Baby, you're a firework.

Oh hi. I’ve missed you. And I don’t mean I’ve missed you in the awkward way you say it to people you actually don’t miss at all, but feel obligated to say it to out of courtesy because maybe they’ve missed you. I don’t even mean it in the sarcastic way you say it to people you haven’t actually been apart from long enough to miss. Because, well, we’ve been apart for quite some time now, and I think you know me well enough to know I don’t say things out of courtesy to others. Seriously, I mean it. I’ve missed you. And I hope you’ve missed me. Or that you’d at least say you did out of courtesy.

How was your Fourth of July? Hopefully filled with ice chests of cheap beer, hotdogs, friends and fireworks – as any good, old fashioned, aaahmuuurican celebration should be.  The Fourth has always been really fun – slash – super embarrassing for me.

By now, what I am about to disclose should come as no surprise to you.  For the longest time, Fourth of July for me was synonymous with parade. Heading to either Cobb Mountain or Lake Tahoe with family and friends to don face paint and cardboard cutouts, I looked forward to it every year. Dressing up in swimsuits and sarongs toting giant postcards reading Greetings from Cobb-o or walking down the parade route shhhhh –ing patrons on sidewalks wearing cardboard trees with cutouts for our faces representing Whispering Pines, we were always a hit. As time passed, we opted out of the parades, giving other people a chance to shine, and I had no idea a person could have so much fun without a costume.  In high school, it was all about the third of July. If you are from Napa, you will understand completely. On the third, Silverado Country Club hosts an annual fireworks show on the golf course, which might as well double as a high school reunion. Or elementary school reunion. Or any type of reunion for that matter. Because, well, what else are you going to do in Napa on the July third? And who doesn’t love fireworks? Exactly. So if I may, allow me to embarrass myself and my family a little.

Dressed as sunflowers - I know, we go all out - obviously we were Too Bloomin' Cute, hence the sign. That's me on the far end. And standing in the forefront is the darling Becca Cadloni, who will probably murder me if she she's this. 

Naturally, my sister was too cool to join us in the flower bed, opting for a tinfoil sprinkler head, 

soaking the parade route with her water gun

Taking it even further back, you'll see me on the left, and Genelle Cadloni to my right. Probably selecting our own theme, I'm guessing we dubbed ourselves as Fourth of July Princesses, or something like that, that would obviously require us to sport paper crowns, swimsuits and kick ass jelly sandals. 

Now that I’ve moved out of Napa, I’ve found alternate ways to celebrate – not involving parades or country club parties on the golf course. But I guess beachside barbeques and rooftop dance parties with my closest friends isn’t such a terrible way to ring in our independence. Heading to Seal Beach, where my friends’ family throws an annual bash, I did just that. And luckily enough for us, the fourth was on a Monday this year.  Which meant three day weekend. With most people expected in the office on Tuesday, we celebrated a day early, drinking burglars – tequila, tonic and a splash of OJ, and playing jailbreak – a take on beach volleyball, allowing ourselves a day of rest on Monday. So obviously, I headed to Hermosa Beach for round two on the fourth, but not before a few games of beer pong with the stragglers and an impromptu bbq with all of the leftovers.

Heading to Hermosa Beach, we arrived just in time for fireworks. And honestly, I don’t know which were better, the planned show set off in the harbor, or the illegal explosions going off right next to me on the beach. The show is always too short, and the finale is always disappointing. But the illegal show going off at a bonfire were, well, illegal, and I caught myself ducking for cover on more than one occasion. So let’s say it was a toss up? Satisfied with the colorful display in the sky, I was content heading out. Until, that is, we found ourselves in the front row of the Fourth Annual Michael Jackson Musical Review. Yes, you read that correctly. Every year, for the past four years, a house on the strand in Hermosa performs a musical review, set to MJ on their balcony following the fireworks show. And let me tell you, it was unreal. Employing toddlers to imitate little Michael in the Jackson 5 years, duplicating the red Thriller jacket, donning the silver socks for Billie Jean and even dangling a plastic baby Blanket over the edge, the show was a success. Add to that, a Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation dance sequence, a Lady Gaga montage and ending with Katy Perry’s Firework, I was cheering as if it were Michael’s actual This Is It tour – rest in peace. And luckily enough, my friend Alex captured footage on video so I can relive the fourth any day of the week.
I wonder how much trouble I’ll be able to drum up next year when the holiday falls on a Wednesday.

