Nightmare Tally: The Dark Side of Dreams

There's nothing quite like sinking into a Nicholas Sparks novel.  You know that you're in for a love story about the bond between a salt-of-the-earth guy and a sophisticated-but-sweet girl that breaks your heart as it edges ever so gently into poignance and sometimes darkness.  Yet as I began reading Sparks' latest, Dreamland, I realized that it would be different.  Although it follows the budding romance between Colby, who gave up his dream of being a musician to run the family farm, and Morgan, a spectacular singer intent on achieving stardom in Nashville, there's something else: Beverly and her six-year-old son, Tommie, on the run from her dangerous husband.  

If this scenario sounds familiar, then it's because Sparks' Safe Haven was also about a woman fleeing an abusive spouse.  But in Dreamland, Sparks goes much deeper.  He gives us every visceral detail of Beverly's struggle: the sweat that soaks her disguise in the merciless southern sun as she walks miles to buy what little food she can afford for Tommie, the terror when a cashier comments that she looks familiar, and has she been in the store before?  The risk she takes hitchhiking to Tommie's school to deliver his forgotten lunch.  Her exhaustion from scrubbing the ramshackle house that she rents in the middle of nowhere, no questions asked.  Beverly's anxiety is so palpable it's painful, and as I read, it made me anxious too.

Sparks switches between Colby's and Beverly's stories throughout the novel, finally combining them in a powerful denouement that answers every question.  Although I had an inkling of the twist, the full scope of it, once revealed, was a shocker.  And I thought what I always think when closing a Sparks book: Sparks isn't a master of just love stories, he's a master of life stories, showing us what it means to be human and happy (or not) through his fate-fueled narratives.      

Even if that sometimes means battling nightmares before reaching the peace of dreamland.        

One for the Books: Christmas Cowls Just be Claus

Scarf: Target; Coat: Jou Jou, Macy's; Jeans: Vanilla Star, Target

Scarf: Zulily; Bag: Macy's; Shoes: Katy Perry Collection, Zulily

Dress: Planet Gold, Macy's

Okay, these neck nuzzlers are more scarves than cowls.  But whatever you call them, on New Year's Eve Eve, Santa style's headed back to the North Pole.  I wore the first outfit to run errands (long live holiday leopard!) and the second to last night's family Christmas party.  That's when I got these three lovely books (among others!), Hello, Molly! by Molly Shannon, Tracy Flick Can't Win by Tom Perrotta, and Dreamland by Nicholas Sparks.  Books are my favorite gifts to give and get.  

Luckily for me, Santa's as scholarly as he is stylish. 

From Page to Stage (er, Screen): Run, Don't Crawl to the Cove

When it comes to books vs. movies, the book is (almost) always better.  But the film adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing is a near doppelganger of Delia Owens' masterpiece.  I say this because when the music started to swell over the marsh, my personal waterworks sprung a leak.    

Daisy Edgar-Jones (Normal People) stars as Kya Clark, the little girl-turned woman who raises herself in the wilds of North Carolina.  Sensitive yet steely, she's exactly who I imagined, her refinement and reverence for nature defying the town's crude opinion of her.  The rest of the cast is spot on too, with Taylor John Smith as the earnest Tate Walker and Harris Dickinson as arrogant Chase Andrews.  

That said, the movie is less gritty and violent than the book.  And although this detracts from the horror that helped shape Kya's worldview, it highlights the parts of the story that are charming yet enshrouded in mystery.  In other words, it's Nicholas Sparks-meets-Agatha Christie -- in the most wonderful way.  To make for a trifecta of icons, Taylor Swift's "Carolina" accompanies the credits, translating the haunting feel of Owens' unforgettable pages.      

So if it's eerie enchantment you crave, then this is the flick for you.  And if not, then no need to grouse about it.  

There are plenty of other crawdads in the marsh.

