April Favorites: My go-to swimsuit, easy white denim, and a game-changing makeup tip

Plus, the one thing that's eased my headaches

The other day, I climbed a ladder to reach a high shelf in our garage, a borderline dangerous move in the name of nostalgia. It’s crammed with boxes and baskets filled with things we rarely use but can’t seem to part with. Tucked among them were a few black canvas CD cases, holding G’s and my old collections.

Our music tastes have always been worlds apart, with only a handful of overlapping favorites, but flipping through the albums from our teenage years made the contrast even more striking. Mine were mainly mix CDs handmade by friends, exes, or my overly dramatic younger self. Ugh, the mems that were unlocked, seeing them all and how they were decorated. There was no thrill quite like crafting the perfect playlist and then sealing the deal with a dorky title. Or, as was my signature move, sharing a specific lyric from one of the included songs.

After a few minutes of digging, I found what I’d been hoping for: a CD with a random, chaotic lineup of songs and buried in it, the elusive cover of Boys Don’t Cry I’d been trying to track down for years. I learned it's by Victor Maloy, and while it doesn’t come close to the original, there’s something about it: soft, sad, stripped-down, that stayed with me. And apparently, the only place you can find it is in a dusty corner of YouTube.

When Sloan came home from school and saw me sitting cross-legged on the floor with CDs scattered around, she looked mesmerized. I started explaining how it all worked - burning songs, labeling discs, the heartbreak of a scratch - and I’d never felt more ancient in that moment. Like a museum tour guide. Or a grandma. An emotionally fragile grandma with excellent taste in sad boy music.

Since then, I’ve been spiraling (gently!) over the idea that making playlists was once a love language. Like, here's my heart: track 7, specifically, and a weird remix of a French pop song I thought might make me seem mysterious. It was vulnerability disguised as curation, and honestly? It slapped. When G and I started talking (over AOL Instant Messenger, because I am one hundred), he’d send me a “Song of the Day” every morning. I felt so seen, so adored. Naturally, I obsessively dissected every lyric, questioning if they hinted at more profound feelings. Spoiler: they did. And for once, the over-analysis paid off.

Since then, G and I have made dozens of joint playlists. We put them on during the holidays, when we’re entertaining, or when we hit the freeway at the start of a road trip. But I can’t remember the last time I made a playlist for someone else. And I think it’s time to bring that back.

When Cristina and I celebrated our birthdays in Napa this past weekend, the playlist came together on its own. Wildflowers by Tom Petty. Wide Open Spaces by The Chicks. Obvious choices, maybe, but they felt exactly right. The songs were warm and literal, matching the rhythm of those slow, sun-soaked thirty-six hours in wine country.

So, here's your reminder, and mine too, to create a hyper-specific, almost-too-niche playlist for yourself or someone you love. It might not come with hand-drawn hearts or a clever title scribbled in gel pen, but even as a Spotify link, it still gets the point across.