Alright, Francesca. Hand over the shoes.

...Anytime. Really.

When you have a friend who is Italian and is always running off to Italy to see her Italian relatives, you get to hear stories like this: "So I found these gorgeous Prada platforms that I really liked but they were a fortune, and then I was in this little boutique in Italy and stumbled across a man forging handmade shoes from ancient wooden shipwrecks and linen woven by nuns, and he made me a pair exactly like the Prada ones I'd been wanting except they cost three dollars, and then he fed me prosciutto and sparkling rose in the sunbaked piazza and we fell in love."

Sunglasses | Cardigan (similar) | T-Shirt | Sweatpants (similar) | Journal | Bag | Slides | Scarf

Oh, hello there! I'm in New York City. Sort of. I'm in a hotel preparing for a meeting, and then I will be in that meeting, and then I will be on a plane back to San Jose. So I'm not "in New York," exactly, I'm more "moving through New York at very rapid speeds."

I stood under the Empire State Building this morning, though, so that was something.

MAN, have the past five days ever involved a lot of travel. A seven-hour drive to Los Angeles, a seven-hour drive back, a quick emptying and repacking of my duffle, a six-hour flight to New York, and now (or at least later today) a six-hour flight back. I'm ready for life to be slightly less boring for a couple of days, but in the meantime something I am feeling extremely expert-y about is travel wear.

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Q. Hey Jordan,

I've been reading your blog from just after you announced you were pregnant with Indy [and I had a question] about your new blog design and your photos - they are looking incredible! I just did a redesign of my blog, and now that I've "fancied" it up a bit, my photos are looking really...dull.

 The other day, I posted about how closets in the real world (as opposed to blogger-world) do not have all matching hangers, because hangers are weird-expensive and the wire ones that the dry cleaner gives you are free...and then a reader told me about the skinny velvet hangers you can buy in packs of 25 at Ross, and now I am one of those people with a closet full of matching hangers. (The shame.)

 Teeny-tiny moccasins with little palm leaves on them?!?!? Stop it.

 My dear friend Gala's first book, Radical Self Love: A Guide to Loving Yourself and Living Your Dream, is available for one week more only over on Amazon. Gala lived through an eating disorder, battled depression, and struggled with her desire to find a career she loved, and came out the other side - and this book is geared towards helping readers do the same. The book is as lovely as she is.

I can point to the day when we decided to move here, I think (or at least decided that it was something we'd very seriously consider were Kendrick to be offered a job at the end of his internship). It was the day that we drove out, on a reader's recommendation, to the Whale City Bakery in Davenport, and ate huevos rancheros and muffins, and then wandered up the coast and found an abalone factory and a little house where people who were selling pottery and having a party on the front porch invited us in for wine and strawberries. Eventually we ended up at a practically deserted beach, where our son rolled around pretending to be a crocodile and I laid down and fell asleep in the sand without even meaning to.

We went back yesterday - to the bakery and to the beach - but this time there were four of us. Goldie did her best to consume an entire beach's worth of sand while Indy built sandcastles with a kid he met down by the water and told us about moats and seaweed and sharks, and - once again - I fell asleep without even meaning to. When I woke up, though, I had a fever, and on the drive back I felt worse and worse.

When we got home I crawled onto the couch, and turned on the TV for Indy, then started trying to figure out what we were going to do for dinner. When you're sick as the parent of very small kids, you don't really get to peace out, you know? I mean, of course your partner picks up the slack, but still: someone will need something, or want you and only you, or whatever, and you don't get to do what you want to do, which is lay there catatonic and stare at the Kardashians.