All's a Riot on the Western Front . . .

. . . is a phrase that describes your average home on Thanksgiving.  Near-explosive Crock-Pots, feuding relatives, loser football teams, and rotting gourds (hey, it's happened) can conspire to create an atmosphere that's more Griswalds than Waltons.

That's why there's pie.

And for me, cowboy boots.  Something about this rustic, homespun footwear just says harvest.  So here I am wearing my favorite pair to do my prairie proud.  What's more, I upped the ante with these leather-look-but-felt barrettes, then threw in a faux cameo brooch for good measure.

 Tan Folksy Fringe Barrette

Clara Cameo Brooch 

Black Folksy Fringe Barrette

If the barrettes represent the Native Americans, then the brooch is pure Puritan.  I know, I know; those vanguards of vanilla wouldn't be caught dead in something so gaudy.  But I couldn't very well make a buckle, and it is the kind of trinket that would be at home on the ruffly blouses of the Aldens' tea-sipping successors.  So, barrettes and brooches, battling it out . . .  No, that's wrong, too.  No violence here, just a joining of styles and peoples over a spread of mouthwatering carbs and one big, tasteless turkey.

It's all about the sides, my friends.  You can't spell gluttony without gluten.  Or either of them -- or Griswalds -- without a "g."

Which is important.  Because the Griswalds are more fun than the Waltons.

Oliphant in the Room . . .

. . . is a pun I can't take credit for (or, for you grammar sticklers, a pun for which I can't take credit).  That's because Eleanor Oliphant said it.  Eleanor is like Susan Green on steroids.  She's particular.  She's an introvert.  She's extremely blunt and judgmental.  She's from the U.K. (albeit Scotland instead of England.)  And she tells us all about it in Gail Honeyman's award-winning Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine.  (Full disclosure: this too is a Reese's Book Club pick, and I heard about it on The Cactus's cover.)  But this is the thing (although, if you have a sense of irony, you've probably already figured it out).  Eleanor is not completely fine.  Not even close.  Because beneath her sometimes endearing, sometimes cringeworthy armor of social awkwardness is a world of pain and a deep, dark secret.  She's afraid to rock the boat of her life because the boat she used to be on was burning.  And it isn't until she meets Raymond, the also awkward but confident IT guy at work, that she begins to get better.

Now, I'm not going to say a whole lot about the plot of this book.  Because that would spoil it.  But I will say that Eleanor and Raymond forge a slow, strange friendship.  It defies convention and depends, in part, upon Raymond's patience and good humor.  But it's something that Eleanor desperately needs, even if she can't admit it.  For her, the loner life has become a fortress against growth.  It's a safe space that's starting to suffocate her, even as she clings to it.     

"Some people, weak people, fear solitude.  What they fail to understand is that there's something very liberating about it; once you realize that you don't need anyone, you can take care of yourself.  You can't protect other people, however hard you try."  (134)

Eleanor knows that she can't play the game, and that this is part of why she's alone.  Yet in letting Raymond into her life, she's forced to interact with other people.  And this makes her realize that she needs to bend, however slightly.

"I wasn't good at pretending, that was the thing.  . . . I could see no point in being anything other than truthful with the world.  I had, literally, nothing left to lose.  But, by careful observation from the sidelines, I'd worked out that social success is often built on pretending just a little." (198)

So, Eleanor opens herself up to new experiences.  And she stumbles and learns.  Yet she still holds fast to what makes her, well, her.  Which is a sign of strength and bravery, especially after all she's been through.

"Although it's good to try new things and to keep an open mind, it's also extremely important to stay true to who you really are.  I read that in a magazine at the hairdressers."  (174)

Masterful and moving, Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine is about finding your best self without losing yourself.  I'm not going to lie; it's sometimes hard to read.  But it's also funny and sad and satisfying and all the best things that you (okay, I) want from a novel.

Moving on.

Here are some vintage brooches that I embellished.  The first one is hard to make out - just like our heroine -- but it's an elephant.  And the second one is, of course, a sailboat.  I think that they go well with this post, being old and tired and then shiny and new but still old in a good way.  Even if Eleanor is no champion of crafters, describing one of her colleagues as making hideous jewelry for hideous people.  Or something.

But I won't hold that against her.  I know it's not her fault.  And that she prefers doing crosswords.  

Auricular Extracurricular: Lisa Ear Loeb Vogue

Rose Garden Girl Earrings 

Sparkly Seahorse Earrings 

Whimsical Wings Earrings

Ah, Lisa Loeb. The songstress that Seventeen likened to "the quiet girl in the back of English class who secretly has lots to say."  Or something.  I don't remember the exact wording, just the essence.  That part really, ahem, stayed with me.  But then, what '90s girl didn't fall head over platforms for this folksy song about lost love and feelings?

