Happy Pre-NYC/DC Trip Friday! Photo Blog from San Francisco and Auburn 40th Birthday Trip with Trip-Inspired Grad School Reflections

Me with my friend's step-grandson. Best baby ever. In love with him.

Friday, 9:30 AM.

I have been up on Facebook and chat since 5:30. I do not usually arise this early but this is the second day in a row up before 6:40, my internal clock’s preferred wake-up time. J and I went to bed around 11 and I guess I am in pre-trip excitement mode and don’t need more than 6.5 hours of sleep. This week, we started Season 1 of Californication, which finally arrived on Netflix while I was on my trip up North for my birthday and we have seen three episodes. I dashed off a quick Facebook note (before my blog I wrote one a day so I have about 300 or so, many of which are public): “A Sea of Pointless Pussy: Season 1, Episode 3.” The episode is actually called “Whore of Babylon” and it was laugh out loud funny.

I don’t have time to rehabilitate the note into a blog post but I will certainly be blogging about this very fun show. I saw three episodes in NYC last March at the apartment of my friend, Brian Fischler, founder of Laugh for Sight, a wonderful organization which raises money for retinal research (conditions like my father’s macular degneneration) and also guide dogs which are expensive to train. I saw two episodes with my Orange County friend Wendy last month but even when I had HBO and Cinemax I didn’t have Showtime so I just never got into the show.

I adored the pilot for Smash, the brainchild of Theresa Rebeck of NYPD Blue, a sort of West Wing of Broadway, and hesitate to get emotionally invested or attached as the last show I loved–Detroit 1 8 7 –was too sophisticated and interesting for the moronic American consumers of pop culture who prefer reality TV to quality dramas and comedies. Right now, however, TV is having a kind of renaissance and I have about five shows I would like to try or see, including hits like Parenthood and Good Wife and new shows like White Collar and Person of Interest.

J has two more episodes of Smash on the TiVo but I don’t know if I will get to see them before my trip to NYC and DC,  2/27 to 3/15. I love musical theater and I thought it was perfect and want to see the pilot again with pen and paper in hand before watching the second and third episodes.

But since I am now at home in SB on J’s desktop rather than the Macbook Pro, whose only two defects as far as I can tell, are the difficulty of uploading pictures from my Pantech Breeze 3 and then downloading/uploading photos to and from Facebook, I wanted to do a photo blog.  The first is really not the fault of the Macbook.  I would wager than about 100 people in America have both a senior citizen/AARP flip phone with no internet and a Macbook Pro. That’s sort of like having an 8 track cassette player and a 55-inch state of the art plasma TV. Just doesn’t happen.

So the only way to upload photos from my phone to the computer is via Bluetooth and there are altogether too many steps to undergo. I can’t use the USB cable like I could on the Netbook (which apart from its fragility and inability to withstand the computer abuse dished out by yours truly, is a spectacular cheap  machine for writers, just 459 with lots of extra memory).  The Macbook Pro will not recognize the device, though I can still charge my phone with the cable which is convenient and nice.

So I thought I would do a photo blog of my wonderful trip up North before I deal with dry cleaning, nails, bills, bank and other logistical tasks of which I am extremely unfond. Good news: I found a stellar roommate and she is moving in on 3/10. I must move my Broyhill chair, listed at 700 dollars new, but purchased for 25 dollars at garage sale across the street some 18 months ago. I am going to get rid of /donate the cheap little dining room table and chairs I got in North Haven when I moved off campus to the Taft. I don’t care about the set and the two chairs and table are 19 years old now. I am babysitting a lovely coffee table, quite large, for J which didn’t fit in the condo’s living room upstairs and she can eat on that if she likes.

I just didn’t want to dump the chair which is heavenly for reading and writing on a laptop. I will make the dining area into a reading nook and that will be nice though the two-toned small checkered green chair with ottoman doesn’t quite match the antique Orientals owned by my landlord and the reason for the lamentable no-kitties policy.

Here, then, in roughly sequential order, are the pictures from San Francisco (Hotel and Cafe Majestic, Original Joe’s (just the Sidecar, I cannot believe my friend and I got not one picture of us on our first real-life meeting)), the Mark Hopkins (site of the San Francisco Writer’s Conference), Auburn (beautiful town 40 minutes from Sacramento), and finally, Lake Tahoe (lunch at Garwood’s and then Squaw Valley gondola with my FB mom and dear friend with whose family I stayed).