Sass by the Glass: Grape Expectations

My latest read, The Summer Job, was yet another recommendation from my favorite librarian, Ellie.  This debut novel by Lizzie Dent is the story of Birdy, a loser Londoner who decides to impersonate her bestie as a world-class sommelier for the summer.  Despite being unable to tell a citrus note from a Shasta, Birdy plans to wield her wine goblets at Loch Dorn, a sleepy hotel-slash-restaurant tucked into the Scottish countryside.  It'll be an adventure -- and best of all for suddenly homeless Birdy, rent free.  But things go, ahem, sideways once she realizes that the so-called hole-in-the-wall B&B is actually a posh spot helmed by a Michelin-starred chef.  High profile and demanding, her role as resident grape guru instantly gives her something to worry -- and, yes, wine -- about.  One cringeworthy incident after another tempts her to cork the Chablis and hightail it back to London.  But the quiet charms of a certain chef (not the Michelin man; he's a wanker) paired with her newfound need to succeed keep her as rooted as the cuckooflower for which she and the kitchen staff forage.  Soon, secrets at Loch Dorn and from the home front have Birdy working overtime on more than the wine list, making The Summer Job a classic tale of a screw-up (or, in this case, a screw-top wine aficionado) stepping up to save the day.

This book was the perfect palate cleanser after Nicholas Sparks's beautiful but emotionally draining The Wish.  It made me think of silly stuff like wine o' clock somewhere merch, UB40's "Red Wine," and, of course, Step Brothers's Catalina Wine Mixer, even though I don't drink wine -- or anything fermented.  It's one of those books that's fun to read but would be a trial to live.  At least for me.  Pretending to be a wine expert, or really, any hospitality professional, is at the top of my list of nightmare jobs, right under Uber driver and phlebotomist.  The stress!  The lies!  The hangovers!  It's no wonder poor Birdy didn't go into cardiac arrest and fall headfirst into a glass of Merlot -- even if she did just that metaphorically, as illustrated on the cover.  Indeed, the high-jinks alone are enough to make this novel into a hilarious movie.  I see Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Birdy, partly because Dent sort of looks like her but mostly because of her brand of over-the-top, elegant irreverence.  (Apparently, this was no accident; in the author discussion at the back of the book, Dent shares that Birdy was partially inspired by Fleabag's title character.  Even if Dent did go on to say that she'd choose Gillian Jacobs to play Birdy in a screen adaptation.  No disrespect to you, Gillian -- I loved you in Community -- but no one other than Phoebe Fleabag herself should rakishly don Birdy's apron.)  As for the fetching foodie, Kit Harrington would do very nicely.  His sensitive intensity is just what this recipe requires, even if I'm drawing more upon his performance in Modern Love than Game of Thrones.

But enough fantasy director league chatter.  The point is that The Summer Job serves up a grape escape.  

No doubt about it; Dent's debut goes down easy.   

A Spark in the Dark

Some call him cheesy.  Or maudlin.  Or even a misogynist (that was me).  But even so, Nicholas Sparks remains one of our most gifted writers.  His novels of love and loss are universal, embroidered with the kind of idiosyncratic details that make you feel like you're there.  And his latest, The Wish, takes us on the most off-the-beaten-path journey yet.  A frame story told through flashbacks and letters, The Wish jumps seamlessly between the mid '90s and the present to tell a tale that's old-fashioned yet timeless.

When sixteen-year-old Maggie Dawes ends up pregnant, her parents ship her from Seattle to the Outer Banks to live with her aunt, an ex-nun lesbian.  Scared and sullen, Maggie finds Ocracoke rundown and boring.  But then she gets to know her aunt -- and meets her tutor-to-be, Bryce Trickett.  It's her relationships with both -- and seeing the world through Bryce's camera lens -- that transforms Ocracoke into a haven.

Inspired by Bryce's passion for photography, Maggie begins taking her own pictures.  And it turns out to be a therapeutic outlet, helping her through her pregnancy the way that painting helped the teens in her aunt's convent:

"I imagined pregnant girls in a bright, airy room in the convent with wildflowers blooming outside.  I thought about how they felt as they lifted a brush, adding color and wonder to a blank canvas and feeling -- if only for a brief moment -- that they were like other girls their age, unburdened by past mistakes.  And I knew that they felt the same way I did when I stared through the lens, that finding and creating beauty could illuminate even the darkest periods." (229)

Photography evolves into Maggie's North Star, guiding her into the future.  At the same time, the events that unfold for her and Bryce elevate coming-of-age angst to a new level.  In telling their story, Sparks weaves his magic to celebrate life's fragility.  

