Detecting Deadly Sins: Moths and Sloths

I've said it before, and (hopefully!) I'll say it again.  Just when I think I've read my last Agatha Christie mystery, another one comes out of the woodwork.  This time it's a collection of short stories called While the Light Lasts.  And although it includes two stories I read in other compilations (always a danger with collections), the rest are as fresh as a just-killed corpse.  That said, they aren't so much whodunits as mysteries of the mind.  Which are, in some ways, more frightening.  Because it's all well and good to find out who killed Professor Plum in the conservatory with a candlestick (I know that's Clue and not Christie, but if mixing murder metaphors is wrong, I don't want to be right).  Yet sometimes envy, greed, and/or vanity can poison the well between a husband and wife even more potently than cyanide.  Because Christie's not just the crème de la crème of crime writers.  She's a master of human nature, spinning stories around the seven deadly sins with the supernatural skill of a sorceress. 

Which brings us to something else that's not human, namely the moths on the cover.  Their dark beauty reflects the macabre allure of the tales within, proving that sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.  Also, they remind me of my own moths.  No, I'm not keeping the winged things as pets.  We just have a real influx of them this year, with at least one clinging to the wall in each room, looking as lifeless as a pinned specimen.  As everyone knows, they're famous for eating fabric (hence those malodorous moth balls beloved by octogenarians).  So, I've been annihilating them with my Dyson.  Now you know my secret.  Not only am I not one of those people who insists on shuttling offending insects outside; I'm a willing murderess when it comes to preventing crimes of fashion.  

And with that we come full circle to my favorite sin: vanity, with a side of sloth.    

Who wouldn't want to live the life of such a carefree cutie?

As for Christie, my quest for new-to-me titles continues.  But even if I plumb the depths of the obscurest book shop, I don't expect to find any about an outfit-obsessed shut-in who sleeps until noon.   

Fourth of July Pie: Pastry in the USA

Bag: T-Shirt & Jeans, Zulily 

Top: Lily Rose, Marshalls

Bag: Sleepyville Critters, Zulily

Dress: Lily Rose, Kohl's

Old-Fashioned Flowers Barrette Brooch

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Dress: Almost Famous, Kohl's

Happy B-Day USA Barrette Brooch

Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Blueberry Sundae Barrette Brooch

Tank: So, Kohl's

Bracelets top to bottom: B Fabulous; So, Kohl's; B Fabulous; Cloud Nine, Ocean City

Skirt: So, Kohl's

Last night, my Fourth of July post was rudely foiled by an internet outage.  I blame the two-hour blitz of fireworks in my neighborhood.  They were so loud I thought I was in a war zone; surely, they were fearsome enough to interfere with a tower.  So, I rode out the night the way they would've in 1776, without TV and internet and only, as the husband reminded me mid-rant, the comfort of half a dozen blazing lamps and a steady supply of refrigerated limeade.  I think he was not-so-secretly happy about the outage because it meant that our Documentary Now! marathon was cut short.  I can't say that I blame him.

Anyway, this is what I would've written if fate and firearms (some of those fireworks sounded like guns) hadn't intervened:

America, you're another year older.  Hopefully, you're also a little bit wiser.  But even if you're not, I celebrate you with desserts both in felt and cold, hard custard (or at least I would've if the lady at Rita's had heard me say gelati instead of just cotton candy [water ice]).

Because everyone deserves a birthday treat.  Even if that treat can't be pie despite what this post title says.  There is, however, birthday cake and ice cream.  And I think that that more than makes up for the lack of lattice-topped, sugared fruit.

One thing's for sure.  America, pie or not, wiser or not, at least you look better than you did back when you wore that powdered wig.

P.S. Bill Hader and Fred Armisen, I apologize about that Documentary Now! comment.  I did enjoy seeing you in your Grey Gardens getups, and although he denies it, the husband did too.  Please don't murder us in your basement.

P.P.S.  The husband discovered that the internet outage was not the result of fireworks gone terribly wrong, but of a dead outlet in, yes, our own basement.  So now I have to apologize to the fireworks too.  As well as give in to my compulsion to say that 1) all awfulness leads back to the basement and 2) the call was coming from inside the house.

So, I hope that you don't have a basement.  But that you did have a happy, hassle-free, treat-filled Fourth!

