fresh every day.

FrED, lately.

Mom came to town this past weekend. We ate dinner at De Santos, Bakehouse (where she met and approved of a certain man friend), and Blue Ginger; ran the Central Park loop, toured the Brooklyn Flea (she bought me a silver Revere bowl), shared a bloody Mary at No. 7, slammed pickle backs at the Rusty Knot, wandered through the Cloisters, unearthed some great party blouses at Michael Kors, and watched the Game of Thrones pilot on my sofa. By the time she left this morning, we were both sore from head to toe and thoroughly exhausted. I miss her already.

Jane turned 26 last Thursday. Happy birthday, little bunny!

Work owns my life. It is a pain in the ass to march in there every day and give 200 percent but so rewarding to see my blood/sweat/tears come to life. I co-edited the April issue of RL Magazine, and you can view it here. My story about Newport even made the cover!

Ditto my first exclusive shoot for the Style Guide.

Ultramarathon training kicks off this week, and for the first time in a long time, running is scary. It’s scary to think that in six months these little eight-mile slogs will turn into 50. It’s scary to give my life to something so entirely, to be on the precipice of something that is going to test me in ways I don’t yet understand, and it’s scary to think that that test will last six months. I must be out of my mind.

Billie (who just kicked serious ass at the Boston Marathon) is taking me to this thing on Wednesday night, and all my mid-1990s adolescent sneaker-and-cereal dreams are going to come true.

Edit: Billie is safe and sound. Thanks to all who checked in. These acts of terror on our soil are horrifying, and I am heartbroken for all who were present in Boston today.

This handbag. This dip. This fantastic vintage dealer/collector. 

Anonymous asked: What are your thoughts on online dating? I'm super skeptical but after my last bad breakup I need a jolt and a dive, not a toe into the waters of dating.

After my dad broke up with Buffy, he asked his best friend for a list of the ten hottest babes in New York City and then began to check off names—calling one, taking her out, deciding, “No, she’s not for me,” and then moving on to the next one. My mom was, I don’t know, maybe fourth on the list? Number six? Anyway he showed up at her apartment on a rainy night in November; by then he was sick of the game and didn’t particularly want to be there. He even had a newspaper tucked under one arm in case it all went south. So he arrives, rings the bell, she opens the door, bursts out laughing at the sight of him, and he knows at that very moment that he will marry her. (He made good seven months later.)

The point I’m trying to make is that however you do it, whether you sign up for Match or pay a matchmaker or just hit every single happy hour in a ten-mile radius, at some point you will discover that not only are you fully submerged in the pool, but you won’t even remember diving.

Ask. Answer. Anything.

Mother’s Day was not forgotten, but…

…I was busy. I had a facial and a date and a late dinner, and in between it all managed to call Mom twice (both times while walking, always while walking, getting to and from somewhere, and then when I get where I’m going, I say, “Mom, I’m at the place! I’ve got to go!” and she graciously puts the conversation on hold till later or the next day, and we say, “I love you!” and hang up, and that’s that).

I am so afraid of being a mother.

For private little reasons—the results of private losses—I have long felt this urgency to get everything accomplished—the children, the home, the career—as soon as possible before it’s too late because I am afraid that I will go the same way, too early, and leave behind a family ill-prepared for the life ahead, and it will be my fault that they are alone. Another birth is just another death. And that is terrifying.

But my mother, who has seen so many days and will see so many more, she has done everything right. How her three daughters will match that example is beyond me. When my daughters call me, when they’re walking down the street, getting to where they’re going, will I drop everything to talk to them? Will I end every conversation with I love you, and will they miss me so much at times that it feels like I am in the room with them, putting a hand on the tops of their heads and tilting their chins up, scrutinizing their faces, looking for my own mother in their eyes and noses, and then asking, “What do you want for dinner, sugarplums?”

The door in the floor.

When we were little, my mom made the single best decision of her entire life: she stuffed a kitchen cupboard with picture books. While she cooked, paid bills, fired up the Packard Bell, shot the shit on the phone with friends, painted her nails, read Vanity Fair, polished silver, folded laundry, clipped pictures from Traditional Home, finished New York Magazine’s crossword puzzle, cut the dinner party guest list from fifteen to twelve, ordered crap from the Lillian Vernon catalog, wrote checks, arranged flowers, cleaned up spills, cleaned the refrigerator, set the table, bathed our baby sister in the sink, fed the dog, gossiped with the neighbors, sorted the mail, sang “She’s So Cold” while hand-washing the nice dishes, and otherwise took care of business, Jane and I parked in the middle of the kitchen floor with that cupboard door open and books strewn about the linoleum, reading and reading and reading for hours. Books are the best baby-sitter.