Living Room Boom: The House Always Grins

Rave Crave Necklace

Grape Escape Necklace

Orla Orchid Earrings

Grape Escape Necklace (again!)

Rosie Posie Rhinestone Necklace

 

Rave Crave Necklace (squared!)

Rosie Posie Rhinestone Necklace (so nice I posted it twice!)

Orla Orchid Earrings (Encore edition; the birds demanded it.)

It's no mystery that I love using stuff around my house to stage my jewelry.  I know it, you know it, and the husband knows it, because I blog about it all the time.  Yet I can't seem to stop bringing it up.  It just makes me so happy, this whole hidden layer -- or dare I say secret life -- of everyday items.  Who knows what our beloved bric-a-brac gets up to when we're not around?  Cutlery playing tug-of-war with the curtains?  Paintings coming to life and throwing ragers?  Light fixtures pining over Dustbusters?  Wait . . . that's Beauty and the Beast.  But whatever.  Move over, cartoon pets.  The real intrigue's in ottomans.     

Anyway, in the spirit of spilling secrets, I didn't take all of these pics in my living room as this post title suggests.  I took three of them in the office, and the groovy pattern in Grape Escape pic number one is actually my pillowcase.  Which means, of course, that its proper domain is my bedroom.  Yet five days a week it moonlights (sunlights?) in my living room, serving as my first defense between my skin and the rays emanating from the laptop I use while teleworking in my bathrobe (unless I'm on Zoom.  I always dress up and paint up for Zoom because I'm a professional.  And also because I'm vain.)  For that reason, this pillowcase is special.  It's also the only piece I have left from my Teen Vogue bed set (once upon a time, Vogue had an aimed-at-high-schoolers spin-off publication as well as a line of textiles it hawked at Macy's).  I can't say that the set was the best quality because the comforter got weird after a few washes, the stuffing all wadded up and suspended like ants trapped in amber.  You know, if ants were gerbils and amber were those sticky Halloween spiderwebs.

Lumps notwithstanding, the pattern is bitchin'.  Which is just another way of saying that that's why I hung onto it.

Now that I'm home every day, I've no doubt put a damper on my stuff's misadventures.  Sometimes I imagine certain objects glaring at me, silently willing me to put on some pants and go back to the office already so that they can resume their freewheeling, Ferris Bueller antics.  But I ignore them and keep typing.  Because I'm their owner and not the other way around.  And because I believe in the importance of surrounding myself with things that make me feel alive (it is, after all, the living room).  Things that are full of beauty and that tell a story.

Even if that story is sometimes a limerick.

Sometimes the Gables are Greener: Little Orphan Anne's Odyssey

Last week, I finished reading Before Green Gables by Budge Wilson.  It'd been on my bookshelf since Christmas, and I'd been avoiding it.  It's not that I thought I wouldn't like it.  It's that I knew this prequel to Anne of Green Gables would challenge me and everything I knew about Anne.  I felt a little like this when I read Marilla of Green Gables, too.  But finding out about Anne's past was an entirely different kettle of fish.  As you know, L. M. Montgomery's eight-volume series about the little redhead who could is very special to me.  It got me through my tween years, which might sound weird because, unlike Anne, I grew up with two loving parents.  Still, I didn't fit in at school, and somehow Anne spoke to me.  I felt a kinship with this girl who loved big words and pretty clothes and felt like she didn't belong.

Nevertheless, my curiosity got the best of me, and I finally opened Before Green Gables.  And it was worth it.  The whole novel is based on a conversation between Marilla and Anne when Anne arrives in Avonlea:

' "Were those women -- Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond -- good to you?"  asked Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye.

"O-o-o-h," faltered Anne.  Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow.  "Oh, they meant to be -- I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible.  And when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not quite -- always.  They had a good deal to worry them, you know.  It's very trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don't you think?  But I feel sure they meant to be good to me."

Marilla asked no more questions.  Anne gave herself up to a silent rapture over the shore road and Marilla guided the sorrel abstractedly while she pondered deeply.  Pity was suddenly stirring in her heart for the child.  What a starved, unloved life she had had -- a life of drudgery and poverty and neglect; for Marilla was shrewd enough to read between the lines of Anne's history and divine the truth.  No wonder she had been so delighted at the prospect of a real home." (41)

The way that Budge Wilson (such a curious name!) weaves this information into a new narrative draws you right in.  She starts with the death of Anne's adoring schoolteacher parents in an epidemic (creepy in these current times, no?) when Anne is only three months old.  Then she follows Anne to two foster homes where, starting at five years old, she's forced to clean diapers, carry pails of water, and cook.  Wilson tells the story of women with too many children and not enough money, showing us a world far removed from the charmed and charming sphere of Avonlea.  Wilson's ability to reveal this dark underbelly of Anne Shirley's life while maintaining Anne's sunny spirit lends depth to Anne's character.  Yet even Anne struggles with demons, and she reaches a turning point when she meets the Egg Man, or as she eventually comes to call him, the Words Man.  He sets her on the path to self preservation through imagination.

