Green Queen: Mistress Marilla

I've always been suspicious of prequels, sequels, and alternate versions of classic books written by people other than the original authors.  It's why I passed on the not-Margaret Mitchell's Scarlett and the not-Daphne du Maurier's Mrs. de Winter.  Although I do recall watching the Scarlett miniseries on TV as a kid with my mom and sister.  Remember network miniseries?  And Sunday night movies?  If not, then picture a Lifetime movie airing on CBS every Sunday after "Murder, She Wrote."  Oh, '80s and '90s, you made cheesy melodrama worth staying up for.  Even if that cheese, much like its lactose-laden inspiration, gave us nightmares.  (If my mother is reading this, then I feel honor-bound to say that not one of those soaps stirred up bad dreams.  That was just a bit of hyperbole.  It takes more than a wedge of Gouda and Judith Light whaling on her husband to mess with my sleep.)

Yet despite -- or because of, I'm not quite sure which -- my eternal love for Anne of Green Gables, I gave Marilla of Green Gables a chance (which you probably saw coming a mile away, given the wide berth I gave Meg & Jo).  Written by Sarah McCoy instead of L. M. Montgomery, this prequel is Marilla Cuthbert's origin story.  Known to grown-up little girls and book lovers the world over, Marilla is the iconic, no-nonsense closet softie who gives Anne Shirley a home.  She's middle-aged when we meet her, a gray-haired spinster living with her bachelor brother on the family farm in Avonlea.  She's proper, she's stern, she's set in her ways, and she's downright disgruntled when the orphanage sends her a wisp of a girl instead of a strapping boy to work her farm.  At first.  But her kind heart lets the endearingly eccentric Anne stay, forging a bond that will change them forever.

Still, one can't help but wonder: Just how did Marilla end up alone in the first place?  Sarah McCoy explores this question, using it for the foundation for her irresistible novel.  She shows us Avonlea as it was forty years before Anne ever set foot there.  It's a more austere, pioneery sort of place than the fairy tale land we see through Anne's eyes.  But it honors the spirit of Montgomery's magic, its seemingly simple descriptions of small town life seeping into the soul.

Marilla of Green Gables starts in 1837 and ends in 1860.  At the start, thirteen-year-old Marilla is the daughter of modest, hardworking people.  Her older brother Matthew is painfully shy, and none of the Cuthberts are demonstrative.  But they love each other deeply even if they seldom say so.  Still, Marilla feels her reserve melt away when she starts spending time with handsome John Blythe.

"They sat together under a canopy of meadow grasses and a sky of spun sugar.  Marilla's heart still beat fast from the dance.  John's did too.  She felt the pulse in his fingertips.  From the magazines she'd read, she thought she'd feel embarrassed or ashamed to be holding a boy's hand.  The same way she felt holding the pages of the romance quarterlies.  But she didn't.  She only felt John: simple, solid, and true." (110)

Wait.  Hold up.  Blythe, do you say?  As in Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley's one true love and husband?  Yes!  Apparently, in Anne of Green Gables, Marilla tells Anne that people used to call John her beau.  But I'd forgotten that.  Not so for McCoy.  This brief but telling revelation sparked her need to write this book and get to the bottom of what happened between John and Marilla to cause Marilla to end up -- to use the term of the time --an old maid.  McCoy draws upon the themes of pride, duty, and the passage of time that influence the plots in so many of Montgomery's novels.  At times, McCoy's writing is so like Lucy Maude's it's as if the late author herself is writing through her.  One marked difference, though, is the prominence of historical events and -- but, of course -- feminism.  McCoy takes us on a sometimes somber journey that encompasses Canada's fight to split from Mother Britain as well as the American Civil War.  At one point, Marilla witnesses the public hanging of some "radicals" and is horrified by the way the onlookers laugh:

"They were too young to understand that life is ephemeral while death is permanent.  These weren't her children or children of Avonlea, and yet they pained her.  Like a tendon tethered to splintered bone." (198)

Marilla's own Aunt Izzy, a dressmaker in Charlottetown, offers her home as a safe house for runaway slaves.  Marilla is proud, reflecting that her aunt couldn't have made such a difference if she'd stayed in Avonlea and married a local boy as planned.  Instead, she uses her talent with needle and thread to offer refuge:

"Their costumes were their salvation, transformative as Cinderella on the night of the ball, and Izzy was their fairy godmother."  (238)

McCoy also examines what it means to be a wife and mother, and it isn't always as idyllic as the Avonlea of old would have us believe.  Poverty, farm chores, and mouths to feed conspire to create a life that is oftentimes drudgery.  Women are discouraged from speaking their minds, and many succumb to sickness and even death as a result of childbirth.  Still, Marilla of Green Gables needs to be told because it speaks its own truth and sets the stage for everything that comes after it.  If Marilla and John had married, then there would never have been an Anne or a Gilbert.  It's because they didn't that Anne and Gilbert come into the world, cross paths in Avonlea, and fall in love.  Which is the way it's supposed to be.  Like Marilla and John 2.0.  But not.  And that's the bittersweet part, I guess.