San Francisco: Leg One of Trip.

My conservative blonde friend in San Francisco gave me this magnet.  She  wouldn’t let me split dinner with her after getting me such a thoughtful lovely gift with Coppola champagne in cans with straws–she knows me so well, it’s the equivalent of an alcoholic juice bag, like the Honest Kids Tropical Tango Punch of which I am quite fond, much to the amusement of my boyfriend’s father– as well as book of TCM kisses and sweet pair of silver heart earrings. The magnet captures the intellectual and feminine which coexist within me,  as well as underscoring the place of Facebook in my life and personal identity.

We had dinner at Original Joe’s, where I returned on my birthday for a drink with a friend of John Phillips, my musician friend in NYC with whom I will eat at Il Violino on the Upper West Side Wednesday after going to Luigi for dance and, I hope, see Luigi himself, who eats lunch there a lot with Francis Roach, my teacher. It was wonderful but we got no pictures. Her veal picatta was absolutely enormous and I was virtuous and had the filet of sole picatta with veggies not mashed potatoes or pasta. We had a good Zinfandel and it was just beyond great to meet her after a year of FB friendship.

She turned me onto the Hotel Majestic, the oldest hotel in SF, heaven for a literary chick on a budget. Built in 1902, pre-earthquake, the hotel has a beautiful lobby with library of sorts, free WiFi, charming and quaint rooms which begin at 82 plus tax (I think it might be 100 regularly) and larger rooms and suites for a little bit more. The claim to fame of Hotel Majestic, aside from its age,  are the clawfoot tubs with real tile on the floor.

I fell in love with this hotel and since I have no friends in San Francisco proper, I plan to use this as my crash pad up North, where I plan to spend more time in the future. I want to return in mid-April to go cross country skiing with my FB mom and friend of nearly 18 months because I love the idea of skiing, skiing culture if you will, but dislike the skiing/breaking bones/dying part.  And I am not in the least afraid of heights though , as I will come to shortly, going up in the gondola at Squaw Valley (8200 feet) was a bit scary as you are suspended by a cable you cannot see and it feels quite precarious as you approach the top.

Here I am in the hotel lobby. I have not quite gotten the hang of a self portrait (headshot) but here is a not bad shot where you can see how nice (and patriotic!) the  Brighton necklace is with the red sweater I love from Black House White Market, on sale for only 29.

 

 

 

 

 

Here is the room with an unsightly but effective fan necessitated by a heating problem which turned the room into an oven at 5:30 in the morning on Saturday, February 18th. They knocked 20 bucks off the bill which was nice and unexpected and helped offset the ridiculous cost of getting to Auburn from San Franciso via mass transit.

I will rent a car the last day of my next SF trip to go to Auburn but I don’t have a driver’s license (still) though I am of course a valid (and perfect) driver. I never get pulled over and I can use my passport to fly so I have seen no need for a plastic card verifying my valid driver status. In CA, it’s a 25 buck fix-it ticket which is insufficient incentive for me to go to the DMV. In  Jersey, I hear it is over 300 dollars. That would motivate me; 25 bucks is not a motivation.

The chair by the window is perfect for reading and while small, this is an old hotel with very high ceilings. High ceilings as everyone in NYC knows mitigate the effect of low square footage and my UES studio (not mine mine, but where I stay) is just under 500 square feet and feels roomy and perfect for one. The bed was very comfortable and sheets quite high in thread count. I didn’t want to leave.

 

Here is the claw foot tub, also heavenly, as I have been a lover of baths all my life.

The tile is very nice and everything is of high quality at bargain prices. The Cafe Majestic, where I ate two breakfasts and one dinner, very good and reasonably-priced. It’s a true bargain at breakfast with omelettes ranging from 8 to 10 (though the least good thing I had was the Mexican omelette due to the salsa, mainly, which my sweet server I saw three times, told me was very good). I also don’t eat hash browns–home fries only–and bacon holds no interest for me, but the bacon looked heavenly as well. I met a couple from CT and we had a nice talk. They had come 25 years ago for an anniversary and were back for the first time.