Hipster Week

Black square framed glasses. Pabst Blue Ribbon. American Spirit cigarettes. Samantha Wyman. One of these things is not like the other. And you probably guessed it. Me. Well, allow me to correct you, my friends, because I definitely fit in to that mix. Or I did. For one week anyways. Bored of our mainstream lives, and living in Los Angeles with ample inspiration, my friends and I embarked upon a weeklong hipster journey. And what’s more hipster than blogging about being hipster? Nothing. So allow me to elaborate.

Beginning with a simple pair of black, square framed glasses my mom had sent me as a joke after I began blogging, our hipster week instantly took flight. Wearing a pair of purple skinny jeans, black lace up vans, a totally retro old school vans crewneck sweatshirt I had received for Christmas, the infamous black glasses and my hair in a high bun, I joined Jaclyn, who was styled in pink high waisted shorts, a crocheted top, fringed boots with headbands and feathers galore. We began our day at coffee bean – I know, so mainstream – but at least we walked there, so we deserve some hipster street cred, right? Probably not. But it was our first day. And we definitely looked the part, which is really all that matters anyways. After we brushed up on some hipster lingo and perfected our we tried so hard to not look like we tried at all attitude, we headed to BevMo to pick up a few bottles of wine. That we definitely carried out in brown bags. Our labels of choice – Twisted and Irony. Because it’s ironically twisted. Obviously.

Day two we were really hitting our stride. Jaclyn sporting the typical, smart hipster get up in glasses and a loose beanie hanging off the back of her head, I opted for the grungy Kirk Cobain inspired hipster in a floor length black maxi dress, oversized raglan, jean jacket and fringe boots. We met for latte’s at Urth Café in Venice on Main Street, which is ironic because Urth is totes becoming mainstream - I told you we worked on the lingo - where we were joined by our hipster boyfriend who showed us the ropes. But unlike us, hipster was his way of life, not a week long adventure. Wearing an actual vintage t-shirt with authentic rips and tears, we headed into our hipster haven – American Apparel. Lured in by the “Buy 2 of the same shirt and get the 3rd free” sign in the window, it was perfect for our trio. Until we realized who wants to wear the same shirt as two other people? Obviously, hipsters are all about originality and individuality. So we headed somewhere more unique, like Urban Outfitters.

Like any Wednesday, day three we hit a slump. Getting bored of our typical scene, we took our 1967 Subaru hatchback as far as it could make it to The Curious Palette, an entirely organic, farm fresh, and local hipster haunt. Obviously. Doing my best hippie hipster, I paired my wide leg bell bottoms with a lace leotard and pancho, with plenty of bangles, beads and headbands to go around. Jaclyn revamped her pink shorts with a mesh black cutout tank and fur booties with her hair in a high bun. We chilled on the sidewalk, hung out on fire hydrants and parked cars, and drank soy lattes. Traveling up the street for libations and live music, we met our nonhipster friends in Venice. Our angst reached an all time high when the bar didn’t have PBR on tap so we settled for Stella, which totes is the alternative of choice for Los Angeles hipsters because it’s, like, not mainstream but, like, ironically totally trendy and over priced, which is basically our mantra.

