Going, going, gone.

It's always easier to be the one who leaves, isn't it?

I'm often the person who is leaving. Most frequently, I leave my parents' house (and my parents) to drive back to Sarasota, back to my life here. When I visit my family in Pennsylvania, I'm the one who comes and goes--they stay. And because my apartment is so small (and, all right, because it's also sometimes very messy), I usually hang out at my friends' houses--which means I leave there, too. And you know what? I never think twice about it. It rarely feels unnatural. I guess that's the plus side of being the leaver--you're the one who is moving on.

But this weekend, two of my favorite people both left me in Sarasota. And, oh, doesn't that sound dramatic? I should clarify that it was neither dramatic nor did they leave me, you know, forever: one is going to South Africa for a three-week vacation (hi, my name is Jealous, not in the least because it's winter in the southern hemisphere and a face-melting 95 degrees here--are you tired of playing that tiny violin for me yet?); the other lives in north Florida and is simply going home before we reconnect next weekend. But still, for someone who is usually the leaver--or at least thinks she is--the other side of the coin is strange. I felt melancholy for the first part of the morning; there's a little hollowness inside me.

It'll pass. It always does. By tomorrow afternoon, I'll be caught up in the rhythm of the week: My fingers tapping against computer keys, responding to emails in the morning; my car wheels rolling over asphalt on the way to the various places I go throughout the day; a bowl of popcorn near me on the coffee table as I talk on the phone to my other wonderful friends who live in town; my arms and legs starfish-ed across my bed at night because I'll be the only one in it again. Life goes on and we adjust. We just do.

I still think it's always easier being the one who leaves, though.

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head.

If you live anywhere in the state of Florida, chances are you've gotten drenched at some point in the last 24 to 48 hours. Case in point: I was picking up my lunch yesterday and got caught in sideways rain and wind so intense that it turned my umbrella inside out and then made my car shake while I was stopped  at a red light. ("Is there a tropical storm I don't know about?" I wondered--quite seriously--several times prior to getting safely back inside my office building, albeit with sopping-wet shoes, pants, shirt and hair.)

It was so windy, in fact, that it reminded me of the time I thought I was stuck in a car wash and decided to climb out of the car while the car wash was still on. Oh yes, I did do that, and it's a tale that prompted my mother, when I told her about it, to roll her eyes and wonder why she'd spent so much money on my college education.

But anyway! That's a story for another time. Back to the one at hand.

Yesterday was the worst of the rain, at least so far, and when I'd gotten inside and thrown myself into my desk chair, relieved to be in a place where water was not falling from the sky, I looked down at my soaked leather heels--boohoo!--and thought, "I should really get a pair of rain boots." I had a similar thought last Friday, when it was also raining, and when I was hopping around outside--in a pair of gold shoes, no less--like a maniacal fairy, trying to cross the street while at the same time trying to avoid the huge, deep puddles of water that had accumulated as a result of the City of Sarasota's very bad drainage system.

So: rain boots? Yes or no--and specifically yes or no for someone who lives in  Florida, where the weather is temperamental? It'll be sunny one moment, pouring down rain the next, then sunny again. Often, it will rain heavily in one place and not another, and those places can be as close as your front and back yards. Also, you can see rain coming here; if you're in the car, for example, you can often see the sheets you're about to drive into long before you actually reach them. (Do you experience that where you live, too? A friend of mine who lives up north said it's not like that there. Is it?)

And if the answer is still yes, what kind? There's the iconic Hunters, of course (and I love the coral color, above, although I'd probably go for black or olive green), but they are expensive--as are Kate Spade's, which are adorable and feature bows. Target makes cute ones, but I'm afraid my friends and family will disown me if I bring home another polka dot item. Do you wear rain boots? Is the buy/wear ratio worth the investment? Pleas share.

(And yes, I realize I just wrote a whole post about rain boots--I live a wild and crazy life, I tell you.)

Photo via

Let's chat.

I have some things I would like to discuss.

1. Mrs. Meyer's cleaning products. Do you use them? If you don't, you are seriously missing out. My favorite, favorite, favorite scent is geranium, because it sends me back to summers at my grandparents' house in Pennsylvania, sitting at the stools in the kitchen as a breeze blew in through the open windows. (Related: I think my middle name should be "Nostalgia.") My second favorite scent is honeysuckle. It is glorious.

2. Josie Maran argan color stick in Petal Pink. I love Josie Maran's cosmetics line; her argan oil has become a daily staple, as has her argan lip treatment (it feels so good on my perma-chapped lips). The lip treatment is kind of thick, though, so when I need something moisturizing that also has a little bit of color, I swipe on this stuff, which is the perfect shade of pink. (Her Magic Marker cheek and lip stain is also delightful.) And in other lips-related news, Rosebud Salve is also really great.

3. These shoes. I am a woman obsessed. I really want them. I tend to buy a pair of wedges every summer, and usually a cheapie pair from Target because I also tend to walk hard and therefore ruin said wedges. So, yes: I wear them until they break, and when they do, I typically tumble to the floor in a terribly embarrassing way, often in my office or in front of someone important, usually while wearing a skirt. Anyway, all that to say that I love this pair and I wish they would go on sale.

4. Mad Men. Oh, Mad Men. Do you watch? Please tell me you watch. The past few episodes have been so great, and Sunday night's moved me (and also freaked me out) to the point where I thought about it all day on Monday. Like, I was sitting in my lunch meeting at work, crunching on a potato chip and thinking about Mad Men. I was typing emails, but thinking about Mad Men. I was talking to people -- coherently, I hope -- but thinking about Mad Men. You get my point. I think Season Four is my favorite (and "The Suitcase" is by far my favorite episode of that season), but I alternately can't wait to see next week's episode and am crushed that it means that the season will be over.