' "Anne," Mr. Johnson said, quietly and firmly, "listen to me.  Imagining things is not wicked.  It's good.  It's what makes people write books and paint pictures and make music.  It means pretending things.  Go on doing it.  Don't, for heaven's sake, stop, even if Mrs. Thomas gets cross.  It can often rescue you from the depths of sadness."' (137)

There were times when I felt that this hardship and heartbreak were at war with the Anne of my childhood.  But by the end of the book, I realized that the opposite was true, that all of the trials had made Anne tougher without making her rougher, creating a foundation for the strength she would need to chase the life that she wanted.

Anne, of course, finds her way through the woods (literally and figuratively, as both of her foster homes are deep in the forest), even if she first ends up in an orphanage.  There she falls prey to a mean girl who almost destroys her trust in people forever.  But then she finds out that a fine lady is coming to adopt a hard worker -- ironically, by way of one of the mean girl's schemes -- and scrubs like she's never scrubbed before.  The rest, as they say, is history.  Anne gets adopted, and the mean girl is left behind.   

Revenge fantasies rarely come sweeter.

Ultimately, Before Green Gables is about hope.  It shows that if you hang in there, you'll be rewarded.  It's a beautiful book, and I'm better for having read it.  But now that it's done, I'm ready for something lighter.

Like a nice, cheerful murder mystery.

Memorial Day the Quarantine Way

Normally on Memorial Day, the husband and I go to a BBQ at my parents' or sister's.  This year, my parents visited us here.  They stood in the driveway and we stayed on the porch, and we talked for about half an hour.  Then I put my mom's Mother's Day gift on the porch and went inside, and she and my dad put some food on the porch for us.  We waved goodbye from the window.  It was the first time we'd seen them since March.  Actually, it was the first time I'd seen anyone (other than the husband) since March.  And it was kind of strange.  But also nice.

Outfit-wise, I went for stripes and stripes instead of stars and stripes.  Or maybe I should say stripes and chevron.  I've never had a (non-formal) dress this long, mostly because I'm so short.  But I liked the pattern and colors so much that I decided to get it anyway.  Also, I finally painted my toenails!  Memorial Day might be different this year, but busting out my bunions (er, feet) still says summer. 

As does the lemon.  I made this Lottie Lemonade Necklace using a lemon slice charm that I ordered from Amazon.  It's semi-clear and takes on the color of its background like a thirst-quenching chameleon.       

Lottie Lemonade Necklace

So Happy Memorial Day.  May it be the start of a summer of sunshine, fruit-themed everything, and all-inclusive-resort-worthy beverages, whether you enjoy them at the beach or on some fancy yacht or incubated in your humble abode.  Because lemons can grow anytime, anywhere.  But it's up to us to make them sweeter.

Which is, yes, a drawn-out and syrupy way of saying the whole when life hands you lemons thing.  It's fun to play with clichés, isn't it?          

Now I'll leave you in peace so you can watch Cops and gnaw on leftover hot dogs.  

Journal Journey: Time is on My Slide

You know how people (and bumper stickers) say things like so many shoes, so little time?  So many cocktails, so little time?  So many men, so little time?  Well, I feel like this quarantine is the perfect opportunity to embrace all of those burning if-only's.  Unless, of course, your version of this is so many water parks.  Or so many men.

My own list goes something like this: so many outfits, so many books, so many crafts, and, of course, so many blog posts.  (Also so many shoes.  But you already knew that.)  And so, I'm using this to-myself time to delve even more deeply into my passions.  And that includes writing outfit ideas in my outfit journal.  Or, as I like to call it, my togs log.  Some outfits I wear, others I just photograph, but there's something satisfying about capturing them before they fly out of my head like deranged butterflies.  It's also fun to go over old entries and see which stuff I ended up donating.  Or, more often than not, look at some fashion "brainstorm" and wonder, what was I thinking?!

One of the reasons I'm mesmerized by clothes is that you can style them endlessly.  There used to be a column/feature about this in that old shopping magazine Lucky.  (Have I blogged about this already?  I feel like I have.  Oh well.  I won't let that stop me.)  It was called something like One Skirt; Three Girls, but catchier.  And each of the girls would trick out the skirt in a totally different way.  It'd list their professions, too, so it'd be no surprise when the architect paired the skirt with a white button-down and an artsy necklace, or when the boutique owner topped her skirt with a frilly blouse and humongous fake pearls.  Then there'd be a tattoo artist with the skirt wrapped around her purple ponytail wearing a pair of ripped jeans or something.

