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Oh, man.

Let me just start off with that short, two-word sentiment. I have been fighting the flu and laryngitis for more than a week now (hence, my major blog absence…sorry!), and in the thick of the sickness, flew to Idaho to visit my family. The occasion: my paternal grandmother, better known as “Lil’ Grandma,” Stella’s 92nd birthday. Let me tell you: That lady has fire. Pep. Pizzazz. Panache. Whatever you like to call it, I need to bottle it up and shoot it back on days when I’m feeling down.

While I didn’t exactly venture out to document the beauty and fashion of Boise, I did snap off as many pictures as my sick-y self could muster. Let’s call it a little photo diary. And away we go!

I’m an over-packer by nature, and the problem extends to lipsticks and lip glosses. It’s not a horrible problem to have, but it’s pretty time-consuming. I literally sit and go through ALL of my lipsticks and glosses and figure out which ones would work best with what I’m packing. These are the guys that made the cut.

When your backpack trumps the size of your plane, maybe you should turn around and go home. I’m not a fan of flying, and these small planes do very little to ease my fears. On the flip side, large planes also send me into tailspins. Really: Something that big in the air? Doesn’t make sense…and yet, I fly.

A bunch of kitties have taken a shine to my parents. This one’s name is Missy, and she’s the sweetest cat I’ve met outside of my own. The hubby made fast friends with her; this is probably my favorite shot of our Idaho travels.

When it comes to self-portraits, I’m not jiving with them. But, I need to start, because that’s part of this whole bloggin’ biz. I thought my makeup looked pretty nice, so I snapped a quick photo. What you see: Illamasqua Matte Lipstick in Over, a vibrant coral, and NARS Eyeliner Stilo in Carpates (black). What you can’t see: Two dogs running around loose in the back cab of the pickup truck flying down the road next to us. Apparently this is normal. But very, very unsafe for the pooches.

We ventured with my folks into Boise to eat at Fork, a super-delish restaurant that is beyond cheap. Prices in Idaho: Can’t be beat. (PS: If you’re curious about my duds, those jeans are Henry & Belle and top is Amanda Uprichard.)

New York City, take note: Artisan drinks do not need to cost $18 a pop. To wit: This is Fork’s Huckleberry Moonshine Julep, and it’s only $7.95.

Sign me up: Bloody Mary garnished with a deep-fried, blue-cheese-stuffed olive

First birthday dinner: Lil’ Grandma throws back a ginormous margarita. With an extra kicker shot.

My Norman Rockwell doppelganger: Everyone tells me I look like her.

Everyone tells me I look like her (on the right) also: That’s me and my brother, circa forever ago. Dig his band aid and my bowl cut.

You know what you see a lot of in Idaho? Corn. You know what you don’t see? Potatoes. Although, if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t really know what a potato field looks like. But the big joke in Boise is that restaurants in Idaho don’t serve Idaho potatoes; they’re all sent elsewhere. Strange, no?

Unearthed our namesake drink. Frostie was my nickname in high school.

We stumbled upon the most interesting consignment/antique store, and this figurine caught my eye because the hubby always says this very phrase to me: “I think you’re nice.” And he holds his hand to his mouth like that while he says it too. No he doesn’t, but it’s funny to picture.

Creepy dolls. Enough said.

The food yearnings of Elvis! Enough said.

This is the scenery of Idaho: farmhouse, silo, horse trailer. Repeat. A nice break from the gray skyscrapers of NYC.

Aphids flocked to me. This guy struck up a conversation with my rings.

The wall behind me features a bunch of running mustangs, and it’s extremely beautiful. But, you’ll only get to see their hooves here. They’re nice hooves, right?

Perhaps this is why I had laryngitis: We continued to “celebrate” birthdays throughout the trip. Because, you see, it’s also my birthday. And the only way to truly fete another year is to wear a sombrero.

When you’re 92, gifts come in the form of chocolate. TONS of it.

And, when you’re 92, you’re allowed to “spit your claim” on your cake. Yes: To deter us from touching her piece, she’s doing the old “lick-and-touch” trick. It works.

This year, I took the family portrait. Did I do good? (My dress: Charlie Jade.)

But, naturally, “serious” is boring. Hence, nose-picking, asphyxiation and strong-arming.

And now it’s time to bury myself under the covers and get some rest. Or maybe bury myself under my hair. That ought to do it.

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