Custard's Last Stand-off

Last Saturday, the husband came home from work and announced that Rita's was open.  So, I threw on my clothes (I was still in my PJs), and away we went.  I got a root beer gelati, and he got a chocolate peanut butter concrete (it's like a McFlurry or DQ Blizzard).  As we finished them in the car, I decided that the nearby red bench and shrubbery setup made for a nice photo op.  There was no one else around; although it was warm for February, it still wasn't quite ice cream weather.  Or so I thought.  Because then a woman in a big maroon SUV pulled up next to us, obliterating the bench.  "Oh, she'll be in and out," I said.  But when she returned with her cone, she and her phone settled in for a gabfest.  The husband said that she was hiding from her kids, or maybe the Mafia (he's very imaginative and even more so on a stakeout).  Now, I know what you're thinking.  Why couldn't we just walk around the SUV and take the picture anyway?  Because I felt self-conscious, that's why.  I realize the irony of waiting for privacy to take a picture to show the world.  But there's something about getting something just right before it's ready for public consumption.  Like adding the last piece of a puppies-at-a-picnic puzzle or baking an imperfectly perfect pan of popovers.  Not that the husband thought it was weird.  He's used to my quirks.  He said, "We don't want her leaning out of her window and saying, "Ooh, I can take the picture if both of you want to be in it."  Because then I would have to say, "Oh no, she just wants it of her." '  So, we waited it out and chatted away, enjoying a deep and existential conversation about . . . something.  Then the SUV finally sped off in a blur of maroon, its driver homeward bound to her brats and/or warlord.  We rushed out into the sun, lest any other imposing vehicles got any ideas.  And/or cravings for custard.

You know how sometimes you have an idea for a photo and you're excited about it, and then you take the photo and it looks like a crayon that went through the dryer?  That's how I felt about most of the pics we took that day.  The good one turned out to be this candid.  They say that the true mood/soul/whatever of the photographed is coaxed out by the right photographer.  I'm inclined to agree.  Especially because I'm laughing.

That said, the husband is in the frame.  See that black smudge on the bench?  That's him.  Or rather, his shadow.  The fact that I didn't Photoshop him out is a testament to how much I love him.

Well, him and honoring the authenticity of a perfectly imperfect Rita's run.

Long live the root beer gelati.

Modern Love and 2000 Gushes

Unicorn Universe Necklace

Top: Vylette, Kohl's

Skirt: Tinseltown, Kohl's

Bag: B&B

Shoes: Betseyville, Macy's

Belt: Marshalls

Barrettes: The Tote Trove

Tricolor and green spike bracelets: Amrita Singh, Zulily

Neon green bracelet: Cloud Nine

Rainbow, yellow, and pink bracelets: So, Kohl's

This post isn't about David Bowie.  But "Modern Love" is my favorite Bowie song (I know, I thought it would be "Ziggy Stardust," too), and it kind of fits here.  Even if I am using "love" loosely to cover both the romantic and sisterly kinds.

But upward and onward.  

What would Louisa May Alcott's Little Women be like if Jo was a journalist-turned-food-blogger in lust with a world-famous chef?  Or if Beth had lived and was an aspiring country singer?  Or if Pa March finally got his comeuppance for leaving Ma and his girls all alone?  Virginia Kantra answers these questions and others in Meg & Jo, a "contemporary retelling of Little Women" (just like it says on the cover).  

Set in modern-day North Carolina instead of Civil War Massachusetts, Meg & Jo showcases the timelessness of Alcott's treasured tour de force.  Because the more things change, the more they stay the same.  The story is still about the social dynamics at work among sisters, the little alliances and rivalries that bind and separate.  Due to birth order, Meg and Jo are besties, as are Beth and Amy.  But Jo references how Beth is her baby and how Amy is Meg's, revealing other alliances.  Finally, there's the friction between Jo and Amy.  On the surface, it seems to stem from them being so different -- Jo is the tomboy, Amy the porcelain doll -- or from vying for the affections of the boy next store.  But their issue is that they're too much alike.  They're both headstrong, passionate artists -- Jo a writer, Amy a designer -- who are (despite said boy) more interested in their own dreams than furthering men's.

But I don't mean to woman-splain Little Women to you.  You already know all of this. 

The main conflict in Meg & Jo is a big blow-up between Jo and her chef, which occurs when she posts his mother's pierogi recipe.  She hasn't told him about her blog because she doesn't want him to see her as an "idiot hipster food blogger."  But her secret is outed when her readers spot the tattoos on his arm in a picture, forcing her to confront her feelings.

"He thought I was using him.  Which . . . Okay, I had.  He'd served up his big heart on a plate, and I'd taken his passion to feed my own.  But I put myself out there, too, in my words, on my blog.  When I wrote about him, I revealed a piece of my heart.  And he didn't see.  Or maybe he didn't care.  He'd belittled my blog.  And that made me feel small.  I couldn't forgive that."  (267)

Kantra gives us the Jo that Alcott created: the tough girl with the gushy heart.  And although I don't think of myself as tough and am one of the girliest girls that I know, this is why Jo is my favorite.  To her, stories are everything.  She's guarded and prickly in person, but vulnerable where it counts -- on the page.  The man who understands and respects that is the one who gets to be in her life. 