And although much of this story is indeed sad and dark, his metaphor of photography reminds us that pictures -- like life -- are all about catching the light.

Day One, Fun Run: Sneakers That Ignite a Spark

Sneakers: PUMA, Zulily

Despite this title, I'm not running for charity -- or for any other reason -- this New Year's.  Still, I did get some new sneakers.  I've never been much of an athletic shoe girl, but I must admit that the architecture of the sneaker offers ample surface area for the kind of color and pattern play I enjoy.  Also, I thought that these neon numbers might motivate me to do more than the occasional jumping jacks.  

Not so with Trevor Benson in Nicholas Sparks's latest, The Return.  That's right, I'm segueing from shoes to a book review.  Then again, it's probably not the first time.

Trevor runs six miles a day even though he hates it and passes up most of his French fries because he can imagine his arteries hardening.  Which is to say that he's as tightly wound as any Sparks hero -- even if, in the first few pages, he insists that he's not a hero in that aw-shucks-yet-unreliable-narrator way.  Still, Trevor has good reason to be uptight.  He's an ex-Navy doctor who came home minus an ear and with PTSD.  So, he's literally running from his problems.  The book's called The Return because Trevor's back in New Bern, North Carolina -- the setting of many a Sparks saga -- to fix up his late grandfather's house.  Yet as he refurbishes the old cottage, he discovers that he doesn't know the whole truth about his grandfather.  Lovely but odd cop Natalie Masterson and troubled teen Callie, no last name, are key in helping him solve the mystery.  Both are running from something, too, connecting these three souls in their struggles.

The Return flirts with romantic suspense even more flagrantly than earlier Sparks novels The Guardian, Safe Haven, and, more recently, See Me.  Although sleepier than any of those barn burners, The Return features the most mysterious -- and at times eerie -- of budding romances.  It also includes that less-oft-discussed but nonetheless noteworthy Sparks staple of low-grade stalking, a phenomenon that gives me the creeps even as it makes me laugh (neither, of which, I surmise, is a response that Sparks was going for).  Finally, Sparks-speaking-as-Trevor vacillates between the usual corny and a new hint of jaded, but then divorce (Sparks's, not Trevor's) will do that to you.  Snarkiness aside, I liked The Return.  Sparks is a classic storyteller.  The way he describes idyllic yet haunting small towns and weaves past and present to show true love delivers.   

That said, let's take a brief break to look at my second pair of new sneakers.  They were a Christmas gift from my sister, and the reason that they're popping up now is because they're called The Fuzz, and love interest Natalie is Johnny (Janey?) Law.

Sneakers: Katy Perry, Amazon

As usual, this sneaker sidebar is my way of making light of something serious -- even if the something serious in this case is fiction -- something, ironically, that Trevor's therapist says he does, too.  But humor -- and funky footwear -- make life's icky stuff easier.  And The Return is crammed with icky stuff, making good on its promise of Sparks's signature sadness.  As for the ending, about half of Sparks's books end happily, a gamble that keeps readers coming back to find out if they'll need that economy-sized box of tissues or if they can save it for This is Us.  I won't spoil the ending of this one, though.  Consider it my New Year's gift to you.

On that note, this year, more reading, less running.  Even if reading is just running in place.

A Case of Space: Reach for the Mars Bar

Alien Admirer Barrette Brooch

Everyone wonders if there's something else out there.  Like little green men on a moon made of cheese or slimy mammoths that can crush us like bugs.  But Roswell-based, seventeen-year-old Mallory Sullivan is certain that Earth isn't the only game in the solar system.  A fan of outer space and all things alien, she's a regular on a message board called We Are Not Alone, or WANA.  On it, she connects -- and argues -- with a brilliant but snarky stranger.  

