A Play on Nerds: Monsters are Murder

Whenever I settle in with one of Laura Levine's Jaine Austen mysteries, I know I'm in for the Godiva of treats.  Just like Jaine before downing a pint of Chunky Monkey or her cat Prozac poised to inhale her Minced Mackerel Guts.  So when I opened Death by Smoothie, I was set for a feast.

Jaine's latest gig is as a script doctor for computer geek lovers-turned-lottery winners.  They're over the moon to be producing a play of their favorite sitcom, the all-but-forgotten I Married a Zombie.  Yet the duo's dreams are dashed when their talentless leading lady makes an enemy of everyone on set -- and threatens their romance.  So it's no surprise when someone poisons her green smoothie, recasting the undead diva as dead.

Jaine thought she had her hands full resuscitating the script.  But things get really dicey when her neighbor Lance enlists her to find out whodunit.  His actor boyfriend is a suspect, and if there's anything that love-a-holic Lance can't abide, then it's losing his soul mate du jour.  So Jaine dusts off her detective hat and does some digging.  That is, between emails from her wacky parents, hijinks-jammed job interviews, and entertainingly awful dates, all while fueling herself with another Big Mac and/or buttered bagel.  Jaine's sleuthing -- and life -- make for the most deliciously cringeworthy in the cozy genre.  There's no PI I adore more.

Luckily, I can enjoy Jaine's antics for capers to come.  Because despite her dangerous pass time -- and diet -- she has more lives than Prozac.   

Fashion Victim, but Make it Funny

What has JELL-O wrestling, purloined movie props, and "The Cat Who Saved a Toddler's Life"?  Why, Laura Levine's Murder Gets a Makeover, of course!  In this zaniest of Jaine Austen mysteries, Jaine reluctantly agrees to a makeover with a snarky LA stylist as a favor to her insufferable neighbor Lance.  Fashion maven Bebe Braddock is so condescending that she makes Anna Wintour look like Mrs. Claus.  So it's no surprise when she ends up strangled by a wire hanger (somewhere out there, Joan Crawford is cackling).  Unfortunately, Jaine is the prime suspect and goes into PI mode to clear her name.  But this time she isn't trying to catch just a killer.  She's also in hot pursuit of her beloved Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs tee shirt, which Bebe discarded during the ill-fated makeover. 

To crank up the crazy, Jaine's cat Prozac saves a boy from getting hit by a car, garnering her attention from the press and inflating her already huge feline ego.  Also, Bebe's fetus of an assistant is smitten with Jaine.  Unlike Bebe, he thinks her elastic waist pants are sexy and is only too happy to squire her around LA.  As if all of this isn't wacky enough, Levine sprinkles in emails from Jaine's parents, retirees who wreak havoc on their Florida retirement village (well, her dad wreaks havoc while her mother cringes).  The elder Austens are as delightful as they are eccentric, making it clear that the coconut doesn't fall far from the tree. 

Colorful characters, witty one-liners, and a self-deprecating heroine who is somehow as real as she is outrageous make Murder Gets a Makeover one wonderfully raucous ride.

No doubt about it, this caper is catnip to me.  

Sweat Suit Tribute: R&R: Reading and Relaxation

Sweat suit: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's; Blanket: So, Kohl's

Sweatshirt: Macy's

Sweat suit: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's; Socks: GAP; Hair tie: Wild Fable, Target

Recently, I revealed how the quarantine has brought me closer to sweat suits.  And I'm as surprised as you are that it's taken me so long to join this particular pajama party -- and, ironically, to discover that there's more to lounge life than pajamas.  Because of all the stars in the sartorial spectrum, sweats are a special breed.  What other attire simultaneously says going for a run and sleeping 'til Tuesday?  

To that end, R&R usually means rest and relaxation (no, not rest and running, although that would fit nicely with what I just said, wouldn't it?).  But in this post, it means rest and reading.  And whether you're snuggling up to slumber or to a story, you want to be as comfy as possible.  

So here I am, not doing laps, but also not sweating the small stuff.  While wearing my brand-new sweats (try saying that five times fast) and reading two delightful but very different books: Laura Levine's Death of a Gigolo and Grown Ups by Marian Keyes.  If you've read Laura Levine, Marian Keyes, and/or this blog, then you know the drill.  Gigolo is a not-quite ribald romp of a murder mystery chockful of intrigue, hijinks, and, most horrific of all, part-time-private-eye-slash-ice-cream-addict Jaine Austen's (yes, you read that right) attempt to go vegan in the name of true love.  As always, it's cozy, crazy, and reminiscent of sitcoms, which makes sense because Ms. Levine used to write for TV.  Grown Ups, on the other hand, is a chick lit dramedy full of family skeletons, skirmishes, and a good old-fashioned dose of facing up to things.  Although nobody kicks the bucket (except for during a low-rent murder mystery weekend), it's grimmer than Death of a Gigolo.  Sometimes I think that Marian Keyes is the dark side of Sophie Kinsella.  Which is to say that her novels have wit and warmth and glamour -- but also demons.  Gigolo and Grown Ups are both great reads; Gigolo gets high marks for escapist fun, whereas Grown Ups offers a glimpse into the lives of people you probably know. 