So, you see, I had no choice but to read Marilla of Green Gables.  Even if I eschewed Scarlett and Mrs. de Winter.  Because I'm a fool for an origin story.

And because I never loved Gone with the Wind or Rebecca the way that I've always I loved Anne.

A Room of My Own: Part 2

If my closet is a tranquil retreat, then my craft room is a cave of chaos.  Just kidding.  It's pretty tranquil there, too.  I spend many a happy hour soaking in its colorful comfort, making stuff and watching TV.  This is what I look like when I'm at it:

Very different from my coiffed pics, I know.  The husband took the first and third outfit pics just this past week.  There was something kind of funny about changing out of my quarantine couture (i.e., pjs) into real clothes, makeup and all, then scrubbing my face and putting my pjs back on.  Funny and satisfying, like I had the best of both worlds.  And like I was putting something over on the world, too.  

Remember our pal Tammy Torso?  My true blue (and red and yellow and green . . .) outfit model?  Now that I photograph my outfits on the floor (and on myself), she's joined the ranks of the retired.  Which means that she gets to live a life of leisure next to my stock boxes, forever clad in two crinolines and an old crop top that never quite fit.    

No doubt about it, having a room (or two) of one's own is sweet.  That's why Cheryl is so upset when her she-shed burns down in that Allstate commercial.  I know that I'm super grateful for my rooms and all the peace they give me.    

Because every woman needs a place where she can hide out from the world for awhile.  

And also stash her mannequin.

Ship Shape Escape: Family Feud Unglued

I was on Amazon when I found a book by an author I'd never heard of.  The book was The Floating Feldmans, the author was Elyssa Friedland, and it caught my eye because of its cover.  I liked the way the characters' faces peeked through the ship portals, my favorite being Mr. Man Bun.

So, I added it to my wish list, and my sister got it for me for Christmas.  Last week I finally tested its waters.  Which is a dramatic way to talk about diving into a book, but you never know with new authors.  Or new anything.  It's like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry takes Bania out to dinner (and lunch) in exchange for a suit and mocks Bania's always-annoying commentary.  That is, if you order your go-to meal, then you know it'll be good but the same.  If you order something new, then you get to have something different, but it might not be as good.  To quote Jerry verbatim, "it's a gamble."  And that's just how I felt before embarking on The Floating Feldmans.  Which is fitting, because the novel's about a cruise and cruises are all about food.  Also disease, not to put too fine a point on it in the current coronavirus climate.

Anyway, the Feldmans are complicated.  You've got overbearing mom Annette and distant dad David with two grown children: overachieving daughter Elise and slacker son Freddie (he of the man bun).  Elise has an overachieving daughter, Rachel, and slacker son, Darius, of her own.  She also has a nice-guy husband, Mitch, making for a neat parallel with her bro's trophy girlfriend, Natasha, who, is also -- you guessed it -- nice!  "Wait a minute," you may be thinking, "How can a slacker dude score such a babe?  Are things -- dun dun dun -- not what they seem?!"  To echo the sound of the ship's casino . . . jackpot!  This family has more secrets than a prostitute's diary, and they all come out on the Ocean Queen.  It's all hands on deck for domestic discord, with jaded cruise director Julian at the helm.  Friedland pulls out every cruise ship cliche, from the passengers duking it out over the soft serve machine to the dorky dad sandals to the overpriced offshore excursions.  And it's hilarious!  Really, the perfect fly-on-the-wall situation where you can soak up all of the laughs and none of the calories -- or ptomaine.  Here are some of my favorite parts:

"How Elise craved that soaring spike in adrenaline that shot pins and needles to her extremities and sent butterflies to her stomach.  She sighed and looked back at her cart, fighting off the urge to calculate.  The total couldn't be much.  She had tossed in maybe eight or nine hardcovers at most, three frozen cakes, a few packages of T-shirts for Darius, and a bunch of sports bras she'd need now that she'd signed up for Class Pass." (11).

Yes, Elise's shameful secret is that she's a shopaholic.  Like Rebecca Bloomwood, but not as much fun and without the rich husband (Elise's better half is a journalist; need I say more?).  One of her more unfortunate splurges is family sweatshirts plastered with Annette's (rather angry) face, which she got on -- wait for it -- Etsy.

Still, all roads lead back to that other over-indulgers' paradise, namely the buffet:

"On average, passengers aboard the Ocean Queen consumed six thousand calories per day, sitting down to no less than five full meals.  The midmorning "snack" consisted of pastries, a full salad bar, and a taco station.  Afternoon tea was the least dainty meal Julian had ever laid eyes on.  Instead of finger sandwiches and bite-sized lemon tarts, the kitchen staff put out twelve-foot loaves of streusel from which the guests could hack off as much as they liked.  And, as far as Julian could tell, they liked a lot of streusel." (2)

"A middle-aged woman wearing a sweatshirt that said I Have No Cruise Control shouted, "Where's my free pizza?  I was told there would be free pizza." (134)

This book is zany.  But it's also a little dark and deep and gives you a look inside that cattiest of cliques: family.  Like the meanest of mean girls, the Feldmans manipulate one another and freeze each other out.  But unlike their middle school monster counterparts, they actually care about one another, a truth that surfaces like filet mignon from a sea of expired bologna.  And that's kind of comforting.  Because although families are never easy, they've always got your back.

