Purple, grey and green.

What a weekend of festivities! (Had yesterday been any other day of the year, the buzz of helicopters over head that woke me early in the morning would have sent me into a bunker below ground. Luckily before I got to the canned goods, I remembered nearly a million people were expected to descend on my front yard.) The renewal of a presidency, and reminder of the greatness of our nation. Regardless of your demographic and political convictions it’s hard during inauguration weekend to not just simply be proud of the red, white and blue. Democracy, people, it’s a fabulous thing!

Also fabulous—the clothing. The ladies really showed up this year; sworn in style. In a town not usually known for its fashion plate, I was proud to be a Washingtonian yesterday. So perhaps I was also proud of the purple, grey and green…

The Obama bitsies—Malia and Sasha—looked stunning and age appropriate in their purple coats and coordinating tights. Malia donned the fresh plumb Lady Day Coat from our favorite, J.Crew; it also comes in tall sizes, which if you were ever 14 and unfairly taller than most clothing is cut, you know is a God send. Little Sasha, who is now able to shop with the big girls, rocked a longer Kate Spade jacket in a shade of lilac. What little beauties!

Who didn’t love Lady O’s Thom Browne coat in shades of grey checks? Even a country divided can agree on this. The addition of the glam J.Crew belt and a pop of color in the gloves, energized the look. They were like cutting bangs all over again.  I also loved her choice to wear boots for the ceremony; delicate and slimming, yet warm. Cold weather done right.
And then there was Dr. Biden’s fuh-ab-u-lous Lela Rose coat—the chic silver and mod cut, pulled together by an over sized bow at the neck was to die for. Dare I say, it might have been my personal favorite of the day.

Those earrings. Well the whole damn ensemble, but mostly those earrings. You know when Beyonce is involved it’s going to be good. But 80 carats of emerald good? Now that is something to get excited about.

Congrats to all of the designers whose creation appeared on the world's stage--from church, to the swearing in, to the evening events, the gals were all flawless! 

New beginnings.

Ah, a new year. New beginnings. New resolutions. New motivations.

I really had an all-star lineup of leaves turning over—my skin has finally begun to look less like a pre-pubescent teenager and more like an adult woman; we have finally derived a budget to which we can adhere, which meant freezing my J.Crew and Bloomingdale’s cards (literally, like in ice in the depths of the freezer); and my key to the gym turned up, after having been missing for several months, or at least that is what I have told myself.

So there we have it, clean skin, balanced budget and exercise regimen. You can see why I may have been bubbling with confidence when I found myself in the kitchen one evening, and decided that tackling dinner was within my grasp and went rouge.

Chicken breasts, brussel sprouts, a little olive oil and seasoning…yes, I was prepared. And with an episode of Downton Abbey queued up on my iPad, and an apron on for added effect, I was ready to conquer.

Flame on, a drizzle of olive oil, chicken in the pan, la la la. “Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I practically sang to the hubs. I was feeling so empowered that not even his stunned expression  could rattle my confidence. I have totally got this.

The delicious smells, perhaps exaggerated by my own bliss, permeated our 800 square feet. La la la la.

But, hmmmm…something wasn’t quite right. I grabbed the bag of frozen chicken breasts from the freezer and reread the instructions I had followed so diligently, and repeated them in my mind. Exactly what I had done. Exactly.

But, why after 10 minutes in the skillet were the pieces of meat still nearly fr o   z    e    n…SHOOT! They were frozen. Dammit! I was supposed to have thawed them. But again, nothing in the directions pointed to that. Seriously, Perdue was making a big assumption that everyone would know this, apparently important, step!

About the time of this revelation, Dusty came to check on me and I made the gut wrenching decision to let go of my pride and pass the torch to him. After all, I had, followed the instructions given to me.

I tried, I really did.

So, as he salvaged dinner, I wrote a scathing email to Perdue, informing them of the discrepancies in the cooking directions on their packaging. I may not be able to cook, but I can read, and I can certainly complain.

How was the meal, you ask? Well, edible. I’m calling it a half victory and adding cooking back to my “needs improvement” list.