This photo of my grandmother, Nina Popova Kapanadze, was taken in Sukhumi, the capital of what is now considered the Republic of Abkhazia, on the eastern coast of the Black Sea, around 1954. Grandma Nina’s style has always been classic and tailored, and she’s only worn clothing that suits her perfectly. I love how happy and relaxed she looks in this picture, as she poses seaside in a polished gingham dress and walking sandals. It must have been a good day.

Grandma, now 92, has never worn anything off the rack. She’s either made her own clothes (a great skill to have during war rationing) or altered store-bought ones. In the 1940s, when trench coats were all the rage, she stayed up all night making herself one to wear to the premier of a traveling circus show the following night. Grandma and Grandpa were lead dancers in the city’s biggest dance troupe, so they never had a problem securing the best tickets to any show in town. Needles to say, no other woman at the … //READ MORE

For years, some of us had a little secret and it was called etsy.com. Now just about everyone has caught on to this amazing purveyor of all things homemade and affordable, and it’s still the first place we visit to find truly one-of-a-kind items, whether for the walls of our home or all the parts of our body that require adornment. As Red Typewriter makes its debut, here are a few etsy finds that celebrate the passion and eccentricity of the writing machine itself—some in fiery hues, and others more subdued.

At right: Olivetti red Valentine typewriter print by Ettore Sottsass; Rumore Bianco, $22. Clockwise from top left: The Shining typewriter retro print in aqua/coral; The Designers Nursery, $30. “All You Need is Love” retro typewriter poster; printdesignstudio, $18. Vintage wedding guest book print; HelloAm, $39.90. Blue Typewriter original oil painting; Latreia Designs, $60. Linocut print of a 1930s red Remington; Echinus Editions, $80. All typewriter art found on etsy.com.

As a native New Yorker and someone who loves singing Broadway tunes (at least in the privacy of my shower), I am one of musical theatre’s biggest fans. But for the last decade or so, even I have grown weary of the increasing lack of creativity when it comes to The Great White Way. Sure, there have been some beautiful originals—Once and The Book of Mormon come to mind—but the regurgitations have quickly outpaced the newly invented. The latest movie rip-offs to hit Broadway are based on two very different film blockbusters, the wickedly dark 1988 teen comedy Heathers and the 1995 romance The Bridges of Madison County, which was based on the 1992 best-selling novel by Robert James Waller. While neither may end up being best-musical material come Tony time, both shows sound like saucy fun—if only for the tornadoes of torrid romance in which their characters are swept up.

Heathers the Musical, which opened recently at New World Stages, tells the story of Veronica Sawyer, a teenage misfit who half-heartedly tries to work her way into a ruthless clique called The Heathers. After the leader of the group ostracizes her, Veronica falls for a mysterious new kid at school, J.D., who leads her down a devious and homicidal path of revenge. “Dear Diary: my teen-angst bullshit now has a body count,” is one of the most popular lines from the film, which starred a young Winona Ryder, Christian Slater and Shannen Doherty.

Heathers, whose music, lyrics and book were written by Laurence O’Keefe and Kevin Murphy, describes itself as a “truthful, uplifting parable for anyone who’s ever been in love, in trouble, or in high school.” A triple threat indeed.

If teenage angst is too much for you to handle, brace yourself for the angst of a Midwestern farm wife who must choose between her boring yet reliable life and the soulmate-caliber intimacy she forges with a mysterious stranger. Playing now at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, Bridges of Madison County the Musical is the tale of Francesca Johnson’s four-day love affair with smoldering photographer Robert Kincaid, who’s in town to do a feature on the state’s famous covered bridges.

The longing that hangs between the characters—like one of the drawbridges Robert is hired to photograph—is sexy and palpable.