5. Pure Barre. Have you guys ever tried this workout? I was supposed to go last night, after work, but guess who forgot she'd agreed to go to a dinner meeting until a reminder popped up in Outlook 15 minutes before said meeting? (Guess who was also in jeans with greasy, ponytailed hair?) So I'm going to another class instead--obviously, since I missed Tuesday's--with my friend Lauren from work, and I'm a little scared that I'm not going to be able move when I wake up the next day. If you've taken a class or are a Pure Barre-or-similar addict, please let me know.

OK, I think that's it. Anything you would like to discuss? Lay it on me!

Photo: Jamie Beck for A Cup of Jo. 

The way to a man's heart.

I was rearranging my bookshelves the other night--they look so much better now, you'll be happy to know--when I found myself clutching my grandmother's yearbooks, which I've written about before and which are chock-full of wonderful details about her life and things that I know I'll treasure forever. I don't know how I got lucky enough to be the person in my family who gets to keep them, but I'm so happy I am, even though I feel a pang when I look at or touch them.

Anyway, I'd carefully placed them in their new spot on my shelves when I glanced down and saw another book of my grandmother's that I'm now the owner of. This isn't like her yearbooks, though; it's quite different.  No, this is The Settlement Cookbook.

Subtitle: The Way to a Man's Heart.

My grandmother wrote her name and the date--1942--inside the front cover of the book, which was authored by someone named "Mrs. Simon Kander" (I love that the publisher included the "Mrs."). It was published in 1941, so right in the throes of World War II, and I'm fairly certain that, by that point, my grandfather was overseas in Europe, so maybe my grandmother was trying to bolster her recipe repertoire for when he got back. I don't know. What I do know is that this book is a veritable encyclopedia of food. Who knew that there were so many ways to prepare a rice ring? Does a potato chocolate torte--made with freshly cooked and riced potatoes--sound good to you? How about sardine pasties, or something called a "snack porcupine"? Mrs. Kander has included all--and many, many, many more--of these recipes inside her book, which weighs in at a whopping 622 pages. In the back, she's even planned out some hypothetical menus for events like "corn on the cob dinner" or "mock steak dinner."

On the first page, my grandmother has transcribed a recipe for bread and butter pickles, which calls for six quarts of sliced cucumbers and instructs the cook to "be careful to avoid boiling, as that makes the pickles soft" (ha! Hello, I'm twelve). On the back, she's written down a recipe for barbecued franks with a Worcestershire-based sauce. I don't know how or why she came to choose those particular recipes to jot down, but I do know that her handwriting in 1942 looks exactly the same as it did last year, which is both comforting and so sad, and I also know that Mrs. Kander's expansive and detailed collection of recipes didn't much help my grandmother in the culinary department; she was never a great cook. (Thankfully, she and my grandfather were already married, so clearly cooking ability was not the only way to a man's heart.)

Still, this is another one of those irreplaceable items that I feel so lucky to have. The dog-eared and stained pages make me feel close to my grandmother--I like thinking of her standing in her kitchen, her brow furrowed as she stirred whatever was simmering in a pot on the stove. And who knows? Maybe someday I'll have an occasion for which I need to make a "snack porcupine," and when I do, I can smile, wipe my hands on my apron, and say that I got the recipe from my grandmother's old cookbook.

Let's talk about my hair some more!

Well, after all the talk of bangs last week, I ended up with...not a lot of bangs. I do, however, have a lot of layers and a really deep, dark, chocolate-y, almost-black color that I am in love with. It may seem counter-intuitive to darken one's hair in the summer, but I march to the beat of my own drummer...or something. And anyway, this color--while darker than my natural dark brown--feels like me, which is a relief.

Don't get me wrong, I really liked the balyage I had put in around the holidays--you can see some of it in the photo above--and the woman who put that color in my hair did a great job. But it started to feel tired after a couple of months, and when I was in Target trying on a maxi dress  a week ago, I noticed a bright blonde stripe right in the middle of my ponytail that was, in some weird way,  totally appalling to me (I believe this is what's known as a "first world problem"). So--because I am fueled in great part by instant gratification--I picked up the phone and made a hair appointment that very day.

The funny thing is, I made an appointment with a stylist who'd cut my hair before, and who cuts my friend Kate's hair regularly and does a great job. So I felt pretty confident in how my 'do was going to turn out. But then, on Friday afternoon, I got a call from a very nice-sounding woman at the salon, informing me that said stylist had sliced her thumb open in a freak kitchen accident and could not fit that digit through her cutting shears. I could reschedule my appointment, she offered apologetically, or switch to a different stylist.

Because I'd been excited about getting my hair cut all week, I decided to keep my appointment but switch stylists, and let me tell you: There is something disconcerting about heading into a situation in which someone who has never touched the hair of anyone you know is about to come at you with a pair of scissors. I'm not even one who's particularly attached to my hair--I lopped off a whopping 10 inches last spring and didn't flinch--and I was still a little wary.

But DeeAnn, the woman who cut and supervised the coloring of my hair, was just lovely, and it's kind of a relief to think that I've finally found a salon I'll be sticking with, and, frankly, always should have stuck with. It's important for a girl to have a good hair salon, I think; there's something about getting a great haircut that boosts the self-esteem.

Plus: head massages while being shampooed.

I mean, come on.