Well, not really.  Lucky never got edgy.  No hard feelings, Lucky.  I'm not edgy either.  To prove it, here's one grrr-eat leopard skirt shoehorned into three girly outfits.  Not one of them appears in my togs log.  But sometimes you have to go off-book.

Top: Worthington: J. C. Penney's
Skirt: Tinseltown, Kohl's
Shoes: Jessica Simpson, DSW
Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Top: Macy's

Skirt: Tinseltown, Kohl's

Shoes: Mix No. 6, DSW

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Marshalls

Top: Target
Skirt: Tinseltown, Kohl's
Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Zulily
Bag: Liz Claiborne, J. C. Penney's
Belt: Marshalls

Parade Route Shoot: Let's Talk About the Weather (Again)

You know that point in the spring when it feels like somebody suddenly turned on a big heat lamp in the sky while you're still bundled up in your parka?  Well, that's how I felt this weekend, only instead of the parka, I was snug as a bug in my housecoat rug.  And I thought, whoa, summer is here.  Despite everything.  And a kind of summer-vacation-slash-carnival-something bubbled inside me (even though summer vacation skedaddled with algebra and carnivals are just plain creepy).  Finally, I could stop layering everything!  But wait . . . I like layering.  It's like getting a hug from my wardrobe.  Plus, I still have lots of as-of-yet unveiled, winter-into-spring ensembles (code for pictures in which I don't show my toes).  I'm pretty sure I blog about the whole eek-summer-is-here thing every year, but that's because I find it -- and indeed all transitions -- so jarring.  And because in the colder months, my toenails rival sloths'.  Nevertheless, as my mom always says, when it's time, it's time.  And time says that summer has spoken.  So, I'm heralding the season's first heat wave by saying bye-bye to bulk with a parade of pictures.  The outfits are new, but the things I made aren't.  Kind of like this pandemic and summer.

Top: POPSUGAR, Kohl's

Yellow Bow Barrettes 

Sweater: ELLE, Kohl's

Yellow Bow Glow Barrettes

Skirt: Amazon

Black Beauty Necklace

Skirt: Wild Fable, Target

80s Ella Barrettes

 Top: So, Kohl's; Bag: Nine West, Ross; Striped bangle: Mixit, JCPenney; Rhinestone bangle: Iris Apfel for INC, Macy's; Pink bracelet: Amrita Singh, Zuily; Black choker: Kohl's

Top: Candie's, Kohl's

Fabulous Felt Desert Dreams Necklace 

Top: So, Kohl's

Shoes: City Streets, JCPenney; Socks: Gifted 

Sweater: Wild Fable, Target

Bag: Francesca's

Shoes: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Green Pompom Bow Barrette

And . . . the parade route has come to an end.  So, see ya, boots and socks and sandals.  Because it's time to embrace my favorite season (for despite all aforesaid hemming and hawing, in my beach book, summer is hands and -- ahem -- feet above autumn, winter and spring) by wearing my flipflops.  Even if it's just to walk to the mailbox. 

Watch out foot bath.  These dogs are coming for you.  

Putting My Love Up on the Shelf: From Canada to Singapore With Detours in Between

That's right, Georgia Satellites, I'm putting what I love up on a shelf.  But then you're probably copacetic with that, as books aren't the same as a V-card.

For some time now, I've been on the hunt for a bookshelf for my craft room.  I wanted something sturdy yet unusual but sadly kept coming up empty.  Well, it turns out that the ideal piece was hiding in my own bedroom!  Unbeknownst to me, a regal relic of a crown molding-adorned shelf was tucked behind the dresser -- which is just the sort of surprise you get when you're married to a painter/contractor.  I loved it and had only one request: could the husband paint it yellow?  Not only did he oblige; he added a candy pink stripe!  The result is Greek revival meets Easter.  Which is to say wonderful.

Once the shelf was up, it was time for the best part: loading it with books!  I chose titles by authors ranging from L. M. Montgomery (O, Canada!) to Kevin Kwan (see you in Singapore), with a world of other worlds in between.  I've always found the L. M. Montgomerys to be especially beautiful, even if Anne of Ingleside has faded from yellow to cream.  But in a way, their careworn spines are even comelier now because they show how much I've loved them.  Kind of like The Velveteen Rabbit.  (Which is, ironically, not on this shelf.  Note to self: order from Amazon.)  Anyway, as I auditioned each book to add, I asked myself one simple question: Did I enjoy reading it?  This may sound like a no-brainer, but there's a huge difference between books I enjoy and books I tolerate.  Books I enjoy either support my worldview or turn it on its head, which is a fancy way of saying that they make an impression.  Books that I tolerate are more meh.  Yet like bad pizza, they have their value.  Because even mediocre books give the gift of escape, weaving a parallel universe with their albeit often subpar yet lulling word rhythms.