Still, when even the land -- no, neighborhood -- of make believe (rock on, Mr. Rogers!) becomes too taxing, there are few things more decadent than grabbing a bookmark, thanking the universe for your sweats -- or for whatever makes you grateful -- and succumbing to sleep.            

Happy Haunt Jaunt: Jackets and Jack-o-Lanterns

Halloween means spooky times, tons of treats, and a chill in the air.  It's the chill that brings the thrill, of course -- the thrill of breaking out jazzy jackets!  Um, don't you mean costumes, oh esteemed Tote Trove lady?  No.  I mean jackets.  Because a jacket is a lot like a costume -- colorful, fun, and cape-able of turning anyone into anything.  Here's the cream of my top layer crop.  Two are oldies but goodies; one is as fresh as roadkill.   

This first jacket is a Wild Fable favorite.  Sure, it's more Saved by the Bell than Satan's ball.  But I'm willing to let that slide because of my hair horns. 

And here's the new kid on the blog, decked out in day-glo.  Sorry, Joseph A. Banks, but Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat has claimed this happening hoodie.  It's from Dolls Kill by way of Delia's.  Which, if you ask me, is pretty Halloweeny.  Most Dolls merch is mucho edgy.  To give you an idea, it comes packaged in black bags emblazoned with a knife-wielding Kewpie.  It's a sight that never fails to unnerve me.

And finally, faux fur fires up stormy denim.  Black is a fitting shade for this day of undead and its feathered friend -- or perhaps I should say feathered Poe.  Nevermore, That's So Raven, said some Nickelodeon exec at some point one day.  Mr. Foe (for I've made my decision; this foul fowl is not to be trusted) is the only frightening thing in this picture.  Unless you count my closed-eye smirk of a creepy doll impression.  Watch out, Kewp, I'm coming for you.

You could probably tell by my tongue-in-cheek tone, but I like Halloween only a little.  And even then, it has to be playful as opposed to spine tingling.  Observe the quirky cute cover of this murder mystery in which a mean woman dies in a way that's not at all gory.  

The husband, on the other hand, likes Halloween a lot, and the darker and more macabre the better.  (Who do you think bought that raven?)  This is his beloved reproduction of a Van Gogh self-portrait that haunts our hallway every October. 

The husband and I agree that Vinnie was a sad, misunderstood man who died way too young.  Even if he did want to marry to his cousin.  

Speaking of which . . . whoa.  It's a Poe-Van Gogh crossover.  Two dark dudes and artistic geniuses who had the hots for their uncles' offspring.  Who would win in a weird, tortured, incestuous-even-though-it-was-olden-times, dead guy contest?

My money's on Vinnie.  People who cut off their own ears mean business.

Magical Mystery Story Tour

 Citrus Safari Necklace

Dress: Kohl's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Nine West, Boscov's

Belt: Izod, Marshalls

Sunglasses: Brigantine beach shop

 Limey Love Necklace

Tee: Wet Seal

Skirt: Ellen Tracy, JCPenney

Shoes: Ami Clubwear (again!)

Bag: H&M

Sunglasses: Brigantine beach shop (squared!)

Fancy Fangs Necklace

Dress: American Rag, Macy's

Shoes: Madden Girl, Marshalls

Bag: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Sunglasses: JCPenney

This week's pieces don't have a whole lot in common aside from being faintly tropical.  So, I'm peeking outside the (craft supply? toy? I can't seem to remember which one I haven't used yet . . .) box in search of a theme to tie this post together.

Just the right time for a triple book report, don't you think?  

I'm about halfway through the third in a trio of cozies -- because what mystery fan doesn't like her mayhem wrapped up in an afghan?  (All the better to mop up the mess with, I say.)  Up for consideration are Mary Daheim's Clam Wake, Laura Levine's Death of a Neighborhood Witch, and Julie Hyzy's Affairs of Steak.  