I went to the Mark Hopkins to see if Ann Seymour, one of my earliest FB friends and supporters, was there but she wasn’t. Her presentation on how to market memoirs (she is bestselling author of the WWII memoir about her father, I’ve Always Loved You) was noon on Sunday and I didn’t have a car or I would surely have come in just for that. As I said, I planned to attend the conference but I had been waiting on some checks and I don’t like to get close to zero and I also don’t buy on credit–ever–so by the time I tried to book, the conference was sold out.

I had never seen the  Mark before though I  have stayed at the Fairmont once as a child  with parents of my best friend. My parents love the Fairmont and the Stamfort Court and Nob Hill really is glorious. Here I am happy in the lobby, which reminds me I must write to Lucy Kevin, a successful self-published romance novelist as well as the taker of the picture.

Here I am just after this shot was taken in the wind. A very nice man took the picture and he said he was sorry Berkeley rejected me for grad school, something I thought a bit about on this trip. I don’t obsess about the past but I am a writer and actively engaged in assembling materials for a memoir so yes, I do think about the past a great deal, particularly in relation to the total transformation of my life from misery to bliss. Yale did not provide decent career counseling and I failed to apply to ten schools to which I not only would have been admitted but given full funding. Berkeley is impossible to get into for grad school and people out of the world of academia don’t understand that the incoming M.A./Ph.D class in a school like UCSB is only 12, at UCLA maybe 20 to 25 tops.

I would have almost certainly have gotten into Yale Law (assuming I took an LSAT course, I hate standardized  tests except for AP tests, on which I scored 5s on all 5 tests)  but of course I got rejected from Yale English grad school, which was no surprise (I think 4 people got in from Yale undergrad in ten years) as well as Harvard and Berkeley.

Lots of Yale kids go on to Yale Law and while I was not on the Yale Daily News (never a journalist till now and I’m not really a journalist, just a book reviewer) or any of the traditional extracurriculars for pre-law people, I’m very confident I would have gotten in to any law school I wanted. Law school classes are huge by comparison and while a lot of people apply every year to Yale Law, a plurality of them at least have no business applying and just do so as a kind of pipe dream or Hail Mary.

I know why I got rejected from Harvard in spite of Dean Richard Brodhead’s recommendation, my grades, my writing samples (Milton and Dickinson papers), my award for Chaucer paper and so on. I wrote a touchy-feeling or at least, rigorously confessional personal statement about psychoanalysis, Al-Anon and my conception of criticism as a combination of textual interpretation and theoretical understanding.  I opened with a quotation from a C.P. Snow novel which John Hollander had recommended to me during office hours once, and also cited Todorov in The Poetics of Prose.

That personal statement is not lost. But I have to remove some things off the hard drive of the dead Lifebook and there were two floppies which J put on a memory stick and I know I have it but not handy. Of course I remember neither the Snow nor the Todorov in any detail because I often joke that all that depression created a hole in my head, out of which 50% of my substantive knowledge fell!

That’s actually a fairly significant bummer and I am assembling some materials to take to DC to discuss with a writer/editor friend of mine and had cause to pore through some exceedingly painful materials from graduate school, including a letter from my chair to my parents about the dissertation’s progress (2002) and also the letter with results of the First Qualifying Exam (M.A.) in 1998. I got a High Pass on two of the three fields–18th C/Restoration and Romantic/Victorian–and a Fail on General Theory.

The letter struck me as cruel though I acknowledge I was already fragile from the condescension of Kay’s post-script to the initial results letter which clearly indicated her recognition that the General Theory/Field 9 committee essentially ripped me a new asshole or alternately, dry fucked me with gusto, with the extremely detailed objections and mocking remark about my mis-spelling of two German words.

It shook me up for the rest of the summer and I worried through fall quarter before Christmas when I had to re-take the field. Of course, UCSB English never makes anything easy so instead of having the summer to re-group and test before fall quarter, I had to start teaching Writing 2 (paid as a TA but working as instructor for freshman comp which is a hard and time-consuming job , particularly your first time) on top of taking the normal two grad seminars in the fall of 1998.

And it was punitive as hell because a lot of people fail one of the three fields and they had to issue this threat about being dropped from the program. This was all the more absurd and  bullying as NO one high passes two fields and fails a third. In fact, very few people high pass at all. The norm is a general pass. And I high passed two fields.

I don’t have time to type the comments here but the 18th C committee said my exam was the “benchmark” for all future 18th C exams. And they were threatening me as though I was an ESL student and didn’t catch the drift of the letter and the need to pass the field in a re-take? Lovely.