"You say I only hear what I want to
And you say I talk so all the time-so

And I thought what I felt was simple
And I thought that I don't belong
And now that I am leaving
Now I know that I did something wrong cause I missed you
Yeah, I missed you

And you say I only hear what I want to
I don't listen hard
I don't pay attention to the distance that you're running to or to
Anyone, anywhere
I don't understand if you really care
I'm only hearing negative, no no no-bad"

Lisa, here at the Trove, we know that you're listening.  To this dude in your song and to other stuff too.  We know that this breakup wasn't your fault, that you were taking the blame the way women do.  Because we hear you.  Because we're listening.

And because we want you to wear our earrings.

Or just jab them in the voodoo doll of your ex that you surely have stashed in your freezer.  Up to you.

Outerwear Hoarder, Just Can't Cut the Corder (by which, of course, I mean corduroy)

Some weeks ago, I blogged about the fabric -- and book -- corduroy.  I even shared my collection of corduroy skirts and single pair of corduroy pants.  But what I neglected to say is that I have another corduroy garment, a kind of skeleton in my considerable closet.  And that garment is this coat.

If you look closely, you can see the time-tarnished St. John's Bay label.  Which always makes me wonder, just who is this St. John, and where is his bay?  According to Google, he isn't the frosty-but-reliable, seafaring New Englander that I'd imagined.  Because this particular bay is in the Caribbean.  So, Johnny (because he's become Johnny now) is probably some puka shell-wearing pleasure craft sailor who ferries tourists to snorkeling excursions, daiquiri in hand.  Which makes for another illusion shattered by the interwebs.  Anyway, I got the coat in college, and at the time I didn't even like it that much.  But when my mom insisted on buying it for me on one of our weekly trips to J. C. Penney's, I acquiesced (a free coat's a free coat).  After that, I was surprised to find myself reaching for it often, realizing that it was a kind of wardrobe glue that held my more out-there things together.  It was cozy yet crusty, its milk chocolate bulk reminiscent of a brown teddy bear (Corduroy!), and its twig-colored cords and faux shearling like that of a longshoreman or granola-choked hiker.  Although I sometimes jazzed it up with bright brooches and jaunty scarves, it remained, at its core, the same salt-of-the-earth defense against the elements that it had been on its rack that fateful Sunday.  Whenever I wore it, I felt both humbler and more worldly (longshoremen have seen things).  I think that being different from my usual glam garb is what made it even more precious.

Twenty years later, I still wear it, much to the chagrin of my mom.  She says, "Oh, Tracy. How can you still have that coat?!"  Which is ironic considering that she's the one who forced me into its earthy arms in the first place.  But pulling it out every now and then reminds me of those shopping trips and of that J. C. Penney's, which isn't even there anymore.  In this way, wearing it (and yes, I'm about to spread some Velveeta) feels like a great big bear hug.  A friendly, fairy tale kind of bear, that is, as opposed to the kind that mauls people.

St. John probably wouldn't want such a hug.  He'd feel more at home high-fiving a stingray. 

Calling All Cacti: Late Bloom Baby Boom, Drink it In

Cactus cardigan: Collectif X, Modcloth
Cacti blouse: Amazon
Floral surplice top: Flying Tomato, Marshalls

 Arid Elegance Necklaces

Fabulous Felt Yellow Cactus Barrette, Fabulous Felt Pink Cactus Barrette 

Susan Green is a cool customer. She wears only black and gray, she likes rules, she collects cacti, and she never lets anything get in her way -- or, to use Mindy Kaling's parlance, she's a very busy woman who never has time for fun.  So, she's a classic rom com heroine.  And Sarah Haywood's The Cactus, which is a selection of Reese Witherspoon's book club, is the story of how this chick gets, well, lit.  Metaphorically.  Although there is a fair bit of wine drinking.

Forty-five-year-old Susan informs us, in her no-frills, straightforward way, that her mother has just passed away and that she's facing an unplanned pregnancy.  The father is a like-minded, no-nonsense professional with whom she had an "arrangement."   So, a boyfriend without the hassle -- or romance. She also has a ne'er do well younger brother who seems intent on ruining her life by swindling her out of her inheritance.  But he also happens to have this friend . . .

Ah yes, the friend.  The male friend who's appealing and funny and kind despite being a borderline ne'er do well too.  In this instance, he's Rob, the professional gardener, and his oat sowing days are behind him.  Now he's ready to put down roots, becoming a constant if held-at-arms-length fixture in Susan's life.  I know what you're thinking: we've seen this before!  Susan's the prickly, tough-skinned succulent, and Rob is the loosey-goosey horticulturist with the patience to penetrate her guarded layers.  Which makes this book sound like a bodice ripper and/or a Hallmark mush fest, but it's neither.  For one thing, there is zero sex, not even a kiss.  And the tiny bit of emotion that eventually does eke out is hard-won and all the sweeter for it.  