Thursday was like out of a dream. Or a movie. Let’s go with an indie film that never came to theaters, but got super fantastic reviews at Sundance. You probably haven’t seen it, but you most likely have the soundtrack. I’m guessing it’d be loaded with Death Cab, Black Keys and Sleigh Bells. But obvs the title track is something Passion Pit or Mumford and Sons – who were way cooler before they were so accessible and all over the radio. Ok, so now that you can see how epically hipster Thursday was, I’ll tell you about it. With our hipster posse growing, we headed to Silverlake. Yes, Silverlake. The hipster capital of Los Angeles, and maybe even the world. Grabbing our usual lattes at The Coffee Table, we hung outside at mosaic tables with buddah fountains contemplating life, fair trade produce, famers markets, next years’ possible Coachella lineup, and the origins of all of our entirely unique and authentic bangles. So incredibly peanut butter and jealous of the braided bracelet given to Jaclyn by a homeless man, made from the hairs of his beard, and bewitched by the tarot card reader on the promenade. Her dad's lucky neon pink wristband he used to wear when he played beach volleyball in the early 80's. And the silver beads representing every tear she's shed thinking about our beautiful friendship, strung together by the strands of a unicorn tail. Obviously Karissa never leaves the house without her golden monkey bangle that was blessed by monks while she was backpacking through Tibet, her chain of PBR pop tops from every can of beer she drank in 2010, or the American Apparel bow tie she ironically ties around her wrist instead of her neck. After covering all the bases, we got down to business. Stopping at the neighborhood 7-11, we grabbed the essentials – tall cans of PBR and American Spirits. Loading them into our fringed bags, we headed to Echo Park where we drank, smoke – not really mom – and contemplated life, fair trade produce, farmers markets and next years’ possible Coachella line up – seriously though, splitting it in to two weekends? I don’t think so. All while attempting not to get shot, shanked, or mixed up in a drug deal. Mission successful on all accounts.

After a sunrise yoga practice on Friday morning, we ended our weeklong road trip through hipsterville with a pool party at the Shangri la in Santa Monica. Rocking headscarves, bikinis and bangles, and drinking blended ciapirinhas - which are uber exotic, right? - poolside, the day was pure perfection. As the sun set, we moved our growing crew to my house for tapas and red wine sangria prior to playing around in Venice at The Other Room, a spot that only serves beer and wine, which is like, not mainstream, but ironically totally trendy and over priced – our mantra, remember? Wearing neon banded skirts, studded combat boots, red lipstick and cut off t-shirts (mine said nonviolent with a picture of a gun – totes ironic, right?) we were bored and full of angst every time our efforts at requesting Mumford and Sons was scoffed by the DJ. Too cool for the scene, we eventually rallied our crew for the after party, celebrating our successful soirée.

  

Once our nonhipster friends could no longer tolerate us, we returned back to our normal, everyday lives full of Hollywood drama, bad reality television and processed foods. But not before capturing and documenting every moment with the iPhone instagram application – which is basically the most essential aspect of hipster life and our generation’s pathetic version of the Polaroid, instantly giving all of our photos an authentically vintage feel. And when it comes to life as a hipster, vintage is crucial, which is exactly why my Gap jean jacket circa 2005 was so key. Six years is vintage enough, right? I mean, its either that, or the over priced Kain t-shirt with holes precut to give the illusion of vintage that you actually purchased at Madison in Malibu last weekend, or the pair of Levi’s vintage revival high waisted jean shorts you found at Urban Outfitters on the promenade. I’ll go with old clothes from high school.

Ok, but really, why did they split Coachella in to two? And who do you think will headline? Ugh, I get worked up just thinking about it. Whoever it is, can I get a ride? I don’t think my ’67 hatchback with make it all the way to the desert this time around. Ok, I’m gunna go protest something somewhere, get mad about someone wearing the same American Apparel t-shirt as I am, and hang outside on the sidewalk with my friends while we take totally candid photos of each other in deep thought. I need a latte already. God, why isn’t there a Ritual Coffee in Venice?

Later. 

Lock Down.

Hi there. It’s been a while. I know, it feels like ages. And I promise I won’t ever do that to you again, mom. Ok, so. Hi. Let me preface this by saying I am a magnet for weird things. Maybe because I’m a little weird myself. Or maybe by saying I am a magnet for weird things, I just ask for it? But in any case, weird things always happen to me. Like all of the time.

