Hillary Clinton: From First Lady to First Lady for President

hillary clinton president

I love politics, which most people that know me know.

I am open, maybe to a fault, about my Liberalism, and how terrified/horrified/mortified I am that Donald Trump could be our next President.

And I’ve been glued to the conventions. Both of them.

The RNC was torture. I’d hold my breath and my nose, and dive in. There was not enough vodka or weed in the house to make that shit go down easy and not sink me into despair.

But the DNC has been glorious. The convention floor filled with such diversity of age, ethnicity, race, religion, sexual orientation, in sharp contrast to the RNC rodeo of old white people in cowboy hats.

And the speeches. From Michelle Obama, to Joe Biden and Barack, to Sarah Silverman and Kareem Abdul Jabbar, to Bill and Chelsea Clinton, I was riveted and happy and proud.

Finally, Hillary hit the podium. And for 55 minutes, I fought back tears.

It is not easy for me to cry. My current medical mix of Lexapro and Wellbutrin makes it nearly impossible. But I was, inside, crying, the most joyous kind of invisible tears.

Full disclosure: I was a Bernie supporter. I chafed a bit when female friends were whole Hillary, fueled by her femaleness and the significance of nominating the first ever woman for president. Yeah, I’m a woman, and she’s a woman, but so what? Why should that matter? Why does that make her more qualified?

Maybe I was taking this whole woman thing for granted, but last night, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

So what? This is fucking what.

Hillary is a woman! And this is huge! As huge as when Barack Obama became our first African American president! Back in 2010 pre my current cocktail of meds, I could cry, and I balled like a giant baby when Barack won the Presidency.

I thought of all of my friends with daughters: John and Bill, dads to Olivia and Vivienne; Dave and Evelyn, parents to Sophie, Sharon and Mark, parents to Ruby and Greta, Ashley and Lewis, parents to Ryan, Pete and Meghan, parents to Phoebe and Vivienne, Leslie and Howie, parents to Toni, and last but not least, Jslow, mom to Lux, and everyone else: what an important, empowering, extraordinary thing for your girls to see.

As Barack Obama so aptly put it Wednesday night, Hillary is the most qualified person EVER to become president, even more-so than himself or Bill, beaming from the rafters.

Hillary Clinton: From First Lady to First Lady President. I just feel it.


They Truly Are Absolutely Fabulous





These ladies. I mean broads.

Just look at them. Patsy and Edina. The bawdy British version of Thelma and Louise.

They pretty much are the queens of “no fucks given”: parading around in sequins and fur during the day, strangled by five too many accessories, sweating under too much makeup, drinking heavily and smoking like stacks, behaving badly, behaving badly at their jobs and at motherhood (Edina), chasing every fad with a giant net to stay young and hip.

They truly are Absolutely Fabulous.

Are you as big of fan as I was/am?

Because Ab Fab was set in the world of PR and fashion, (huge passions of mine), the fodder was endless: They managed to mangle the most beautiful clothes by squeezing into sample sizes, piling one trend on top of the other, “trying too hard” to pull it all off. This honest and unapologetic portrayal about the lengths these ladies of a certain age would go to beat back the clock was endearing. And funny as hell.

I love the idea of them now in 2016, taking high tech to a new low: Instagramming garish selfies from Fashion Week, drunk tweeting about the Brexit and terrorizing Tinder.

I love the fact that these two live out loud and do everything big and brash, while so much of the world shuffles around hunched over a screen updating their Facebook status or hunting for Pokeman.

And I love that the Absolutely Fabulous movie came out today! On the heels of the horrifying Republican Convention, attacks in Nice, Turkey and Orlando, police shootings, and everything else bad in the world, I need these ladies more than ever. We all do.



Don’t Pull Your Hair Out. Pull Weeds Instead.

lawn goldengateheights sf 2












I’ve become addicted to pulling weeds.

It all started a few weeks back, when my attempt to mow the lawn was thwarted by an army of skinny, spiky stalks that refused to move, instead ducking down under the blades, springing back up on the other side, victorious middle fingers in the grass.

This means war.

Out came an old Phillips screwdriver. On went my gardening gloves. Outfitted for battle, I squatted down and pulled my very first weed.

Which was more satisfying than I could have ever dreamed.

So satisfying that I spent the next 3 hours hunched over the lawn with my weapon, digging in and yanking out weeds and their roots, filling a giant green Forceflex bag with the carnage.

This has gone on for two weeks, this identifying and excavating of weeds. I can’t stop. I get up early to make time to pull weeds, timing my stints with a Giant’s game or KALX DJ I like, because weed-pulling most definitely needs a soundtrack. Or maybe not, as there have been days I weed in silence, which has become more therapeutic than my actual therapy sessions.

I’ve been dreaming about weeds and the act of weeding. I scan every patch of grass I pass for weeds like I’m searching for spare change. I would rather weed then smoke weed.

There’s another reason why I have found this all so addictive and satisfying: pulling a weed is like popping a zit. It just is. I’m not just ridding my lawn of weeds; I’m giving it a facial.

