california – Britt Skrabanek

The Winner of the Worst San Francisco Hair

Over the weekend votes were pouring in for my crazy hair from our recent San Francisco trip.

Many of you were much too sweet, saying that I was somehow pulling off a few of these windswept hairstyles. Of course flattery will get you everywhere, so…thank you!

It’s important for us to laugh at ourselves from time to time, right? In this era of social media, selfies, etc., we can sidestep the “image” and have some fun.

Without further ado, the winner of Britt’s Worst San Francisco Hair is…

THE HAIR BASKET

What people had to say about The Hair Basket…

Carrie “You could carry your wallet in there. Or your leftovers. Or…”

Mike “I would call it ‘The Escaping Comb Over’.”

Letizia “I would love you to put mousse in your hair and just wear it in that position for a day and see what reactions you get. Having said that, you live in Portland where I think anything goes so maybe you’ll just start a new trend.”

Andrea “Has to be the basket for me, it’s like a piece of sculpture.”

Thanks to everyone who voted!

P.S. Nola Fran Evie goes on sale tomorrow (6/3 – 6/5) for $0.99!

A Seasonal Perspective

Fall…is there anything more enchanting? The colors and scents are a charismatic feast for the senses, captivating every age with equal magnitude.

I never had seasons growing up, I had perfect Southern California weather. I know what you’re thinking. Oh, poor Britt! That must have been unbearable.

Honestly, in many ways…without seasons I missed out.

I didn’t get to crash into a pile of leaves, fashion snow angels, or smell flowers come back to life. My wardrobe was the same year-round–no fun boots, coats, or other toasty accessories.

Profoundly in tune with the seasons, our bodies are cyclical. Even if the climate reflects idyllic conditions in the form of sunshine and clear skies, the absence of seasons can be strangely unsettling. Year after year, the comfort of the holidays is muted and the excitement for summer is ho-hum.

Post-Cali I spent seven cranky years in the sweltering heat of Texas. I’m a hot-natured person—big surprise—so boiling temps are definitely not my bag, baby.

Since moving to Wisconsin a few years ago, I have participated in all of the previously mentioned seasonal activities, fulfilling my childish wishes at long last.

Now that the seasons are mine to cherish, I could never live without them. By and large, fall is my favorite and I used my newly discovered infatuation to enhance the setting in Everything’s Not Bigger.

The main character, Jaye Davis, spends her childhood in Arizona and early adulthood in Texas, making her the catalyst for unearthing this overlooked notion, a missing link in her life. Upon traveling to Prague in October, she marvels at the basic nature she has always been denied.

An excerpt from Everything’s Not Bigger…

She halted on the sidewalk to soak in the beautiful tree-lined street. Prague in autumn was a breathtaking sight: striking mothers pushed strollers across gold, leaf-littered sidewalks; fat, daredevil squirrels darted between cars stockpiling nuts for winter; picturesque schoolchildren in plaid uniforms played hopscotch after school.

Every crunchy step she took over the brilliant leaves was a relishing moment. A stealthy breeze lifted the bottom of her coat, sending a tiny chill up her body. Everywhere it smelled like crisp foliage with the slightest hint of cinnamon.

Disrupting the magic, her stomach rudely reminded her of its incessant need for nourishment. Jaye opted to grab a bite at a street vendor, so she could spend the remaining daylight wisely, taking in the magical city at a snail’s pace.

And there at the street vendor, her exquisite autumn fantasy came to a bitter end. The mobile shed housed an impatient college kid, decorated with multiple facial piercings. Jaye investigated the menu bordering the top of the little window, and fidgeted with the strap of her handbag.

Jaye regarded the numbered images skeptically, head moving left to right, then right to left. Each bowl of goulash looked the same as its neighbor, and there were five choices. None looked edible.

After only one day, she felt homesick. Food had been the trigger.

Just as her grandmother and aunt had in their kitchen, Texas had one redeeming quality—the food was to die for. Tex-Mex, barbeque, and spicy brunches were available on every corner of Dallas. Due to deliciously fond memories of her grandmother’s cooking, she hadn’t thought much about Czech cuisine. Now that she discovered this goulash street buffet, Jaye realized her childhood menu was a Tex-Czech fusion—unfairly savory, and unavailable elsewhere.