Do you remember Cinco de Mayo? I know, it was a very long time ago. May 5^th if you didn’t know. Well, it’s one of my favorite holidays. Because well, I love holidays. And chips. And salsa. And tequila. So I celebrated with an impromptu fiesta, complete with queso dip, every type of salsa under the sun because I’m too indecisive, homemade guacamole from the Trader Joe’s kit, and margarita’s. After running out of chips, a pal and I headed over to a girlfriend’s house for a change of scenery. Bailing on any type of organized celebrations involving a club and requiring me to put on something more suited for the Hollywood scene, we went home. This is where the fun really began.

Upon returning home, I immediately locked the door behind me. My door has a handle, not a knob, and a lock. Obviously. But not a deadbolt, as I had apparently been miscalling it. It’s also one of those doors that you can lock, but when you turn the handle to exit, it unlocks allowing you to leave. I think it’s called an emergency something or other, I wasn’t really paying attention. Ok, now that we’re all up to speed, and you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you about my front door, I’ll continue. I turned around and noticed the lock was stuck half way between locked and unlocked. So I twisted the lock to push it all the way down. And it wouldn’t budge. So I twisted the lock to push it all the way up. And it wouldn’t budge. So like any normal human being, I tried to force it down. Duh. This is where I ran into trouble. My lock was now stuck. And not only was the lock stuck, but my door wouldn’t open. So if you’ve been paying attention, you can see how this could be a problem. Remember when I said I was out of chips? Yeah. No bueno. I was also out of toilet paper. But honestly, I think I was more bummed about the chips. Not to mention, I was trapped inside my house, which apparently is super hilarious to anyone you call looking for help and/or sympathy. So hilarious in fact, I switched my story to say my apartment is flooding with water, please send emergency help now! which apparently isn’t super believable if it takes you a second to site the source of such a waterfall. The sink, I mean the washing machine – yeah, the washing machine. No. Even the home owners association knows I can't operate such machinery. 

After consulting my mom, we decided to wait until morning to call for a locksmith. Upon his arrival, we encountered another problem. I live in a secure building. Meaning, you need some sort of magic key fob to enter, or you can call up to the resident you are visiting and they can buzz you in. But obviously, I haven’t figured out the whole buzzing people in thing so I walk down to let my friends and Chinese food delivery guys in. Which is fine. When I can open the door to get out of my house. So it was the window for me. Which was a much higher drop than it appears. Popping off the screen and climbing out, I met my locksmith downstairs. And in true, dramatic fashion, I said to him  I am so happy you found me, I really thought I was going to die in here. Which wasn’t true at all, because after I found my step later, I really could have climbed in and out of that window forever. Actually that’s not true at all either, because what if I wanted to wear a skirt? So anyways, my locksmith - who resembled something of a big, Greek, grandfather who bathed in axe body spray - pulled me in for a hug, kissed the top of my head and said you’re gunna be okay, I’ll get you out of here, I promise. And you know what? Creepy factor aside, he did. After dismantling my entire door handle and lock, which had bent, and caught on some of the hardware inside the inner workings of the lock, making it impossible to move, he replaced it with a new one. And my door is as good as new.

No longer a prisoner in my own home, I can come and go as I please. Which I had totally taken for granted the second I was unable to – for fifteen whole hours seven of which I slept through. I really should figure out how to buzz people in. And let this be a lesson to you, always keep a spare bag of chips in case of an emergency. And maybe toilet paper too, for that matter.  

Bay to Breakers

Bay to Breakers 2011. Rad picture. Thanks, Marco.

 The past few weeks have been a whirlwind. After getting out of the plastic bubble and traveling up north for two weeks, the last place I ever expected to find myself was back in the bay. But I guess that’s what I get for expecting.

Let me preface this by saying while I grew up in Northern California, I had never experienced a Bay to Breakers. But I guess twenty four is all about firsts. Let me also say, I’m an incredibly easy sell. Like I buy juicers from late night infomercials that sit in their original packaging in my storage closet. So after a day of recovery bloody mary’s, complete with a bacon garnish, I was game for a road trip. After being picked up from the rooftop bar at the Huntley Hotel in Santa Monica, I made myself a bed in the back seat and woke up in the city. Without a plan. Without a costume. And without a clue as to what I was about to expect. But I shouldn’t expect anything, remember?