"Um, okay, Tote Trove Lady," you may be thinking.  "But who the heck's Mallory, and why should I put down my Pringles to care?" 

I'll answer that question by asking another.  Remember Kerry Winfrey, author of rom com-rific novels Waiting for Tom Hanks and Not Like the Movies?  Well, her first book was a YA novel called Love and Other Alien Experiences.  It's light-hearted and colorful and bubbly.  And it's about a girl named Mallory who never, ever leaves the house.  Mallory's always been anxious.  But her agoraphobia didn't start until her dad left her, her mom, and her younger brother Linc.  Now she gets panic attacks every time she opens her front door and goes to school via Zoom.  Other than her mom and Linc, her best friend Jenni is the only person she talks to IRL.  Her mom and therapist are frustrated with her, and her mom has installed a tracker on her computer to limit her time online.  It isn't until Mallory is -- surprise! -- nominated for homecoming queen that she's forced to interact with others.  This means partnering up with school heartthrob and quarterback Brad on a physics project.  It also means spending time with Brad's stepbrother, the mysterious and arrogant Jake.  Brad is a loveable dunce; Jake is an antisocial genius.  But both are important in encouraging Mallory to begin to confront her phobia.  

Now, that's all pretty out there.  And I'm not just talking about the homecoming queen part (although Mallory does get to try on some funky thrift store dresses).  The really weird thing is that in the last book I read, Elin Hilderbrand's 28 Summers, the heroine was also named Mallory, the love interest was also named Jake (sorry not sorry; surely, you saw that one coming), and there was another Linc.  Only this time it was spelled Link and he was Mallory's son instead of her brother.  I don't know about you, but I can already hear The Twilight Zone music playing.  28 Summers, by the way, is a Nicholas Sparks-level tearjerker.  No one in it has a debilitating psychological disorder; it's a drama about star-crossed love vs. humdrum marriage.  But it's super sad and made me cry.  Love and Other Alien Experiences, on the other hand, seems like it would be as serious as an abduction but instead has a top-forty-soundtrack-neon-palette vibe.  I mean, the popular guy isn't even a jerk!  Which just goes to show that it's the tone and not the subject matter that makes or breaks a novel's gravity -- and a protagonist's spirit.  On the surface, I prefer 28 Summers.  Because I'm a grown-up.  And because it includes yet another reference to Cherries in the Snow as being someone's ideal red lipstick (even if that someone is the villain).  Yet romance and Revlon aside, it's Love and Other Alien Experiences that I'm compelled to quote here today.  This is what Mallory tells us:

"That's what I like about the Internet -- I'm allowed to be silent, to think, to just sit.  I don't have to worry about whether I have something in my teeth or if my bangs look greasy.  My awkward conversation skills don't even matter, and I can be the best version of myself on-screen." (99)

A girl who's afraid to go outside but obsessed with the wide open spaces of, well, outer space, is a closed and open book all at once.  The idea of running into the mean girls at school unnerves her, but aliens?  No big deal.  The great unknown of the galaxy is more comforting than the certain uncertainty of high school and a runaway dad.  Unlike the Mallory in 28 Summers, I've never had a forbidden romance.  But like the Mallory in Love and Other Alien Experiences, I know what it's like to be more comfortable in the virtual world than the real one.  To lean in to the luxury of being able to process and curate my thoughts instead of delivering a clever comeback with zero prep time.  Also, to fart whenever I want to.     

Which is, of course, one of the many reasons that I love crafting (the solitude, that is, not the farting).  Crafting, like reading and writing, is a party for one that runs on my own timetable.  I made this Alien Admirer Barrette Brooch before I read Love and Other Alien Experiences.  But the book had been hiding, Jedi-style, in the recesses of my Amazon shopping list.  So maybe it did influence the idea for this disembodied green head floating amid the flowers.    

