Top: Wet Seal
Bag: Bueno, Marshalls
Belt: Candie's, Kohl's
Sunglasses: Candie's, Kohl's
Top: Merona, Target
Shoes: Guess, DSW
Bag: XOXO, Ross
Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's
Cardigan: Mossimo, Target
Skirt: Candie's, Kohl's
Shoes: Dolce by Mojo Moxy, Shoe Dept.
Bag: Candie's, Kohl's
Big, colorful blooms make great backdrops, as seen with this week's trio of rain florist-flanked rhinestones. No surprise there. Exotic flowers have a rep for being the most dramatic, both in appearance and temperament. We turn to the hibiscus, the orchid, and the bird of paradise when we want to make a splash, whether it's by the pool or for some kind of formal (that is, if we're talking orchids -- and the formal's a luau). Yet everyday blossoms breed their own brand of intrigue, however seemingly safe behind white picket fences. Take the dandelion. It's the Transformer of the weed world, magically morphing from a strong, sunny circle to a cloud of ethereal white fluff. Or wisteria. I only recently learned that this pretty purple vine is a ruthless tree strangler, a piece of trivia no doubt horded by horticulturists and "Desperate Housewives" fans. Yep, garden variety flowers have a certain cachet, whatever their super powers. I'm so taken with them that I've decided, after years of thinking the venture hopeless, to grow a few of my own.
Fledgling green thumb or not, like most people, I don't like change. Despite all the conveniences available to help us cope in this cuckoo world, I find myself clinging to stuff that's old school (including the movie Old School, which airs on TBS about once a month). I write checks instead of using online bill pay, listen to CDs instead of MP3s, take pictures with a camera instead of my phone, and watch TV in real time instead of On Demand. But of all these outdated rituals, the one I enjoy the most is reading books on paper instead of a screen. Because I want to experience it all. Vicariously. From the comfort of my couch. And everyone knows that it's just not the same curling up with a Kindle. So I was particularly pleased to have recently read this nostalgic nod of a passage in Sophie Littlefield's A Bad Day for Scandal:
"(Stella) Paused at the book aisle. Cast a sidelong glance down the neat rows of best sellers. She used to love to read, her bedside table stacked with thrillers and mysteries and historical romances from the library. Once Ollie was dead, she treated herself to an occasional hardcover - she loved the feel, the smell, the sensation of letting the pages flutter against her fingertips. Only, ever since she'd taken up the banner in defense of the defenseless, it seemed like her days ended in the kind of exhaustion that didn't do well with reading a chapter or two." (177)
Although many a print book proponent gets all flowery about the feel of the pages, I never tire of hearing it (especially from a vigilante browsing a rural Missouri Walmart). There's just something special, almost hallowed, about the aura of tangible objects, and that goes double for books. They seem to have histories and personalities that can't be unlocked by a cold, charmless screen. Now might be a good time to admit the irony of saying so on a blog (an acknowledgement that I've made at least once before in these some 1,000 posts). But then again, a collection of ramblings, however colorful, is not the same as a piece of fiction, and so does not demand the same timeless trappings.
Take that, Kindle. You too, Ollie. Because the pen is mightier than the sword. Except when the sword is a Taser or whatever weapon it was that Stella was wielding when she did you in. If there's a takeaway somewhere in here, then it's this: never cross a woman with a library card.
Even though I think that libraries smell funny.