Meg & Jo blends romance and feminism and wraps it up in that age-old theme of following your heart.  It both stands on its own and parallels its predecessor, making for textured reading.  I look forward to Kantra's sequel, Beth & Amy.

And now for a craft project report.  This Unicorn Universe Necklace has little to do with Meg & Jo or Little Women.  But its black unicorn head is a cross between edgy and enchanting, serving as a subtle reminder that being girly doesn't mean not being strong.  Also, unicorns, mythical though they may be, are supposed to be pretty powerful.

Just like the one in that Squatty Potty ad.  I bet they wish they had that in Little Women.   

Cirque du Sol-Play

When I was a kid, I thought that it would be fun to be a trapeze artist.  I think it was because of the spangly costumes.  Of course, I also thought that it would be fun to go hang gliding, and the attire for that doesn't get much more avant garde than REI.  So I guess what I really wanted was to take to the skies like the freest of birds.  (I do really, really like parrots.)  But then Hart (Leonard Staab) from my favorite soap, "The Guiding Light," had a hang gliding accident and became paralyzed.  And I thought that I would be better off sticking to more earthly pursuits.

These days, I quench my thirst for big top thrills with fanciful felt accessories (and yes, the most outlandish clothes that Kohl's has to offer), namely this here Fabulous Felt Autumn Clown Barrette, which I'm wearing above as a brooch. 

You may remember it from my ground-breaking and critically acclaimed post Send in the Gowns: Three Ring Sumo Circus.  It's funny to think of a clown as being cute instead of creepy.  I'm looking at you, It.  And also Jack Handey, who said, "To me, clowns aren't funny.  In fact, they're kinda scary.  I've wondered where this started, and I think it goes back to the time I went to the circus and a clown killed my dad."  Even the clown in this sign for a local party supply store looks like he might go on a rampage. 

Thankfully, not everyone is fearful of Bozo.  I'm happy to report that I sold the Fabulous Felt Spring Clown Barrette to a loyal customer in California.  It gives me a sense of satisfaction -- and amusement! -- to know that there's someone else out there rocking it ringmaster style.

It's also nice to know that I can do my own stunts -- no trapeze required.

V is for Vendetta . . . and Also Valentine's Day

Hopefully, you're not in a vendetta with your special someone.  Hopefully, you're headed out for a night on the town or, if that's not your thing, then cozying up for a quiet night in.  Even if you're not coupled up, I wish you no Hatfield vs. McCoy-style feuds whatsoever.  Because V-Day should come with all the peace of devouring chocolate on a cloud of pink couch or comforter.  (Not that your couch or bed can't be blue or green or gray.  But I'm trying to paint a picture here.)  That said, I had to kiss a real frog of a chore before tearing into my own treats today.  This afternoon, the husband and I went to the dermatologist for our annual skin scans.  Because nothing says romance like disrobing in front of strangers.  Not that we have any real epidermis issues; we go because it's always good to be one step ahead of Mad Man Melanoma.

Thankfully, our Valentine's Day isn't all lab coats and copays (partly because we don't have a copay, but rather a deductible).  We're going out to dinner later this weekend, which is a long one courtesy of those wig heads Washington and Lincoln.  (Yes, I know only Washington had a wig.  But Lincoln had that beard, which was pretty gnarly and has to count for something.)  Afterwards, I'm looking forward to a choice chocolate chaser.  Because Valentine's Day is the candy holiday.  Wait, what's that you say?  The candy holiday is Halloween?  Or, on a good year, even Easter?  Well . . . maybe.  If you're into Baby Ruths and bipedal bunnies.  But only V-Day has pink and red foil wrappers and cherry and strawberry filling and heart-shaped Russell Stover boxes full of Forrest Gump flavors.

Because that's life in a (hazel) nutshell: diving in without checking the cheat sheet.  Or the nutrition facts.  Nutrition facts are the worst, the Flag Day of facts.  Nothing against flags.  But they don't give you gifts or sugar or a day off.

So, have a happy un-Flag Day.  May you do -- and eat -- all the things that you heart.  And all the things that heart you.

Clarions for Marian (and Clarins Too)

 Fabulous Felt Paint Palette Barrettes

Top: Decree, JCPenney

Skirt: Modcloth

Shoes: 2 Lips Too, JCPenney

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Wristlet: City Streets, JCPenney

Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon

Because Marian, Marian Keyes, that is, is the best.  She's a writer so likable, so hilarious, and so vulnerable that flash mobs should break out in song (instruments included) when she enters a room.  You know.  If flash mobs were still a thing.  Although now that I think of it, Marian probably wouldn't like that, being a creature who values peace and quiet.