Have you experienced a Bay to Breakers? Apparently it’s a race. I’d guess it starts in the Bay and ends at the Breakers, concluding with the wildest party in the park, complete with costumes and debauchery, reminiscent of a Halloween in Santa Barbara, except much earlier in the day. Without time to prepare a costume, and after a few bloody mary’s, I was without the wherewithal to put one together. I employed plan B. Runner. And let me tell you, partying in Lululemon is the way to go. I mean, marathon day drinking is practically a sport, right? While we opted out of participating in the actual race, we made up for it when it came to the post race festivities. Unless of course, I met you at B2B. Then yes, I actually did run the race. Twice. Because I got bored after I finished so fast the first time. And I’m not wearing a medal because I gave mine to a kid in a wheelchair who didn’t finish fast enough to receive one of his own. Obviously. But back to partying. A sport I actually excel at.

Joined by two pals, one being a green crayon, Screamin’ Green to be precise, we started on Haight with shots in paper Dixie cups and cocktails in red keg cups. I wish I could say they were sparing their usual stemware for the rowdy occasion, but I have a feeling that’s always how this place operates. Super classy establishment. It was at this lovely joint where we met a perverted sailor with a sick, masochistic fetish for being whipped, a gnarly bartender with a goatee longer than my ponytail, and two gals I went to high school with. I would have never expected to run into friends amongst all of this chaos, but there I go expecting things again. And I’m sure glad I did. I wish I could say the others were unique to Bay to Breakers, but I have a feeling they’re always there too.

With our growing group we headed down the street. And when I say we headed down the street, I mean we followed a boom box parade led by my little green friend to our destination. It was here we narrowly escaped a bathroom brawl, met a few Elvis’s [is the plural of Elvis Elvi? Hmm.], chatted with Dotty and Kit of a League of Their Own, and drank out of actual glasses. Our B2B drink of choice? Jameson and pickle juice. I know, but remember when I said I was an easy sell? And if you can get passed the vomit factor, it’s actually quite an unusual tasty treat for your senses. After a quick stop at a beer garden, we wrangled a sober red bull rep into giving us a ride to the marina where our group doubled in size. With Screamin’ Green leading a bar top dance party, we worked up quite an appetite. See, partying is a sport. After eating about 12 slices of pizza, we continued at Matrix Fillmore before reconvening at a friends house, falling asleep, and hitting the road in the morning. Phew. That was exhausting. Thanks for driving, Alex. And thanks for leading the mission my little green crayon herself, Sedona. Let’s please bring your costume back for round two next year? 

Momma.

Did you have a wonderful Mother’s Day?  I hope so. I’m not a mother myself, but I have one. I actually have the best one. Really. And she had a wonderful day. While I wasn’t there to celebrate with her, I was just home for two weeks, so maybe the best present I could have given here was leaving. And cleaning out my voicemail box. Which I did as well. So mom, please feel free to leave me a voicemail telling me how much you love me, or how thankful you are to finally be able to leave me a message – but maybe do so sparingly, because I can’t guarantee the next time they’ll be cleaned out again. In any case, I spent a lot of time with my beautiful momma while I was at home.  Without embarrassing her terribly, or embarrassing myself even more for admitting my participation – I’d love to tell you about one of our evenings together. Obviously sacrificing my humiliation, purely for your entertainment. So selfless of me, right? I know.