I did write an appeal which was also however denied and I only mention this because Julie Carlson, the brilliant Romanticist who chaired my Orals committee and dissertation after my falling out with Kay Young was extremely kind. She told me how sorry she was (she had had me for literary theory and I got a flat A on the final paper as well as in the course and she is a hard-ass in the best sense) and that without encouraging me to appeal, the option was there. Julie was more than my chair; she was my friend, mentor and among my most admired professors of my life from all my schools (UCLA, Yale, UCSB).

Readers of Facebook and Victorian Chick know it ended surpassingly badly between me and Julie in 2009 but I never fail to credit her with the remarkable support, compassion and love she demonstrated toward me, fully aware I was in hell. She brought me shampoo bottles (empty ones) for the club, along with halogen lights I could not myself purchase. I would leave her money and when things got truly heinous for me with parents in 2004, I would leave a check or some cash and she would bring me a T-shirt or two from the Gap, just down the street. All this makes the unbelievably vicious emails I received from her in 2010 far more painful of course. The Field 9 committee were assholes but I wasn’t close to them and while it is supposed to be anonymous, everyone knows who sits on the field committees.

In December of 1998, I retook the test.  Two of the three examiners, I later learned,  wanted to give me a General Pass and the chair of the committee (almost certainly Alan Liu, a famous New Historicist and Wordsworthian with the personality of limp lettuce, into computer shit/hypertext and other weird transcriptions which is or was a big deal at UCSB) wanted to low pass me. So I low passed the field.

While clearly a brilliant man (and really famous in the field), I am not a fan of Alan’s work at all–his Wordsworth and the Sense of History is just not my cup of tea, emphasizing history and the French Revolution as it does–and he never seemed to like me, in spite of the Yale connection and my senior seminar on Wordsworth critical reception and theories of reception more generally with Paul Fry (who knows/knew him and encouraged me to come to UCSB because of Alan).

I am sure he doesn’t have Asperger’s but he really has zero personality and zero passion. As far as I am concerned, what’s the point of being borderline broke and going to school forever instead of going to law school and working at a Wall Street firm which anyone who is at this level of professor could easily do with a lot less pain and suffering, if you aren’t going to be filled with passion, love, joy in the work? He’s like a robot.

So I signed up for Alan’s course first quarter of grad school and it was all this computer shit and I switched after the first week to Richard Helgerson’s Renaissance course (again not something I liked all that much but Richard was a cool, smart, learned, compassionate and light-hearted scholar and while Hakluyt didn’t exactly make me hot, I enjoyed Tasso and a few other things in this sort of nationhood-themed course).

Rehashing all of this while reading the comments, I actually cried on the phone with one of my very best friends (rare for me to cry ever now except at a sad movie or show on TV) and decided I was not going to try and get my head back into the Eliot dissertation to speak to my friend and editor. I am going to have such a blast back East and since I can’t publish anything for a couple of years as far as  memoir, putting it off makes no difference. But my writer/editor friend has told me there might be a way in which I could simplify the work of my dissertation for a more mainstream audience.

I do not know if I can and even if I could, if it will be too painful to write serious literary criticism again which entails plunging back into those (highly self-referential) texts and the writing I did when so tormented. Book reviews of 1200 to 1500 words for the The Weekly Standard, however well-done, are not real lit crit.  Writing book reviews is pretty easy and very fun and bears no relation whatever to the gut-wrenching labor of dissertation-level writing. Seminar papers are wonderfully fun and there are few things on earth I revel in more than writing criticism.  But really to try to capture the essence of my argument in the dissertation would not be easy or fun though it might be rewarding and ultimately worthwhile. Fun it would not be.

In any event, had I left out the personal disclosure material, I think Harvard might have taken me. Certainly, Chicago would have been the better choice but it was a provisional acceptance, 1 year M.A. boot camp for which they wanted 30K. Rutgers and SUNY Buffalo gave me full scholarships (fellowships) but the snow in Buffalo would not have left me in a “shuffling” mood, and Rutgers was offering a lower level fellowship (still their highest as I remember but Rutgers circa 1995 didn’t have the budget of a UC, I take it).