For those of you who don't know, Ms. Keyes is a Dubliner who writes chick lit, which she pokes fun at endlessly (both the Irish bit and the chick lit bit).  Some of her best novels feature the Walshes, a loud yet loving family of five sisters that doesn't sound all that different from her own (although she also has brothers).  How do I know this?  I just finished reading Keyes's latest collection of essays, Making It Up As I Go Along, and it's wonderful.  Marian talks about everything from shopping (her biggest weakness is buying beauty products) to traveling to her huge extended family to stalking celebrities.  Reading this book is like reading her journal.  Marian leaves no thought unexplored, no jar of La Mer unturned.  And it's not always candy and rainbows.  Marian is candid about her struggles with alcoholism and depression.  She weaves both throughout her novels too, but it's in her essays where she gets down and dirty.  Her revelations are sad yet funny.  You can tell that her sense of humor is a big part of what helps her get through the day and write stories that tell women's truths.

So, if Marian is a writer, then what's up with these paint palette barrettes?  Well, once upon a time, her husband advised her to get a hobby to help her unwind, and after rejecting oil painting, jewelry making, and countless other Pinterest-worthy pursuits, she fell head over heels for refinishing furniture.  Her favorite part is painting accent tables (some of which she purloined from her mother) in brilliant shades of pink and blue.  She did such a good job that her five-year-old nephew demanded that she paint him one (even if she did have to talk him down from black to turquoise).   

Marian Clarion, you are a true Renaissance woman.  Way to paint woodwork as well as word pictures.

Pants and Pastels

Sometimes I wear pants.  One of these pictures proves it.  And whenever I do, I think about how there was a time when women wearing pants was forbidden.  Now, this isn't to say that pants aren't problematic.  Because pants can be uncomfortable (especially the tight, high-waisted ones).  And wearing the pants takes guts.  But pants also have their rewards.  For one thing, you can run to the ice cream truck faster.  For another, as they (sort of) say, with great responsibility comes great power. 

So, power to the pants and the ladies who wear them.  And to the freedom for women (and men!) to choose between skirts and pants every day. 

Also, to sometimes settling for culottes. 

Silver Screen Dream: Reel Romance

Fabulous Felt Filmstrip Barrettes

Top: Candie's, Kohl's

Cami: Macy's

Skirt: Delia's, Dolls Kill

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Wallet: Betsey Johnson

Belt: Wet Seal

Necklace: The Tote Trove

Last week, I read a novel by a new (to me) author, which is always exciting.  It's called Waiting for Tom Hanks, and it's by Kerry Winfrey.  The main character is Annie, a Midwestern rom-com-obsessed aspiring screenwriter who's waiting for Mr. Right -- which, to her, means a guy like Tom Hanks.  (Quick aside.  Annie's fixation isn't as weird as it may seem.  I remember reading a Glamour article that said when women say they want Tom Cruise, what they really mean is they want Tom Hanks.  Of course, this was back before I gave up on magazines.  And before Tom Cruise jumped on that couch.)  But when Annie scores a gig as an assistant on a movie set, she collides, coffee cup in hand, with alpha actor Drew Danforth (meet cute, check!), causing her to rethink her plans for landing a self-deprecating copilot.  Sure, Annie has misgivings of the classic rom-com heroine's but-this-wasn't-the-plan! variety.  But she also has the classic feisty BFF who Will.  Not.  Let.  Her.  Squander this opportunity.  So, she and Drew strike up a friendship that turns into more.  Their rapport is surprisingly easy, which I didn't quite trust, as Hollywood is reputed to be something of a dream-crushing shark tank.  But I banished my inner cynic, choosing to believe that love could bloom between a girl who lives with her Dungeons and Dragons-playing uncle and a guy who gets paid to French models.  Drew encourages Annie in her screenwriting endeavor, going as far as to talk her up to the director.  It's sweet and nice and something that you wish could happen.  Still, their romance isn't without problems.  For one, there's the ever-present paparazzi (so pesky!), and for another, Annie discovers a secret about her dead mother's past (somehow, these things always surface).  It forces her to shake her fantasy -- i.e. all those things she thought she wanted -- to get to her reality.  Which, this being a rom-com, ends up being a lot like her fantasy anyway.

Waiting for Tom Hanks is breezy and quirky and has lots of heart.  And something Annie said stuck with me.  She loves rom-coms in general and Nora Ephron rom-coms in particular because they're not about everything being sewed up at the end.  They're about women finding a partner to help them weather life's storms.  It's not that the guy is the be-all-end-all.  It's that having someone along for the ride makes the ride easier.  And I think that's something that everyone - whether they watch rom-coms or sci fi or anime -- can agree on.

And now for a walk-on from my Fabulous Felt Filmstrip barrettes!  Black and yellow and solidly square, they represent any movie anyone wants to see.  I like that they have that old-fashioned, outdated tech look, like, say, a rotary phone or boombox.  I mean, no one wants a cute little likeness of an iPhone or Alexa, right?  Unless maybe it's a barrette of what Alexa's face looks like.   

I'll tell my people to get on it.