Farewells and sister gypsies.

[Citrine by the Stones Balagan necklace, courtesy CBTS + J.Crew leopard scarf + Kain Label t-shirt + old junk cutoffs + Made Her Think ring.]

Last Sunday morning on the mountain—but you wouldn’t know it, save the absence of the sheepskin rug and my stack of Architectural Digest, both packed away and ready for transit. Rob’s on the couch across from me, hoodie up, watching plane crash investigation shows on his laptop. I hear bits of narration—“The Airbus A340 has a glowing safety record, but on this horrifically tragic night…” and put my headphones on to listen to the Wolf Gang EP for the 900th time. I’m in my robe with coffee, petting Eli, and asking loud enough for Rob to hear if Eli would like to “fry mommy an egg.” Rob waits a second, while I coo at E some more, then says, “As soon as this video is over, I’ll fry you an egg.” A wine bottle from last night sits in the sink. The fog hasn’t burned off yet. There’s talk of a hike—maybe a trip into town or some laundry.

Sunday on the mountain.

Except we’re both secretly thrilled on the inside: this time next week, we’ll be spending our first morning in our new apartment in The Fan. The coffee maker, which my mom will have plugged in the day before, will be steaming and beeping—my dad will pop in the front door with the paper and say hi to E. Maybe we’ll sit out on the porch until we all break into a sweat.

I’m breathless!

Yesterday we shook off our Wanderlust concert fuzz (post to follow) and drove to Danby, VT, where Rob remembered a few antique shops to be. I’m on the hunt for old distressed ladders for our new bathroom—there’s an old claw footed tub with a shower curtain bar around the top, like Daniel’s costume in Karate Kid, and I want something to hang towels from. We found one place that was still open, and Rob bought a huge leather U.S. Mail bag from the 60s to put magazines in. No ladders, but I found a tiny, 18-year-old kitty in the back barn and we sang a few bars of “Memory” together, and I assured her the tumor on her cheek was virtually invisible.

Please pause to appreciate the glorious, fat silk tassels on the back of this Citrine by the Stones necklace. Takes my breath away. The Balagan Necklaces—in smoky topaz and amethyst—are bold and fantastic. The woman in the antique shop marveled at it for a bit, then whispered, “I always know a sister gypsy when I see one,” then gave me a wink.

What a ride this has been. Doesn’t this post seem like it was from a century ago?

I can’t thank you enough for all your incredible supportive comments on the last post—with every one that came in, I felt more buoyant and relieved. Seriously the coolest readers around.

If I could, I’d fry you all an egg.

-Carey