The thing about Susan is, she's the opposite of America's sweetheart (and not just because she's British) and of what the world expects women to be.  Instead of being warm and selfless, she's self-contained and standoffish, like one of those HBO antiheroes that it's hard to like.  That said, her inner sanctum can be an uncomfortable place.  She's so rigid that she sometimes seems inhuman, and her lack of self awareness can be as annoying as it is gently funny.  Here are a couple of glimpses into her head:

"It could simply be, however, that I was aware from an early age that a close relationship with a boy or man -- or indeed anyone -- would undermine my freedom, dilute my individualism, take up precious time and cause the unnecessary expenditure of emotional energy.  Looked at logically like that, it's astonishing that any rational person would want to engage in intimate relationships." (195-196)

"As you're aware, I've always been the author of my own destiny.  We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman.  What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable." (205)

From Susan's point of view, she's protecting herself.  Why throw caution to the wind in an unstable world when you can craft your own custom, temperature-controlled solarium full of indestructible, botanical wonders?  Yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, I can't help but like her.  Especially when she shares some story from her past that's so sad you want to be that one kid she can turn to when she's alone on the playground.  And that's what keeps the reader -- and, I imagine Rob -- interested.  Speaking of which, this is what he has to say:

"He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren't repotted.  And light, too, he said -- they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day.  I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled.  I've managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else's interference.  Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that's a detail." (217)

Rob is saying that Susan's doing a mostly fine job with her cacti -- but that they'd be better off with some changes.  Predictably, Susan bristles, going as far as to say so what if her plants have never bloomed?  But she knows, deep down, that Rob's right.  Because although green (and indeed Green) can symbolize a tough as nails cactus, it can also mean inexperience and vulnerability.  As accomplished as Susan is in the rest of her life, she's awkward when it comes to people.  Which is mostly fine; we don't all have to be social butterflies!  Still, in (tentatively) accepting Rob's friendship and, yes, in having a baby, she discovers that sometimes -- even for a cactus -- companionship can be nice.

The Cactus is a lovely story, a kind of middle-aged coming-of-age.  Also, it's refreshing to read about a suitor who's not, even once, the proverbial prick.

Cactus humor, you never let me d(r)own.

Old School Rules: Blink if You're Color Blind

There are two '90s bands that make no ophthalmology apology: Third Eye Blind and Blink-182.  Blink had the punk and the grit; Blind had the pop and the wit.  Is that an oversimplification for the sake of a rhyme?  Totes.  But simpler times are the name of the game.  And like these eyes, I make no apologies.

Although Blink-182's new album "Nine" is nowhere near as good as "Enema of the State,"I liked listening to it.  And not just because I was hypnotized by its rainbow case cover.  But because it brought me back to a simpler time.  Kind of like how looking at these outfits brings me back to the simpler time that was September.  (I've seen you on my lawn, Mr. Frost, and you are not welcome.)  Then again, the first single from "Nine," "Blame it on My Youth," describes harder times and a past that's about as romanticized as store brand mac n' cheese.

I guess some simpler times aren't so simple.  Which is why it's best to move on and get to the good stuff.

And in this case, the good stuff is Gouda. 

Bear Flair: The Joy of Corduroy

Mauve, white, teal, and raspberry minis: Wild Fable, Target
Tan mini: Celebrity Pink, Macy's
Lilac mini: Modcloth
Pants: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

The last time I blogged, it was October, and it was about jackets.  Now it's November . . . which means time for corduroy!  It doesn't get much more retro than this elegant yet rustic ribbed velvet that's most at home with Led Zeppelin and love beads.  Also, Adam Sandler's "Thanksgiving Song" ("my favorite kind of pants are corduroys"), which I guess is retro now too, having come out in the '90s.

So, yeah, I like this fally fabric, as evidenced by the picture above.  But someone else likes it beary much, too.  There are lots of famous grizzlies out there: the Berenstain Bears, the Care Bears, even, if we're to count that strange cartoon, the Gummy Bears.  But only one wears stylin' green overalls.  And that's our story's star, Corduroy.

A sweet and curious underdog if ever there was one, this library darling remains at the top of children's woodland creature wish lists (because yes, that's totally a thing).  And no wonder.  He's so much cuddlier than that creepy Teddy Ruxpin. 

Anyway, for those of you who don't know, the first book, Corduroy, introduces the title character as languishing in a toy store with a missing button.  Then a little girl named Lisa busts open her piggy bank and buys him.  She brings him home and, with some surprisingly deft needlework for a child, restores him to his former sartorial splendor.

Yet it's the second book, A Pocket for Corduroy, that captured my Pre-K imagination.  Lisa brings Corduroy to a laundromat, which is fun because there are lots of colorful pictures of clothes.  She tells Corduroy to stay put while she does her laundry, but he sees something with a pocket and wanders off because, hey, he wants a pocket too!  A kindly, beret-wearing artist washes Corduroy's overalls (and, in fact, mistakenly washes him!).  But then it's closing time, and he leaves Corduroy to brave the night alone.  To be fair, he does say he's "too fine a fellow to be lost."

Corduroy gets into some mischief involving detergent (because really, who hasn't?) and gives himself a bit of a fright.  But the next morning Lisa finds him.  He tells her about the pocket (apparently he's not one of those talking toys that hides his powers), and she promptly takes him home and stitches a snazzy purple one to his overalls.  

I think it was Corduroy's commitment to clothes that got me.  He understood the importance of details and wasn't afraid of a little danger if it meant snagging his look.

Take a hint, Snuggles, and put on some pants.