Happy hour goes homicidal in Clam Wake.  Set in idyllic-meets-creepy island retirement community Obsession Shores in the dead of (hardy har har) winter, this mollusk gets moving when a milquetoast of a man is stabbed on the beach.  Only Seattle sleuths Judith and Renie can schmooze the booze-loving oldsters to find the killer before the next shell shocker -- but not before having a few of their signature wacky run-ins.  Death of a Neighborhood Witch occupies similar territory, shamelessly employing corny humor to describe the murder (also, incidentally, a stabbing) of a one-hit-wonder sitcom star in the slums of Beverly Hills.  This caper is captained by lovable loser Jaine Austen, author of not acclaimed novels, but award-winning plumbing ads (in this book she branches out to mattresses; her Bernie the Bedbug is as cute a creation this side of Disney).  Reading both books was like -- to impose upon a much-loved cliche -- visiting with old friends.  Deranged, dysfunctional friends, but friends nonetheless.  Judith and Renie's irreverence and Jaine's self deprecation are endlessly endearing, softening the (always fatal) blow of the very murders they seek to solve.  Chock-full of puns, caricatures, and other mass market paperback guilty pleasures, these whodunits know how to deliver.  Affairs of Steak, however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.  White House head chef Olivia "Ollie" Paras and prickly sensitivity director (yes, that's really a thing) Peter Sargeant discover two staffers stuffed into tilt-skillets (also, apparently a thing), an incident that Hyzy describes in somewhat graphic detail.  Which should have been my first, ahem, clue, that this mystery would be no laughing matter.  With all the pomp and circumstance that we've come to expect from the White House, Affairs of Steak is undeniably the most serious of the three stories.  Hyzy puts the political in party, and I'm not talking donkeys and elephants.  The characters are high-strung instead of silly, career-climbing instead of quirky.  Protocol rules the day, and even the most innocuous conversations are fraught with enough tension to keep the interrogation bulb perpetually burning.  On the up side (for I strive to be a kindly, if not always Pollyanna, blogger), it's more cloak and dagger -- and therefore dramatic -- than its kookier counterparts.  It also seems a little more realistic, what with its earnest officers instead of the usual bumbling cops.  Finally, Affairs of Steak has the distinction of being the only culinary cozy of the triumvirate, complete with recipes.  Death by Chocolate, anyone?

So, which novel most ignited my intrigue, tickled my funny bone, and had me turning the pages long after midnight?  It was a close call (between Clam and Witch, of course, not Steak; that sad sack was never in the running) -- but Daheim's done it again!  Her Clam Wake puts the fun in funeral.

Hey, somebody had to say it.

Critters, Crimes, and Krafty* Times

 

This week's projects are still under construction (a grave misdemeanor during this first week of National Craft Month, I know), so here's a collection of random but nonetheless pleasing images that I may or may not have already posted.  Today's text will be a hodgepodge, too.  But the theme will be bound by this ditty:

Keep it light,
Keep it funny,
Keep it winsome,
Like a bunny.

I thought of that while brushing my teeth.  And so now, in an attempt to keep my ablution-brewed promise, here are a few things that are amusing (or at least to me).

First, I read a fun new author this week.  Her name is Laura Levine, and she writes cozy mysteries about -- what else? -- a sassy sleuth with a cat.  There's something special about Jaine Austen, and I don't just mean her misspelled literary legend of a moniker.  Jaine (not unlike her namesake) is a freelance writer who never met a takeout carton that didn't make her swoon.  With a cushy advertising gig and a jerk of an ex-husband (she calls him The Blob) in her rear view mirror, she's armed with only her cantankerous cat Prozac, her trusty elastic waist jeans, and her wits to navigate the often shark-infested waters of Los Angeles.  I laughed out loud as Jaine dealt with bylines and bodies with equal parts chutzpah, all the while trying not to feel like I was cheating on Mary Daheim's Judith and Renie, my up-until-now unopposed favorites in the category of fictional quirky crime-fighters.  Jaine's capers are made all the more captivating by her single-girl snafus and her frills-free lifestyle, both of which provide endless fodder for the self-deprecating humor that is at the heart of her first-person narratives.  If I ever write a novel, then I'd want it to be like these, a quippy account of self-effacing fiascoes, unpaid credit card bills, and siren-like snacks.  Because when you get down to it, isn't that what life's really about?

On the subject of food (because somehow it's always the subject), the husband and I were watching some Food Network show in which one chef grimly grinned through a mouthful of another's kale-covered cookies when the husband said, "They should have a cooking show where chefs say what they're really thinking instead of pretending to like everything.  They could call it "The Roast."'  I agreed but thought that it should be called "That's So Rare" or maybe even "What's Your Beef?" (you know, if it was meant to be raucous).  Oh, how the meatballs would fly.

And finally, here's the last kernel in this cornucopia of crazy.  I don't think people would call the boss the "head cheese" if they knew what head cheese actually was.  Or maybe they would, given the way some people feel about their bosses.  No . . . wait.  They wouldn't say "head cheese" at all.  They'd say "head honcho" or "big cheese."  Those, now that I think about it, are the sayings.

*I mean no disrespect to the good people of Kraft.  Their products are topnotch and not at all like head cheese.