If any of you know my mother Patty, you know she is responsible for educating our youth, specifically the brattiest miniature seventh and eight grade students in the areas of leadership and world history. And she does an incredible job at it. Seriously. Obviously she doesn’t think they’re the brattiest miniature people, in fact I think she kind of likes them. And they’re pretty lucky to have her. Except for when she accidentally calls them Samantha when she yells at them, because she’s just so used to it. But that’s beside the point. What you may not know is that prior to becoming a teacher, my mommy dearest was a Mary Kay consultant. With big dreams of driving that coveted pink cadilac, and even bigger hair, my mom was equipped with a power suit, hot pink lipstick and a compact. No longer a consultant herself, trading in her brush set for pens and pencils, my mom now has a consultant. A consultant who insisted on educating my mom on skin care, color matching her foundation, selecting the best palette for making her eyes pop, and finishing with complementary lip color. All while I looked on in amazement, sitting around a table with two other Samantha's, two Patty's and a handful of other people I don't remember because their name wasn't Samantha or Patty. No joke. Opting out of a consultation myself, I was just along for the ride. And boy am I glad I came. Not only because I scored a killer brow gel and sunless tanner – thanks, mom – but because it was hilarious. 

My mom was adamant I try the loveliest shade of bronze eyeshadow. Applying it to my eye lid with a disposable brush, it was then my mom, within inches of my face, whispered I’m so happy we could share this time together. My cheeks cramping in an effort to not immediately burst in to laughter, and fearful the tears would ruin my new look, I was able to keep composure before completely losing it on the ride home. Before you start thinking I’m some rude, insensitive creature ruining a tender and sentimental moment between mother and daughter, please note that I’m sitting in a rumpus room, eating break-and-bake chocolate chip cookies, with my mother who, with the exception of her disposable cloth headband, looks like she could be stepping on to a red carpet at 6pm on a Tuesday evening, and realize the hilarity of the situation. It might actually make the moment even sweeter. Because that moment, both of us poorly attempting to hide our laughter, looking like clowns and taking our turn in the circle telling the other ladies how much we enjoy their hibiscus lip color {which it totally the shade of summer, btw}, was maybe one of best ever. 

Risking my own safety, this is my mom the Mary Kay consultant, circa 1989, complete with her makeup tool box. 

Mom, please don't kill me. 

I love you. 

Birthday Girl.

With my twenty fourth birthday celebrations finally coming to a close, I could not be more exhausted. I wish someone had warned me how much twenty four would take out of me. Maybe it’s because I celebrated for two weeks. But doesn’t everyone do that? Brining in twenty four with a bang, I can honestly say, I have the best family and friends in the whole wide world, and I am so thrilled I was able to celebrate with every last one of them. So let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

My actual birthday was full of everything a birthday should be full of. I slept in late, had ice cream for breakfast, champagne for lunch and Mexican food for dinner. If you’ve ever enjoyed the salted caramel organic gelato from N’Ice Cream on Abbott Kinney, you’d know why this is the obvious choice for a birthday breakfast. Bubbles at The Other Room was mandatory, and oh so sophisticated, being that I’m in my mid twenties. And when isn’t Mexican food the best thing ever? Never. Joined by some of the best friends I could imagine spending the day with, birthday or otherwise, it was even better. But may I please take a second to gush about my cake? The cake that we most definitely ate before departing for dinner. The cake that I took one look at and assumed came from some super amazing, uber chic bakery. The cake that my friends just had to top with trick candles. Well, that cake was made by Heidi – who last year made me the most delectable cookies and cream cupcakes, and decorated my house with balloons, streamers and confetti, confetti that makes me smile every time I vacuum up a straggler trapped in my shaggy rug. If this blog had existed at the time, I would have told you all about it. But I didn’t. Sorry. But I wasn’t lying when I said I had the best friends ever, was I?

Continuing the celebration, the very next morning I flew home to the Napa Valley. Going home for Easter, the timing coinciding with my birthday was pure coincidence. And I couldn’t have taken better advantage of it, celebrating everywhere I went and putting candles in any dessert possible. Red velvet cake at Tyler Florence’s Rotisserie & Wine, champagne toasts at Mumm, oreo ice cream sandwiches at Rutherford Grill, apple side cars at Farmstead. I could seriously go on and on. My short trip extended itself in to a two week vacation, so you can imagine how keeping this up can be quite exhausting. But well worth it. With so many impromptu celebrations, I almost forgot about my birthday party. Inspired by this party, I had a few girlfriends over for bubbles and Brie. Lounging in my parents kitchen, circled around the most delicious spread, we could have stayed there all night. But we didn’t. After accessorizing with the most beautiful floral birthday girl headband courtesy of Cecelia, we headed downtown to Morimoto, the Iron Chef’s latest spot on the Napa riverfront. Drinking juicy pineapple cocktails and sporting the most hilarious moustaches, my traveling birthday party was even more fun than I could have even imagined. And I have a pretty great imagination. I really don’t know why I was ever so worried about twenty four. It’s been a blast. Twenty five, now that will be a tough one. 