Even if that back's wearing a day-glo sweatshirt emblazoned with the matriarch's mug.

Chandelier Cheer but Not Really; Also, Two Pastel Sweaters

Make no mistake.  The cheer is real.  It's the chandelier part that's in question.  And that's because only one pair of this post's earrings qualify for the ceiling decoration descriptor.

On a less glamorous note, the word "earring" reminds me of "earwig."  Which is a funny word that would be even funnier if it actually meant coiffure for the cartilage.

People talk about cartilage when they talk about ears, don't they?  I thought about that as I drew this ear.  I even outlined it in black Sharpie, no windows cracked.  Because when it comes to creating quality images, breathing is secondary.

You may recall that I don't wear earrings.  But I do enjoy making them.  I think that they're one of the daintiest yet most statement-making accessories that a woman can wear, and because of that they wield a lot of power.  Also, they detract from ear hair.

Blue Rebecca Rose Earrings 

Charlie Plain Chain Earrings 

Pink Rebecca Rose Earrings

And now for something I will wear: this pair of necklaces and contrasting spring sweaters.  

Purple sweater: American Rag, Kohl's; Mint (although it looks white) sweater: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

I call the pink necklace Piece Offering, and I don't call the other one anything.  One day when I'm doing something mundane like killing a spider, the right name might come to me.  Something like Erstwhile Earwig.

Turns out that wasn't a spider.   

A Room of My Own: Part 1

 

It was Virginia Woolf who said that every woman -- and more specifically every woman writer -- needs a room of her own.  To express herself, collect her thoughts, and escape from domesticity (i.e., dirty dishes and spit-up).  As a woman with lots of thoughts -- and things -- I went ahead and claimed not one but two spaces.

The first is my closet.  When I look at everything in it, I find it hard to believe that most of it was once crammed into the bedroom in my Brigantine rental.  Moving into my house was like learning to breathe.  For the first time, I could really spread out and embrace decorating.  Also, avoid getting black and blue marks every time I wanted to finagle access to a certain bag/pair of pumps/feather boa.  (Side note: I hate that something as fab as a feather boa is named after something as awful as a boa constrictor.)  Sometimes, I just stand in this room and look around as if I've never seen it. The world falls away, sealing me in my bubble.  I feel like Rapunzel. Minus the super-long hair and captivity.

Now, in my eighth day of coronavirus-inspired self-quarantine, I'm more grateful than ever for my sanctuary.  Although I've (happily) spent the last week in pajamas, it's nice to see my wardrobe waiting.

That said, stay tuned for the second installment of A Room of My Own -- and see what's behind door number two.

Butterflies and Botany and Beads You Can Eat Without Choking

 Boho Butterfly Necklace, Sparkly Saguaro Bracelet

Top: Mudd, Kohl's
Jeans: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's
Boots: Penny Loves Kenny, Amazon
Bags: Charming Charlie
Bangles: Iris Apfel for INC, Macy's

Butterflies are the best.  And botany isn't bad either.  Especially when it comes to cacti!  That said, on this first weekend of spring, I'm making the most of both in this Boho Butterfly Necklace and Sparkly Saguaro Bracelet.  I love the way their jewel tones look against my yellow tee.  You can't tell from the picture, but it's made of a waffle weave.  It brings me right back to the '90s, a.k.a. the decade when thermals-slash-long johns became cool.  Or maybe I should say cozy.

Speaking of which, the tee's color reminds me more of Kozy Shack tapioca (in sensibility if not exact shade) than a weighty carb at the breakfast buffet.

Maybe that's because I really like tapioca.  It's got those sweet, bead-like globes that burst on your tongue.  Like dessert caviar or unburned creme brulee.  It makes me think of school lunches (not mine, but someone's) and snack time at the senior center.

By the way, the lifespan of a monarch is measured in months, whereas the saguaro can live for one hundred and fifty years.  The monarch is delicate and fleeting; the saguaro is sturdy and steady.  We humans never know for sure which camp we fall into, or how much time we have left.  Not knowing puts things in perspective, reminding us to savor each second.  And each spoonful of pudding.

Long live your snack shack, big K.

St. Pat's Brats

The best thing about St. Patrick's Day is the wearing of the green.  Even if, in this pic, I'm wearing the green that I wore last August.

The husband commemorated the day by drenching his pancakes in whiskey-infused maple syrup.  He said that it's what St. Patrick would've wanted.

I'm not into whiskey -- or, for that matter, maple syrup -- so I'm celebrating by photographing some green stuff in our house.

 Amazon

 Kohl's

 HomeGoods

Gifted by Mama E. (the husband's name for my mother) 

The tchotchkes are mine; the plant is the husband's.  He's the one with the (insert laugh track) green thumb.  I'm better with plants that are plastic.

So, happy St. Pat's.  May the grass that you stand on be the grass that's always greener.

Even if it's just AstroTurf.