Under the circumstances, having failed to apply to Wisconsin, Michigan, Washington, Washington University (St. Louis), Virginia (I thought I had applied and I think something got fucked up or there was some last minute change of mind  as I had thought seriously about UVA and it would have been a very good fit for me on multiple levels)–all of which would have admitted me–UCSB was my best option. I likely would have gotten into Penn, as I say, but not for sure. Stanford of course was a crapshoot but you never know.

I also should have applied to UC Irvine but the idea of the OC was simply anathema, on top of which I didn’t know the difference between Riverside and Irvine and once went to visit my friend from Westlake and then Swarthmore, living in a trailer park while she worked at CAL Pirg and thought, “Jesus Christ, I am never going to school in Orange County!”

Many people find this story amusing–the confusion of Irvine with Riverside–but I can’t help having been a little West LA snob who regarded the OC with extreme disdain (Republicans, fake blondes,  fake tits, Botox and no bookstores–even if the latter is false).  I had been to the Ritz Carlton Laguna Niguel but that did not seem like a reason to apply to OC schools, particularly since as a graduate student I was unlikely to be hanging out there.

That was a mistake, by the way. Derrida and J. Hillis Miller were there. I would have liked the program infinitely better than UCSB English and Brooke Thomas , the husband of my then friend and ex-professor in the 18th C at UCLA–Jayne Lewis–was a Victorianist and later chair of department. In short, that program would have suited me far better than UCSB’s Cultural Studies-saturated department, though of course every department is more or less dominated by CS and has been for 20 years.

And in Irvine, I might very well have met nice, well-to-do or at least not flat broke people, who did things like brunch on occasion at the Ritz Carlton or other fun restaurants and bars. I also would have liked San Diego but their philosophy program, not English, was always the more prestigious of the fields I love.

Columbia was not a shoo in-but I think I would have gotten in based on the girls I have known who got in there from Yale and other places. But I didn’t even consider NYC due to money. Again, Yale dropped the ball and it was not at all well-publicized that both Columbia and NYU (there I would have gotten in for sure) subsidize grad housing. I have NO complaints about Yale–the happiest place on earth–except this: its career counseling sucked beyond comprehension, in the 1990s focusing exclusively on placing kids at Goldman Sachs and other banking houses on Wall Street. There was next to no counseling for anyone not going into finance.

The natural question, of course, is why I didn’t apply to UCLA or USC. People who know me can guess on the latter–I came from a Bruin family and didn’t want to live in the ghetto first of all, though my father is USC Law 1949 before UCLA Law existed. But I attended UCLA during my 12th grade year and also during 1991 when home from Yale for analysis and AIDS volunteer work.

I adore UCLA but the idea of living in a marginal area of WLA in a shitty grad student apartment (or even an okay one-bedroom on Barrington by Uni High as my brother did in college) did not appeal to me. If I was going to live , well, in a “modest way” would be the PC way to put it, I didn’t want to be in the city I grew up amidst the uber-rich, 1%-ers. Living in New Brunswick, New Jersey (Rutgers) was fine. Living in New Haven was heaven. But I was not going to live in Culver City or God forbid, Palms.

I got into a bit of a tiff with a Jewish FB friend, hardcore feminist from the Midwest who think I’m a terrible snob. We have very different views of the world and of what Jewish parents of a certain income bracket do and do not provide for their children, as well as the sense of when parental obligation ceases. I don’t have to win her over. She has no clue what wealthy Jews in LA or NYC are like.

But the fact remains, even if you are the relative pauper of your private schools in WLA as the daughter of civil servants rather than TV legends, you grow accustomed to living amidst beauty and affluence. You may rebel as some girls I know did, moving to Silverlake and becoming bisexual and a union activist who hates Brentwood money (this is not a joke), but when you grow up around physical beauty and stunning houses, Palms is not your idea of a great place to live during grad school.

Having probably gone into far more detail about my sad sack grad school story than anyone cares about, I will continue with travelogue!  Here is my second-favorite specialty cocktail, the first as my FB friends know, is this cucumber vodka concoction at the Standard Grill in Meatpacking District. I have wanted to try a Sidecar forever and surely this one is better than many but I just loved it.

 

 

 

 

And here is my birthday dinner, a hamburger steak in honor of my father’s release from St. John’s. He loves hamburger steaks , particularly at the priced Pacific Dining Car and now I know why (the onions and mushrooms were scrumptious).

 

The dining room is spectacular at Cafe Majestic (and free WiFi throughout the hotel) but I only shot the ceiling.