And now if I may, a mustache montage. 

Wills + Kate

Did you watch the Royal Wedding?  I certainly did. Probably about four times. To a princess in waiting, this is big news.  I have been in love with Prince William for as long as I can remember. Well, until Harry grew out of his awkward ginger phase into the seriously dashing, rebellious young prince he is. Really, there is a postcard of Wills that has made it’s home on my parents refrigerator for at least a decade. It now feels slightly wrong leaving it up there, being that he is a married man and all. But in any case, Harry is still available, isn’t he? I’m sorry, but on again off again girlfriend Chelsy Davy arrived disheveled, looking like a royal hot mess. Definitely no Diana.

Dominating every channel on television for days, the royal wedding was hard to escape. And seriously, why would you want to? I mean, she arrived in a car as a commoner and left in a carriage as a princess. Seriously. So even though Kate stole my boyfriend and preempted my fantasy wedding by one day, I still have Derek, and I still attended the royal wedding in my pajamas, and a tiara. I even made a union jack fruit pizza for the occasion, seen here. Recipe below.

Providing the champagne, and joining my mom, sister and I for the first royal wedding of my lifetime was my fellow fashion policeman, Cecelia. Obviously, Posh and Becks were our highlights. While Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie could have used some work. The Queen looked like an Easter egg. And Kate was stunning. Seriously, the picture of perfection. Such a major moment for Sarah Burton. A McQueen fit for a queen. The perfect combination of modern style and classic elegance. Obviously, I could go on and on.

 

But the wedding. Let’s talk about the wedding. How excruciating was that four minute walk down the aisle? I just loved when Harry turned around to check out Kate as she came closer. Obviously, because I love everything about Harry, but also because I thought it was such a tender moment between the two brothers. I’m not sure what he said when he nudged Wills, but I’d like to think it was something like, She’s far too good looking for you, or maybe Are you sure? I even read one report – yes, I read reports about the royal wedding – that thought Harry had said I bet she’s not wearing any knickers. What a charmer. And did you just die when they first locked eyes and William turned to his blushing bride with the happiest of smiles telling her she looked beautiful. Swoon. Loved that they replaced I do with I will and obey with keep. And that kiss. I mean kisses. I die. 

In case you’ve forgotten, my wedding is this evening. Obviously, I’ve imposed a mandatory fascinator dress code. I’ve invited Elton John to sing in the choir. And I plan on wearing Alexander McQueen. Or something that looks like it. I better go get ready. 

Union Jack Flag Fruit Pizza

Ingredients

Crust

1 pouch (1 lb 1.5 oz) Betty Crocker® sugar cookie mix

1/2 cup butter or margarine, softened

1 egg

Filling

1 package (8 oz) cream cheese, softened

1/3 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Topping

4 cups sliced fresh strawberries

3 cups fresh blueberries

1 cup fresh raspberries

Directions

1. Heat oven to 350°F. Line 15x10x1-inch or 13x9-inch pan with foil. Spray bottom only of foil with cooking spray. In large bowl, stir cookie mix, butter and egg until soft dough forms. Press evenly in bottom of pan. Bake 15 to 20 minutes or until light golden brown. Cool completely, about 30 minutes.

2. In small bowl, beat cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with electric mixer on medium speed until fluffy. Spread mixture over cooled crust.

3. Arrange fruit over cream cheese. Refrigerate at least 1 hour until chilled. To serve, cut into 5 rows by 4 rows. Cover and refrigerate any remaining fruit pizza.