with the idea of moving to San Francisco, and we flew out for a few days to look at houses. I remember this trip so vividly, mostly because for a city girl growing up in a smallish apartment, the idea of a for-real house was almost too exciting to handle. I remember seeing a house with a looping driveway bordered by weeping willows; another one with a huge, wide-open field out back and an exercise pool on the deck; a third one with a Spanish-style roof and a big staircase with a railing perfect for sliding down.

And then my parents - probably worried that I wouldn't want to leave my school and my friends - said, "If we move to San Francisco you can have a golden retriever puppy."

My bags were practically packed.