I’m going to be torn when I pull out that last weed, secretly hoping new ones will grow for me to tend to. Maybe I will grow weeds. All I know is that they make me happy.



stylish gardening accessories


  1. Eton Self-Powered Outdoor Radio, Amazon. 2. Xcelite Phillips Screwdriver, Amazon. 3.
  2. Water Logged Watering Can, Modcloth. 4. Fermob Luxembourg Footrest (used as stool) in Verbena, Fermob. 5. Bogs Urban Farmer Slides, Bogs. 6. Orla Kiely Gardening Gloves, Amara.


Bill Cunningham’s Death Makes Me Blue

bill cunningham illustration paula mangin












A week ago Bill Cunningham, a beloved and legendary New York Times fashion photographer who invented the “street style” shot well before “street” became an adjective, died at the age of 87. His death was mourned and written about all over the world, including this piece from his home at the Times.

For the 40 years he worked for the New York Times, he tooled around on his bike, bright blue French worker’s jacket flapping in the wind (find them here), 35-millimeter camera a giant necklace around his neck. Khakis and black sneakers completed his everyday uniform for shooting the everyday New Yorkers in their own uniforms, be it flamboyant or familiar. His lens captured our culture through fashion.

He shot thousands of galas, but it was clear the streets were his favorite venue and “normal people” his favorite models. What did he look for? Mr. Cunningham once said this (quoted from the New York Times):

When I’m photographing, I look for personal style with which something is worn – sometimes even how an umbrella is carried or how a coat is held closed”

Everybody wanted to be photographed by Bill. And during the past 5 – 10 years when the internet and social media created the “street style photographer” phenomenon, every fashion or cultural event became fair game for peacocking for the cameras. When Jslow and I went to our first New York Fashion Week a few years back, you can bet we dressed to maximize our chances. For us daughters of coaches from the suburban Bay Area, we were beyond giddy when we were stopped and shot. The photo below was taken by an Elle street photographer while we sat on the fountain outside of the Lincoln Center, me in my Vivienne Westwood “Sac” boots, Jslow in her spiked Louboutin pumps.

NYFW Elle magazine paula mangin jennifer boyde

When I heard of Mr. Cunningham’s death, it made me sad. Another icon, another authentic, soulful, true talent like Prince, David Bowie, Mohammed Ali was gone. Sure, in most circles, he might not have the same name recognition as the others, but in the world of fashion and photography, he’s The King. In 2009, the New York Landmarks Conservancy made him a living landmark. In 2010, the documentary “Bill Cunningham New York” premiered at the Museum of Modern Art. It’s wonderful – click the link above to watch for free on Hulu.

Bill Cunningham loved what he did and did it for that love. For most of his life he lived in a cluttered studio and slept on a cot:

Money’s the cheapest thing. Liberty and freedom is the most expensive – Bill Cunningham

In his honor, below are some of my favorite bright blue jackets and blazers. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if for one day, everybody sported something blue in honor of Bill?

Bill Cunningham inspired blue jackets


  1. Jil Sander Blue Blazer, Yoox. 2. Marni Blue Windbreaker, Yoox. 3. Liska Blue Fur Coat, Farfetch. 4. P.a.r.o.s.h Blue Plastic Jacket, Farfetch. 5. Roland Mouret Blue Cropped Blazer, Stylebop. 6. Armani Blue Leather Jacket, Farfetch.

The Brexit is not Fashionable

I stay up pretty late these days, ever since I started re-watching “Entourage” with my husband who missed it the first time it aired. We typically watch 2 – 3 episodes before I go to bed, which somehow has the effect of drinking a giant cup of coffee. We’re up to season 4.

Last night, when I clicked out of On Demand and over to MSNBC, big bold fonts screamed from the ticker crawl that the Brexit had passed and the UK was leaving the European Union. The anchors seemed genuinely shocked and freaked out behind the veneer of calm. James Cameron, their Prime Minister, solemnly said something about the people having spoken, and that he would step down. I texted a Brit who said he was “gobsmacked.”

This morning, London is in chaos, the world markets are tanking, and my Facebook feed is clogged with UK friends’ posts and shares of sadness, confusion, anger and uncertainty. I know there are differing opinions. The “leavers” were mainly over 40, the “remainers” much under. The leavers had given up hope. The “remainers” had hope to spare. The leavers were tired of sharing money and power with their European neighbors, and really tired of sharing their land and resources with immigrants. The remainers weren’t. The leavers are the past, the remainers the future. And now the future of the remainers has been thrown into turmoil.

I’ve been lucky to have been to London a few times and love it there. I could spend a full day in Liberty of London alone. I love a good Brit.

I really hope that everything is going to be okay.

Until then, London, you wonderful country, good luck.

Brexit style


  1. Gola Quota Union Jack High-top, Shoebuy. 2. Solange Azagury-Partridge Hotlips British flag in, TheRealReal. 3. Union Jack batwing jumper, Yoyomelody. 4. Dr. Martens British flag boots, Shoebuy. 5. Comme Des Garcons 2000 Union Jack dress, 1stdibs. 6. Limited edition Gucci Union Jack Sloaney bag, 1stdibs.

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