Covetworthy

I have been searching for a new (and not-so-humble) abode for nearly five years. Seems impossible but it’s all truth. This quest has taken me high into the hills of Hollywood, deep into the canyons of Santa Monica; estates in, like, gated communities, you know, like, in the Valley; beachfront bungalows along the Pacific coast.  Even as far as NYC, where I was whisked about in a black Lincoln town car, flitting between fabulous high rises, each with jaw-dropping views and five-star resort amenities. (Um, maid service, daily continental breakfasts, Friday night cocktail parties for residents all at no charge, anyone?)

But for the past 16 months, I have been pretty particular about one in particular. Then this week, after months of negotiations and culminations, walk-throughs and drivebys, buildups and letdowns, we decided to walk away. To be sure, this was not the expected turn of events, but even more surprising has been my reaction. I’m not disappointed. Not depressed. But actually, relieved. Yup, relief.

For so long, it was like trying to force a square peg in a round hole. All these problems, big and small, tripping up what should have been my joyous Jimmy Choo stride into the flyest house on the block.  And finally – FINALLY – I stopped. And that brings me to what just might be the most revelatory covetworthy idea yet. Covetworthy Tip #84: Don’t force it.

Incidentally, this truism is worth applying to many facets of a covetworthy girl’s life: be it shoes, relationships, high-waisted pants or the biggest financial decision you’ll make in your entire life. You know, when you’re working too hard to make it work? Yeah, don’t.

And as if I needed any more proof, there’s also this: since Monday, I’ve thrice been complimented by strangers on my makeup (when all I was wearing was moisturizer, Great Lash, eyeliner and Smashbox gloss.) Then two people stopped me in Beverly Hills and asked if they’ve seen me on television.

Coincidence? I think not.  Just goes to show that a clear head trumps clear skin anyday.

Her iPhone? Orphaned on the Starbucks counter in a sea of discarded Splendas.  Directions to the restaurant where you’re having your much-ballyhooed girls’ night? Still sitting in her printer. Remembering that girls’ night is tonight?  Only after your two emails and urgent voicemail.

You’re the Friend of a Forgetter. You’re always there to remind, remember and even rescue, depending on the circumstances. Krazy Glue couldn’t make vital information stick to her. This is a tried and true friend, who absolutely would be there for you in your time of need if she could only recall what you needed. Plus she’s sweet as pie, which makes your secret desire to kill her all the more tragic.

So the next time you have to buy her something, forgo the journals and the Franklin Coveys and the electronic organizers – all blatant hints to curb her scattiness – and give her something she’ll want to remember like the Forget Me Knot ring by Kiel Mead.  It’s a simple and subtle gesture that lets her know you know her well and love her anyway.

Sentimentality + practicality = perfection at gift time. I can’t promise that she’ll never forget your birthday again, but at least she’ll remember why she owes you big time.

With my pre-baby body blissfully within reach, I am loving all these Mad Men getups. Body conscious dresses and high waisted skirts in wonderfully tactile fabrics. Professional in the front, splah-DOW from behind. It’s fabulous. But what’s really got my tweeds in a twitter is what’s underneath.

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Today is Monday, August 10. Ummm, August…TENTH?!? What? Rewind – am I the only one wondering how/if/when I squandered June and July? To paraphrase Stevie, I never dreamed I’d LOSE a summer.

So with just four precious weeks left, I’m determined to eek out every last drip of the season’s bliss, and that’s got me all nostalgic on how I found joy in the simplicities of summers gone by:

Bare feet squishing through damp grass.

Sandals. Halters. Short shorts. Repeat.

Running, with no thought of cardio, body parts, empty calories from the night before or how many minutes before moving on to the elliptical. Just running because that’s how you get to Point B.

The breathless, giggly exhilaration upon arriving at Point B.

Enduring the pain and boredom of getting your hair braided, but giddy at the sight of the finished product, all tricked out with fly beads.

Learning (albeit, the hard way) how not to lose an eye while turning your head with the suddenly deadly new ‘do.

Jellies sandals. $5. No brand name required.

That perfect age: too old for dolls, too young for lip gloss. When it was all about hanging with your girls, jumping rope, riding on the handlebars and Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black.

Strawberry popsicles, the ORIGINAL lip stain. (Suck it, MAC.)

The days when stepping over cracks, not splitting poles and kissing dropped food up to the sky offered all the protection you would ever need.

Hours stretching on for days, weeks as long as months and a Labor Day that was practically in the next millennium.

Oh, summmmmmmer. 2 sweet + 2 last = 4 ever. Let’s make a pact to make the most of what’s left of it!

(What have I missed? Please share some of your summer simplicities with me…)