Tank: Say What?, JCPenney

The husband says that the alien and steer skull eyes in my felt work are the same.  Which is kind of funny because both aliens and steer skulls can be found in the desert -- the desert of Roswell.  Here's one of my much-posted desert scapes for comparison: 

Fabulous Felt Desert Barrette

This felt phenomenon is my kind of eerie; no Fire in the Sky for me!  But I like that Mallory likes aliens.  Because they, and the other people who like them, make her feel like she's less alone.  I'm glad that one of them turned out to be her person.  

And that she didn't wear that bloodstained dress to the prom.

Outer Banks Thanks: Sparky Spark and the Funny Bunch

The husband and I don't take many vacations.  Partly because most of our disposable income goes toward ice cream and stickers.  Partly because it's a hassle.  Whoever said, "You know what would be relaxing?  Packing up all your stuff, driving to another state, and then unpacking it and setting it up again in a tiny room with a bed that may or may not make it impossible for you to move your neck the next morning," clearly did not think things through.  Add the beach element and you've got a whole new mess of stress in relaxation's clothing.

"Hang on there, Tote Trove Lady," you may be thinking.  "Are you saying that you don't like the beach?"  Not exactly.  Sure, it's lovely and tranquil and sometimes enchanted.  But still, it requires vigilance.  You know those pictures of people napping on the surf that are supposed to be restful?  When I see them, all I can think is, OMG, wake up, the sun is roasting your flesh like a rotisserie chicken!  Look alive and reapply your SPF 80!  This is also, by the way, how I feel about those pictures of babies all curled up with dogs.  Not that the babies need sunscreen.  But that their mamas better scoop them up before they become Lassie's dinner.  Never underestimate the power of vigilance.  Or vigilantes. 

But I digress.  

Despite my misgivings, when my parents invited the husband and me to join them and my sister, brother-in-law, and adorable two-year-old nephew (because I'm one of those aunties who thinks he hung the moon) in the Outer Banks for a week, we packed our arsenal of UV protection.  The husband had been there once to go fishing and warned me, "It's different, not like our beaches."  On our first day there, I knew he was right.  The coast was covered with coarse, orange sand, whereas Jersey sand is sugary fine.  Also, the air didn't smell like salt, and there wasn't a seagull in sight.  Yet even more of a culture shock was that the shops -- because yes, the appeal of any place to me and mine ultimately comes down to the availability of retail outlets -- were few and far between.  There were no neon-lit boardwalks or quaint downtown streets like at home, and you had to drive to get anywhere.  Still, we were excited.  We had the sun and each other.  And all the shrimp we could eat.

And I, of course, had my outfits.

Remember when your grandparents would make you look at their vacation slides on a projector?  Well, the rest of this is like that minus the popcorn.  Unless you want to make it yourself; far be it from me to get between you and your Orville Redenbacher.  Or, for that matter, you and your Orville Wright.

Kitty Hawk may be the birthplace of aviation, but New Bern is the birthplace of Allie and Noah.  No, I didn't go to New Bern, North Carolina, the setting of The Notebook and many other beloved Nicholas Sparks novels.  But I did go to Kill Devil Hills, which just happened to have a street named New Bern.

What's more, on the way to the Hatteras lighthouse, the husband stopped by this structure.  If it looks familiar, then that's because it's the house from the movie version of Nights in Rodanthe.  If it doesn't look familiar, then that's because it's been cleaned up and moved from its original, super-remote location.  Talk about a labor of love.  Who says that romance is dead?  

Certainly not me and my hat.  

Speaking of hats . . . this is the Hatteras lighthouse.  The guide made it sound like it would be impossible to climb, and for a millisecond I worried that my exercise-averse self might have a heart attack if I tried.  But then I remembered that the guide was just a public servant on a power trip and that he had to make it sound scary as a disclaimer in case of lawsuits.  So up I went, and it was fine.  A couple of other people freaked out once we got inside, though.  I think they were afraid of heights.