Customers ignored her as she stood dumbly on the sidewalk. She crept away.

Out of nowhere she saw a godsend—Weasel Wich, a familiar American sandwich chain, its boring facade standing out like a hooker in a fancy museum. Surrounded on all sides by historic architectural gems, the cheesy signage was a little piece of home. She made a beeline for the doors, licking her lips at the thought of mediocre sandwich fare.

I promise this is the last book snippet I will bombard you all with. Thank you for obliging me and sharing your comments and feedback.

Everything’s Not Bigger releases this Saturday the 10th!

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San Diego, Day 1: Wipeout

As the suited stranger next to me opens the airplane window, my bleary eyes impatiently adjust, eager to soak in the aerial wonders of San Diego, California. I’m a window seat gal, but I got stuck in the middle.

Me and the aisle guy peer over the window guy’s shoulder to catch a glimpse, hovering over his personal space like kids, no regard for boundaries.

Frankly, after being crammed in that stuffy tin can for hours—bumping elbows and knees, shutting out crying babies, playing musical chairs for bathroom trips—the three of us are war buddies.

Awake since 5am, I’ve journeyed 2,118 miles from Lake Michigan to the Pacific Ocean. I left my precious home, hubby, and cats for the first time in years.

I’m disoriented until that window opens. I relish in the nostalgia of the first twenty years of my young life—Los Angeles, not San Diego. Still, the comforting SoCal vibe soothes me as we make our descent.

Smog commandeers the skies, serving as the tollbooth of pollution. Palm trees dart into the air, posing like tall, skinny girls with unkempt hair. Backyard pools litter the terrain, refreshing the parched landscape in a casual manner.

The California girl is home.

What’s the best way to conquer jet lag? Lunch on the beach.

My gal pal Devon and I relax on the sandy patio of Poseidon. A calamari sandwich with fries and a couple of Bloody Mary’s perk me right up. It’s OK if you’re jealous of our view…

After a tight squeeze into my sassy, retro onesie and a generous coating of SPF 50, I’m whisked away to scenic Windansea Beach in La Jolla to meet up with my other dear friend, Naeiry.

My friends ask me why I’m so quiet and I blame jet lag. But, that isn’t the truth.

The beach and I are enjoying each other’s long lost company. I toy with the sand, digging past the dry surface until I excavate damp grains. I build unattractive mounds of absolutely nothing. I tag my blog in the sand, because I can’t refrain from writing.

The airplane stench is carelessly blanketed by a salty, fishy breeze. The tireless editing of my second novel is shushed by each lulling wave. Any stress becomes unimportant, wiped out by the ocean’s aggressive serenity.

The three of us decide to take a dip to cool off. Our trio makes the unanimous, rookie mistake of sporting our sunglasses in the choppy water. My beachy prowess is rusty and I squeal at the biting water temperatures.

You can probably guess what happens next…wipeout!

Remembering my sea legs, I dive under a commendable wave. It barrels forward, swallowing my unsuspecting friends. If you’ve ever been worked over by a wave before, you know it’s a humbling experience.

Devon proves her aquatic agility by holding onto her pricey shades. Naeiry loses hers during the hullabaloo. Upon resurfacing, off-kilter bikini bottoms are put back in their rightful places.

I whip around to come to their rescue, which of course turns out to be a monumental slipup.

I let the ocean have her way with me—flipping me upside down, stealing my sunglasses (cheapies, but brand new), and best of all, exposing one of my boobs to the lazing spectators.

Miraculously, our sunglasses are retrieved.

We all do the walk of shame back to our striped towel territory. I do my best to straighten out my wonky shades. We pull seaweed out of our suits, wipe our salty snot discreetly, and have a good laugh.

The sea is a finicky saboteur. She lures you in with her intoxicating perfume, her come-hither beauty, her complex tranquility. Then she steals your accessories, beats you up, and makes you flash everyone.

You know what, beach? You’re kind of a beoch sometimes. It’s a good thing you’re a looker. I guess we can still be friends. Love always…California girl.

Stay tuned for San Diego, Day 2: Chic’s Up, the city’s cosmopolitan side, on Friday.