Play Like a Girl: Peacock Rocks

Clip: Buffalump, Etsy; Necklace: Betsey Johnson, Amazon

Peacock rocks, but I'm not talking about "Peacock" by Katy Perry (although I do like that tune).  I'm talking about NBC's streaming platform and its not one but two new comedies about all-girl rock groups, Girls5eva and We Are Lady Parts.  

Girls5eva follows four forty-something New Yorkers trying to resuscitate their defunct '90s pop group.  The players include Dawn (Sara Bareilles), the sensible one; Summer (Busy Phillips), the dumb one; Wickie (Renee Elise Goldsberry), the crazy one; and Gloria (Paula Pell), the workaholic one.  It's wacky and witty and reminds me of 30 Rock, which tracks because Tina Fey is one of the producers and also cameos as a faux Dolly Parton.  Indeed, Dawn is like the Liz Lemon of the gang, which is to say that she's no-nonsense yet put-upon and the glue that holds them all together.  The songs are hilarious, and the fashion is fierce.  As a bonus, Stephen Colbert, Bowen Yang, and Vanessa Williams guest star.  Girls5eva is a snarky-yet-feel-good treat for anyone who grew up in the '90s or appreciates Fey's brand of humor. 

We Are Lady Parts is the coming-of-age tale of Amina (Anjana Vasan), a twenty-six-year-old Muslim Londoner academic torn between tradition and joining a Muslim punk rock band.  Amina is my favorite kind of heroine, which is to say earnest, awkward, and always getting in her own way.  She has such a severe case of stage fright that she always vomits -- and also sometimes has diarrhea.  Yet We Are Lady Parts frontwoman Saira (Sarah Kameela Impey) is looking for a guitarist and is convinced that Amina is it, barf bucket notwithstanding.  Passionate and serious about her music, Saira spends the greater part of the series resisting her bandmates' pleas to take to social media, insisting that We Are Lady Parts "is not about being famous; it's about being heard."  Being true to yourself and your art, even when it's hard, especially when it's hard, is a major theme in We Are Lady Parts and one that will resonate with artists and misunderstoods everywhere.  

So, two girl power anthems and two ways to rock add up to heart and limitless laughs.  

Peacock, you've got something new to strut about.

Dental Care Flair: Pearly Whites and Ultra Brights

Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

Shoes: Katy Perry Collection, Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon; Bag: Amerileather, Zulily

Jumper: Derek Heart, Zulily

Bracelets: Top: ZAD, Zuily; Left to right: Mixit, JCPenney; B Fabulous; Mixit, JCPenney

Tee: Marshalls

Fresh Breath Barrette Brooch

Skirts: Amazon

Bag: Zulily

Skirt: Kohl's

Bag: Delia's, Dolls Kill

Ye Olde Pompom Bow Barrette

Top: Forever 21

Bracelets: All Amrita Singh, Zulily except two green ones.  Light green: Cloud Nine, Ocean City; Dark green: Parade of Shoes

 

Shoes: Nine West, Kohl's

This Fresh Breath Barrette Brooch is an homage to the super colorful, striped Aquafresh toothpaste I coveted as a kid.  Even if the dentist visit freebie toothpastes I used to style it are Crest and Pronamel.  I guess the dental community regards Aquafresh about as highly as my mom circa 1987.  

Thankfully, when I'm playing dress up, I've got the full range of the rainbow at my disposal.  So, I broke out tie-dye, plaid, and stripes bold enough to scare the mauve off a hygienist's scrubs.  In particular, the turquoise of my bamboo bag brings back memories of the Sparkle Crest I once so loved and, yes, was allowed to use.  It tasted a little like bubblegum and made my bedtime ritual feel as enchanted as Cinderella's.  Post prince, of course.  When Cindy was still an indentured servant, I imagine that she had gingivitis to rival Godzilla's. 

So, thanks, Mom.  For the Sparkle Crest.  And all the My Favorite Muffins that made it so necessary.     

Mammogram Van, Mammogram Van, If You Can't Do It, No One Can

Kitschy Caravan Earrings

This post isn't about a van (unless you count these earrings).  But it is about a mammogram.  And, in retrospect, maybe it should be about one of those wonky but convenient mammogram vans, considering what transpired after I drove my Honda into the wilds of southern New Jersey.  But enough speculation.  Time to begin at the only place anyone ever can -- at the beginning.