The husband suggested that one day we get up to see the sun rise.  Now, like Mindy Kaling (as she says in one of her books), I was pretty sure that I could live my entire life without ever seeing such a phenomenon.  I worship sleep; on weekends, I don't stir until noon.  Still . . . I was curious.  And I figured it was the least I could do for the husband after making him take all these pictures.  So I set an alarm, then set out for the docks.  And I have to admit that the sun bursting through the darkness was nothing short of amazing, all orange and purple and like a Disney cartoon, only better (I was wearing a Little Mermaid tee at the time).  And it was all the more awesome because I got to go back to bed once it was over.

 A lot of the shops and restaurants in the Outer Banks have horse sculptures out front.  This picture was taken outside an art gallery.

When we went inside, the woman behind the counter saw my shirt and exclaimed, "Who doesn't love the Jetsons?"  I guess I wasn't responsive enough because she went on to say, "If you come to North Carolina, you have to talk to people."  I nodded and said that the husband had shown me a YouTube video about introverting in the South.  There was some poor woman trying to read on a park bench, and total strangers kept plunking themselves down next to her to talk about the weather.  I'm always that woman, even on my own turf in New Jersey.  But I didn't say this to the gallery lady.  When she asked where we were from, the husband gave his stock reply: outside Atlantic City.  This inspired her to launch into a story about how she once helped her daughter move to New York and how she could never live there.  You heard it here first; in the South, New Jerseyans = New Yorkers.  Even Southern New Jerseyans.  (Somehow, I don't think New Yorkers would agree.)  Not that it's news that people in different parts of the country have ideas about each other.  Myself included.  For all I know, the gallery lady's loquaciousness might have not been a southern thing; she might have been just as chatty had she hailed from Wisconsin.  But in the end it didn't matter.  Because either way she was nice and, like the rest of us, just doing her best.  That said, I ended up buying this framed fabric flamingo:

And admiring (but not buying) this house:

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . this horse was parked outside a breakfast joint called Stack 'Em High Pancakes.  I didn't see it at first, but he's holding down a pile of flapjacks!

And these fish were swimming upstream while we enjoyed breakfast.

It was fins, fins, and more fins during our rainy day at the aquarium.  Even if this pic is just plants, plants, and more plants.

This room was like an underwater disco.  How cool are these black-lit jellyfish?

Once the rain cleared, it was back into the oven to surf a wave,

sit on a tree,

 and zoom in on my zany barrettes.  Because, like cheddar, they make everything better!

   

But wait.  There's more.  Highlights, that is:

- My nephew 1) singing "People are Strange" (by The Doors, Aunt Tracy!), "Zombie," and his ABCs and 2) saying that my watermelon sandals were "so juicy" and that his new Mrs. Potato Head was "so cute."

- Going to The Bird Store with the husband.  He picked out a duck decoy and I got this tile:

- Browsing Belk department store.  At the height of "Sex and the City" mania, they had a Kristin Davis line because she's from North Carolina.

- I said it before, but I'll say it again: the shrimp!

Surprise, surprise, the beach didn't make the cut-off.  I spent most of my time there under a canopy, wearing a hat, swaddled in a towel, and dousing myself hourly with Neutrogena dry-touch sun block.  I couldn't help but feel like Mary Anne in Baby Sitters Club book #8, Boy-Crazy Stacey, except I didn't wear zinc oxide on my nose.  (Stacey, of course, had no such anxieties and got as tan as a turkey.)  The few times I ventured out, my sister quipped, "You're out of your tent, and you don't look happy about it."

Word.  We're not the funny bunch for nothing.  

Which leads me to the number one best thing about this trip: family togetherness.  Because beneath my aloof exterior beats a heart that loves to be with my loved ones. They're my favorite people, my only people, and I couldn't imagine being without them.  So thanks to them all for such a good time.  

There's no one I'd rather roast with.  

Sugar and Spice and Everything Dice: Part 3

 Fabulous Felt Dice Barrettes

Fabulous Felt Blue Dice Barrette

Top: August Silk

Skirt: Forever 21

Shoes: Payless

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Belt: B Fabulous

Sunglasses: Michaels

*Please scroll down to see the Introduction, Part 1, and Part 2 of this epic post series. Or, if you stumbled upon this post while wandering the wilds of the internet and have no way of navigating this blog (if that's a thing; I'm not sure, crafts are my wheelhouse, not code), then click here and here and here.