Where the musical is lacking—it doesn’t have Meryl Streep, Clint Eastwood, or the steamy chemistry that sizzled between them in the movie—it makes up for with a beautiful songbook, written by Jason Robert and sung by Kelli O’Hara and Steven Pasquale. There’s real yearning in ballads like “Falling Into You” and “Who We Are & Who We Want to Be,” and the longing that hangs between the characters—like one of the drawbridges Robert is hired to photograph—is sexy and palpable. The musical fills in the mysteries of Kincaid’s life that were left blank in the film version, with the addition of a new character—his sad and lonely ex-wife—revealing something about this mystery man’s complicated history.

Directed by Barlett Sher, with a book by Marsha Norman and music and lyrics by Jason Robert Brown, Bridges taps into every housewife’s fantasy but ultimately justifies her decision to remain a good wife and mother. Was Waller playing it safe with the ending? Perhaps. But, unlike in the Heathers ending, at least there’s no body count.

As for me? I’m more of a drama girl who can’t wait to see James Franco and Chris O’Dowd in the latest Broadway reincarnation of Of Mice and Men. I’ll take a mentally retarded puppy killer over singing housewives anytime.

A few months back I was in the place where every avid reader finds herself at some point in time. I had just read Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and didn’t know anyone else who had (OK, I was a little late in the game, as I had been reading nothing but non-fiction for three years!). The point is, I was alone and bereft in my Gillian-loving world—and wanting more than anything to discuss the book with someone equally enthralled. As far as I was concerned, reading this novel was the most seismic, thought-provoking, mind-blowing experience I had ever had (aside from a recent relocation to a new country, a major career change, and a reluctant parting with 25 pairs of my favorite shoes), and no one knew what I was going on about.

So I did the obvious thing: I started an online book club. And that has turned out to be the best thing I have done in the past year (aside from changing careers and shifting across timelines). I now have my very own group of book-obsessed, wacky cohorts who are reading the same fiction and non-fiction as I am and can’t wait to let it all hang out—both on the book page, and together even when there is no book discussion. Of course, what makes my book club—or any book club for that matter—both fun and addictive are the group dynamics. If you make sure you have these six types of women represented in your club, you are … //READ MORE

One of the things I admire about singer-songwriter Nicole Atkins, aside from her silky-yet-raspy-raw vocals, is the Everywoman appeal that manifests itself in her chameleon-like stage presence. One minute the New Jersey native is wearing a ladylike dress and pumps, belting out a torch song on Dave Letterman, or demurely answering Scott Simon’s civilized questions on NPR. The next, she’s flinging the F-bomb while dancing teasingly around a nightclub stage in a neo-hippie caftan. I had the pleasure of watching her do the later on a recent evening at Slims in San Francisco—a wet, windy, badass night on which many of her fans would’ve been justified in staying home and keeping dry. But they came anyway, because, well, their diva had just blown into town.

Atkins made venturing out in the rain—on a weeknight, no less—worth their while. “It’s a Monday night and you guys came out—I’m gonna cry,” she purred into one of two microphones set up on the small stage, which during songs she’d been moving back and forth between, like a woman torn between two equally desirable lovers. “It’s not even my birthday this time. But you still shoulda brought cake.”

The 35-year-old Italian-American singer spent the bulk of the show performing songs from her recently released third album, Slow Phaser, her first … //READ MORE

She’s got medical degrees from Yale and Stanford. She’s on the board of directors of the California Society of Dermatology and Dermatologic Surgery. She’s a clinical professor at the University of California, San Francisco. But most important, she’s a good sport when it comes to inspecting the scars of party guests she’s just met.

Meet renowned San Francisco dermatologist Jacqueline Dolev, owner of Dolev Dermatology in the prestigious Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco. One might expect a woman with such an impressive dossier and upscale address to be a tad uppity. But Dr. Dolev is as charismatic and down-to-earth as they come, with a complexion as bright as her intellect (no surprise there). She’s also as funny as hell. Here, she addresses our concerns about everything from snake oil to self skin checks, and even lets us in on a little secret about what not to do after hopping onto the examination table. … //READ MORE