I usually get my yearly mammogram in the winter, but the pandemic threw everything out of whack, which is how I found myself en route to the imaging center one sticky June afternoon.  If you know anything about mammograms, then you know that you're not allowed to wear deodorant or perfume because it might mess with the results.  And let me tell you, it's an entirely different  -- and stinky -- kettle of fish to unleash your undeodorized pits for a stranger's examination during summer.  

I had to drive about an hour away; one drawback of living toward the shore is that all the decent docs are toward (or in) Philly.  And to make matters worse, I got lost.  I know, I know.  How is that possible in this technological day and age?  All I can say is that I don't like to use GPS or Waze because I feel like it breaks my concentration.  Maybe it goes back to the not one but two rounds of driving school I endured as a teenager as well as my general anxiety about being told what to do, even by (especially by?) a robot, in stressful situations.  That's why I was relying on my memory and a Mapquest refresher.  As per usual, I was fine until I got within spitting distance of where I was supposed to be.  And that's when everything went haywire.  For awhile, I drove in a giant circle, then somehow ended up in the middle of nowhere.  I was also running low on gas, and there wasn't a gas station in sight.  As you can imagine, by this point I was smelling pretty ripe.  

I pulled over (for the first of many times) and called the office to tell them that I'd gotten "turned around."  The woman I spoke to expressed mild disapproval but said that they would try to fit me in whenever I got there.

I thought about giving up and going home.  That's what I really wanted to do.  But then I'd have to pay for the visit, reschedule, and go through everything all over again.  And that sounded about as appealing as a slug salad.  It was settled; I'd make this appointment if it killed me.  

So, I drove.  And drove.  And drove.  My gas gauge dipping, my sweat thickening.  My tolerance for my usually beloved CDs growing thin.  And then somehow, I stumbled upon an intersection for the very street I was supposed to be on, only way out of my way and on the opposite end.  So, I drove and drove and drove some more.  It was proving to be the longest street ever, and I started to worry that I was bound for farm country again.  Then, lo and behold, I spied my building.  Well, I didn't see it so much as sense it because it's on a hill behind a bunch of trees.  Which is why I drove right by it.  But no matter; I could turn around.  Finally, I knew where I was! 

And that's how, exactly one hour late, I flew into the imaging center as wilted as a gas station salad (lots of salad similes here).  Luckily, there was almost no one there.  The woman behind the counter, who was the same one I'd spoken to earlier, was kind if bemused, and the tech took me right away.  I was grateful.  

And I was even more grateful two days later when the test came back negative.  Although, oddly, the drive had always concerned me more than the possibility of cancer.    

I guess the lesson here is that sometimes, even when you're lost and scared and think that your stench might make someone pass out, you just have to keep right on truckin'.   

That and always take a test drive.  

And always, always steer clear of slugs.

Fruit Suit Hoot

Sunglasses: Zulily; Yellow and red bangles: B Fabulous; Mint bangle: Decree, JCPenney

Top: Candie's, Kohl's

Bag: Luv Betsey, Macy's Backstage

Shorts: Merona, Target

Flip Flops: Rocket Dog, Marshalls

Bag: Amazon

Bangles, top to bottom: Target; B Fabulous; Target; Mixit, JCPenney

Top: Cool Melon, Zulily

Flats: Wanted, Modcloth

Leggings: Lula Roe

Necklace and bracelet: Amrita Singh, Zulily; Green bracelet: Parade of Shoes

Top: Rebellious One, Macy's

Bag: Circus for Sam Edelman, Kohl's

Skirt: Mudd, Kohl's

Bag charm: Michaels

Now that it's officially summer, it's time for a picnic of prints!  Yes, I'm all about fruit salad ensembles ripe with watermelons, kiwis (Remember Lula Roe?  Her legacy lives on in these leggings.), lemons, palm trees, and pineapples good enough to eat.  Not that anyone wants to chow down on a palm tree.  So let's just say coconuts.

I was excited to plant a couple of farm market pics in between the outfits. The husband went to our local stand, Joe's, all last summer, but this was my first trip back since the pandemic.  And it was delightful!  Seeing all that color up close and personal is always uplifting. 

Speaking of celebratory occasions, nearly eight years ago, the husband and I received these champagne glasses as a wedding gift.  They were beautiful, but neither one of us likes the bubbly, so I stuffed them with plastic produce.

Now that's my kind of fruit cocktail!