Living near Atlantic City, I've seen my fair share of crazy casino carpets.  You know.  Wildly patterned to camouflage countless spilled cocktails and confuse craps players into parting with even more coinage.  And I've always found them to be kitsch-tastic.  Which was why I 1) so enjoyed making these Fabulous Felt Dice Barrettes, and 2) was excited to learn that the latest installment of the Shopaholic series, Shopaholic to the Rescue, finds Rebecca Bloomwood and friends in that other gaming mecca -- Las Vegas.   That's right.  It's time to roll the dice on Part 3 for the big series finale!  Will it be lucky sevens or scary old snake eyes?  Let's take a gamble (er, gander), and see.

Now, I should begin by saying that unlike the stars of our previous two profiles (Sparks and Schumer), Rebecca Bloomwood is fictional.  That said, I've long suspected that she's a lot like her creator, Sophie Kinsella (which is, by the way, a pen name for Madeline Wickham; hey, if you shared the last name of a Jane Austen villain, then you'd probably adopt an alias, too).  Partly because of her candid, first-person writing style, partly because of this blurb on the back of Confessions of a Shopaholic:

"Sophie Kinsella is a writer and former financial journalist.  She is very, very careful with her money and only occasionally finds herself queuing for a sale.  Her relationship with her bank manager is excellent." 

See? Rebecca is Sophie and Sophie is Madeline.  Easy peasy lemon squeezey (which is, it just so happens, an expression I hate, but one that's surprisingly strong-willed.  Not to mention limey in origin, not unlike Rebecca-Sophie-Madeline.)          

   

In Rescue, which follows the cliffhanger in Shopaholic to the Stars, Becky's father has disappeared into the desert, and her bestie Suze isn't speaking to her 'cause Suze's hubby ran off with Mr. Bloomwood (not in a romantic way; it's more of bromance).  Suze and Tarquin are having problems, but then that's what happens when you marry your cousin (even if he does own a castle).  Becky and Luke, however, are tighter than ever, with nary a cross word or secret credit card statement between them.  Still, Bex is so distraught about Suze and her father that she can't even bring herself to -- gasp -- go shopping.  

Rescue hinges upon what is arguably the most intricate plot of the Shopaholic series, which is to say that it offers up a host of tasty twists and complications.  Will Mr. Bloomwood and Tarquie ever re-emerge, mirage-like, outside of Caesar's Palace?  Will Rebecca ever find her namesake, a rainbow-haired psychic temptress from Mr. Bloomwood's past?  Will Bex's old nemesis, Alicia Bitch Longlegs, ever stop being sweet and show her true colors (in my opinion, wicked white and bilge-worthy beige)?  And most importantly, will our beloved shopaholic ever find it in her heart to shop again?  Because charming although this book is, Bex is always at her best when spotting a shiny new something that just may make her the girl-with-the-yellow-hat-slash-plaid-peacoat-slash-day-glo-pink-diamante-earrings (they say "diamante" a lot in British books, which I love even if it is just a posh word for rhinestones).  Because shopping is all about possibility, and Bex is the (sale) poster girl for life's optimistic what-if's.      

So that's a wrap on Sugar and Spice and Everything Dice.  If you remember nothing else, then remember this: keep it sweet; keep it spicy; keep it dicey.  Also, don't wear beige or wander into the desert.  

Sugar and Spice and Everything Dice: Part 2

Blue Bauble Trinket Barrette

Tank: Kohl's

Tee: Merona, Target

Skirt: Marshalls

Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Modcloth

Bag: Bisou Bisou, JCPenney

Sunglasses: So, Kohl's

Vibrant Veggies Barrette

Blue tee: Macy's

Red tee: Merona, Target

Skirt (a dress!): XOXO

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Candie's, Kohl's

Belt: Marshalls

Sunglasses: Party City 

Green Goddess Sparkle Barrette

Top: Target

Skirt: H&M

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: H&M

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: JCPenney

*Please see the two below posts for the Introduction to and Part 1 of this epic post series.  Or, if you stumbled upon this post while wandering the wilds of the internet and have no way of navigating this blog (if that's a thing; I'm not sure, crafts are my wheelhouse, not code), then click here and here.