Auburn and Lake Tahoe: Leg Two  of Trip.

After a ridiculously long voyage from San Francisco to Sacramento, my friend and FB mom picked me up at the train station, my first time in Sacramento in 21 years! Auburn is truly a lovely little down with a main drag and also an old town section and it has lots of cute places to eat, drink, walk around the courthouse and so on. We didn’t go in but there is an art gallery where a friend of hers showed his art I believe on a regular basis.

The surprise highlight of this trip, as I knew we would do Tahoe for lunch (my first time there as my family doesn’t ski), was the most darling little boy ever, just 2 years old. Here is another one with him in the kitchen. He calls me “Miss Vee” and he loves to lead me by the hand into his room to play “screw toys”–a sort of baby boy safe carpenter set. He also has the cutest and most emphatic way of saying “yes” in answer to a question, as in “Do you want me to put the ball in the basket.” He looks very determined and nods his head once and then says, “YES!”

It’s pretty much the cutest thing I have ever seen in relation to child, though this is not really saying that much as I have never held a baby, or rather, I held a baby once for a few minutes in the summer of 2010. I did babysit an Al-Anon therapist’s adopted Chinese baby once for 4 hours and that was so horrifying and draining, I didn’t have too high an opinion of babies or toddlers. But my friends were all right: baby head smell is quite wonderful. And the way they sink into your arms. This child has a wonderful, affectionate, joyous disposition. I was actually sorry he left early on Sunday but Roberta came into my room so he could say could goodbye: “Goodbye Miss Vee!” And then a kiss on the cheek.

Roberta cooked amazing meals three nights in a row–beef stew and mashed potatoes, chicken enchiladas with green sauce, spaghetti with meat and caesar salad with fresh (not bottled) dressing.

I had such a great time and her home is lovely on an enormous plot of land. Auburn is a great small town and as I said, the downtown is charming. We had wine at the Monkey Cat and then on Monday drove to Squaw Valley.

 

Given my difficulty with can openers , Roberta wanted to test out my carrot peeling skills and I am happy to report that I did not needed even a bit of tutoring. The cheese grater was another story. It was the oddest contraption I had ever seen.

 

 

 

 

Here is a view of Monkey Cat at twilight with the quaint street in Auburn peacefully settling into evening.

 

 

 

 

 

I did not get a picture of the adorable bar with only four stools and two small tables where we drank a great wine by a vineyard/winery owned by her friend.

The 20 dollar prix fixe at dinner was impressive but we just wanted to get out and have some wine and she wanted to show me the town. It’s very old by California standards and it has the feel of a Connecticut town to me, so of course I like it very much.

Monday was Lake Tahoe, an easy 80 or 85 minute drive from Auburn and we ate at Garwoods, a well-known place right on the water, most famous for the secret Wet Woody drink. Its ingredients are not secret but the recipe is. I had only one as it’s a strong drink and also reminds me of the Majestic at Punta Cana Majestic Elegance (where I stayed for a week with ex-boyfriend in July of 2010). I made the mistake of asking what was in it and learned it had something like 600 calories. But once the bikini contest was over, the second day of the trip, I didn’t really care. It hits you hard and fast but oddly the buzz wears off very quickly. By the time we were at the top of Squaw Valley, I didn’t feel as if I had had any booze at all and had a chardonnay.

Here I am impersonating a snow bunny (though a FB friend formerly on pro ski team, I believe said Lounge Lizard was more like it and when I looked it up, discovered that this is generally a man trolling cocktail lounges for sex or a social parasite, which made the analogy to a reptile slightly less offensive by comparison). I am wearing Roberta’s ski jacket and the lift ticket from her last visit is still on the jacket. More, I am in front of a bunch of snowboards, which to anyone who knows me, would immediately indicate the picture was meant to be a joke, not a geniune claim to skiing expertise!

Here is the view from the Top of the World, the name of the bar (I think). I can’t wait to go back to see Roberta and the baby and try cross country skiing for the first time in my life. The  Nordictrac was my preferred form of exercise for much of college and the idea of actually gliding through the grandeur of Lake Tahoe snow is sublime.

Happy weekend!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share
This entry was posted in Fashion, Food & Wine, Lifestyle, Philosophy, Relationships, School, Television, Travel, UCSB, Uncategorized, Westlake School For Girls, Yale and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.