YAY FALL. (That vest is vintage and real fur, but here's an insane, luxe faux version that's similar, except better because it's insane and luxe and faux.)

This is exactly the time of year to invest in a cozy, wonderful pair of pajamas. Here you go. Also if you don't own these boots yet, go ahead and do yourself a favor because you will wear them every fall and winter for the rest of your life (mine are going on seven years old, and still look practically new.)

Everything about the idea of sending my children to middle school strikes fear into my (apparently still 13-year-old) heart. (Being Left Out Hurts: Moms, Stop Social Engineering, via Today.)

Do not be deceived by appearances. He is a lunatic.

There are aspects of Virgil that are lovely and sweet, and aspects that haven't changed since the day he first arrived in our home, put his head in my boot, and peed. Let's just say that he has his quirks, and one of them is a hatred for any and all mail carriers that is - and I mean this with zero exaggeration - completely insane and utterly pathological.

I don't understand it. He sees the SAME. PERSON. EVERY. DAY. And yet every day (EVERY DAY!!!) he reacts to the sight of our mail carrier like she is one of the horsemen of the apocalypse, and has just arrived on our doorstep with the intention of making him into a throw rug. He somehow grows six sizes larger and turns into a horrifying attack creature, snarling and spitting and clawing at the window, absolutely desperate to do something to her that definitely involves her death. I even know when she rounds the corner at the very end of our block, because he has a very special bark that he reserves only for her, and what that bark means is I WILL END YOU, LADY, IF IT IS THE LAST THING I DO.