The heat is on in Part 2.  But how to depict something spicy?  I considered and discarded cinnamon sticks (too Thankgivingy), and even a dragon (which is fiery and as such fit in so nicely with Ms. Schumer's pun-tastic The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo title), but in the end I went with dollhouse miniature veggies because, as every caught-off-guard cook will tell you, I had some on hand.  Now, before you object that there's nothing dangerous about healthy food sculpted daintily enough to nestle inside a tiny Victorian, think about the last time you were surprised by peppers (or even stealthier still, pepper-based dressing) in an otherwise innocuous salad.  'Nough said. 

Ok, so if Nicholas Sparks is a yolk who's more hard than soft boiled, then Amy Schumer is a steel-coated marshmallow.  Which may seem hard to swallow considering Schumer's bawdy behavior on her titillatingly titled sketch comedy "Inside Amy Schumer."  But then, Schumer's memoir reveals several surprises about the saucy standup.  (Is "saucy standup" too cutesy?  'Cause to me, "saucy," or really, any word that makes you think of pizza and macaroni and cheese and ornery antics all in one is a compliment).  Down-to-earth, vulnerable, and self-deprecating, Amy seems like someone you'd want to hang out with.  Well, at reasonably-spaced intervals.  Because, as I was delighted to discover, she's a  (wait for it!) fellow introvert.  Before you sputter, "Say what?!", let's let Amy explain:

"Being an introvert doesn't mean you're shy.  It means you enjoy being alone.  Not just enjoy it -- you need it.  If you're a true introvert, other people are basically energy vampires.  You don't hate them; you just have to be strategic about when you expose yourself to them -- like the sun.  They give you life, sure, but they can also burn you and you will get that wrinkly, Long Island cleavage I've always been afraid of getting and that I now know I have."  (15).

You said it, Ames.  Way to show that introversion isn't an unfortunate label slapped on people who wish they could party, but a badge of honor to be protected, an affirmation that you (to repurpose that Nada Surf one-hit-wonder "Popular") enjoy your own exclusive company to the company of others.  Yep, being a lone wolf is like telling the world that you want to see other people -- and that those people are you.

Schumer goes on to say that "sitting and writing and talking to no one is how I wish I could spend the better part of every day."  (16)  Still not convinced that I'm not somehow skewing Ms. Schumer's sound bites to push my own antisocial agenda?  Read on.  (Yes, I'm going to shamelessly quote even more of this book, because it's awesome.  And because it's my blog and I'll over-quote if I want to:)

"When you're a performer, especially a female one -- everyone assumes you enjoy being "on" all the time.  That couldn't be further from the truth for me or any of the people I am close to.  The unintentional training I received when I was little was that because I was a girl and an actor, I must love being pleasant, and making everyone smile all the time.  I think all little girls are trained this way, even those who aren't entertainers like I was.  Women are always expected to be the gracious hostess, quick with an anecdote and a sprinkling of laughter at other's stories.  We are always the ones who have to smooth over all the awkward moments in life with soul-crushing pleasantries."  (16-17)

Ah yes, the old "I am woman, hear me . . . serve" chestnut.  It is, at its very least, unsettling when one of the world's most seemingly self-assured women cops to being primed for geisha-hood.  What's encouraging is that she, and other women like her, are writing about it.  Autonomy and self respect are the lynchpins of human dignity, a theme that is woven throughout Schumer's narrative as she invites us to witness her trials and most private moments, proving that the pen is far mightier than the, ahem, sword.

Also, this book is damned funny. 

So, if Sparks seems nice but is (possibly) snarly, and if Schumer's a badass who's secretly sweet, then who, pray tell, is Rebecca Bloomwood?  Tune in next week to find out in "Dice," the exciting conclusion of this three-pronged post series.