These past few days there's been a chill in the air during the walk to school, and so I've actually been wearing...wait for it...pants. (I KNOW. I also know that it's debatable whether jeans count as pants, but in my world they're basically a tuxedo.) The ones I'm wearing above are no longer available online, but I found a bunch of really great bellbottoms, below.

I tried this sweatshirt on in a little shop in Carmel last weekend, and it is lightweight and cozy and soft and makes me laugh even though I don't quite get it. It's honestly the best sweatshirt ever (well, okay, maybe second-best, after this one), and I seriously wish I had just bought the thing (although...I guess I still can, because of this thing called the Internet).

Happened.

Pictured above is my grade-school friend Rachel at 9 years old, with Donald Trump's name written on her forehead. When this photo first popped up in my Facebook feed it gave me some serious pause, because I've known Rachel for a long time now, and I cannot imagine a universe in which this makes sense - even given the fact that this is a photo of her when she was in elementary school, and at the time Trump was only a real estate developer (if a polarizing one).

The story behind this photograph really needed to be shared, so I asked for Rachel's permission to share it here.

The first time I went to a minor league baseball game, I was ten million months pregnant, living in temporary housing in an unfamiliar city, and seeeeriously unexcited about spending a couple of hours parked on a hard bench watching other people drink beer (although I was very much excited about the garlic fries situation). Let's just say Kendrick had to do some convincing.

Flash forward two years, and I'm the one googling the San Jose Giants' schedule to make sure we get to a game or two every year, because let me tell you: minor league games are fun. They're all the good parts of major league games (hot dogs, beer in plastic cups, generalized camaraderie, possibly fireworks, et cetera et cetera) except hot dogs aren't eighteen dollars, the parking is across the street, not twenty miles and a shuttle bus away, and there are bouncy castles. With no lines, so your children can actually bounce on them. You just park, walk across the street, bounce a bunch, whack a few whiffleballs, grab some food, and go sit down wherever...because there is plenty of room.

Basically, going to a minor league baseball game feels like making a friend who really likes you and wants you to like them back, as opposed to trying to get to know that kid who's way popular and unattainable and such, and who you have to put a bunch of work into getting to know before you get to get to the part where you have fun.