So, here's to books, the good, the bad, and the fugly.  And to my personal literary rainbow.  I love to look at it while I'm making things.

Which is more than I can say for the Satellites' mullets.

Toilet Paper Caper

These days, caper doesn't mean what it used to.  Just as excitement over toilet paper no longer means "decorating" your neighbor's house.  Now it's all about snagging some Charmin before your next bathroom incident.  And everyone's in on the search and the success stories.  On a recent episode of "Jimmy Kimmel Live!," Kimmel's three-year-old son burst through a fortress of heard-won rolls.  On Jim Gaffigan's YouTube channel, Gaffigan's head pops up from a sea of two-ply.  Finally, my Pinterest feed is, ahem, clogged with products boasting "I survived the toilet paper crisis of 2020!".  Well, I'm not Jimmy Kimmel or Jim Gaffigan.  But I am a person.  And I'm thrilled to share my own tp coup (while, for some reason, dressed like backwoods Barbie).  This is how it unraveled. 

I was trolling Walmart.com for essentials (i.e. another half dozen boxes of Nature Valley almond butter bars), when I pessimistically typed "toilet paper" into the search box.  I was expecting to see the usual toilet paper roll stands (such a tease!).  So, when Northern appeared on my screen, I couldn't believe it.  Northern, a brand I never even buy, suddenly seemed like the most beautiful word in the world.  It made me think of idyllic Scandinavian fishing villages, the northern lights, and, of course, not having to delve into my party paper napkin supply for intimate use.  I wasted no time adding two 12-packs to my cart; I'd been foiled before by waiting even a minute too long on the likes of Target.com.  Yet even after I completed the order, I had my doubts.  In this age of mass shortages, it was entirely possible that I'd get one of those sorry-not-sorry emails informing me that my Northern order had, well, gone south.  I'd been there before, you see (I'm talking to you Target), and like a jilted lover, I'd hardened my heart.  But no such email arrived and then, just two days after the estimated delivery date, the Northern landed on my doorstep with all the unlikely magic of a unicorn. 

More than anything, this hysteria over toilet paper shows that the COVID-19 pandemic has been something of an equalizer.  When even celebrities are clamoring to maintain personal hygiene normalcy, it makes you realize that we really are all in this together.  And that we all put our pants on one leg at a time.

And now, thanks to Northern (and Walmart!), my legs can be blessedly clean.

Keep Calm, Mom, and Have a Mimosa

What, you wanted brunch?  And a long-stemmed rose handed to you as, full of frittata and fresh fruit, you exit the restaurant into the May sunshine?  Well, buckle up, because it's Eggos and virtual violets for you, Madame Mama.

If you're anything like everyone else in the world, then you're keeping a tally of all the holidays and birthdays claimed by corona.  Today, of course, marks yet another fanfare-free celebration.  This Mother's Day, my family won't be sharing lunch followed by a Duncan Hines vanilla cake (white inside, not yellow) and presenting Mom with an array of Amazon Wish List-curated gifts.  Instead, I made my mom this card and dropped it in the mailbox (actually, I made the husband drop it in the mailbox, as I've yet to cross that hurdle).  I'd like to say that the look-what-I-made-for-you-in-school feel was intentional.  But the afterthought apostrophe and streaky colored pencil strokes happened all on their own.  The inside says, "Just a little produce from the person you produced."  Because I'm nothing if not Dad joke witty.

Later today, my sister and I are going to get on House Party with my parents.  I'll dress for the occasion; the least I can do is spare Mom the sight of my bedraggled, bathrobed self.  Also, it'll help prevent the old, "Aunt Tracy, your hair is a mess!" from my three-year-old nephew.  Actually, I don't mind that.  I miss the little tyke so much he could call me Carrot Top, and I'd say thank you.

Still, despite the whole holiday interrupted thing, there's an upside to time apart.  My mom and I are very close, and we talk on the phone every day.  But even so, in the old days, we were usually too busy to settle down to a proper chat.  One of us was always signing off to rush off to do something else, her to go to Zumba or yoga, me (like the premature geriatric I am) because "one of my shows" was coming on.  Now that we're both housebound, we have the luxury of talking as long as we want, and our conversations are deeper.  Well, at least they are when we're not focused on who scored chicken or bananas in the latest grocery order.  So, slowing down can be nice.       

This Mother's Day, I hope that you too find your own way to celebrate.  And that you're thankful for the little things. 

Like fresh produce in all of its forms.

Staying in and Branching Out

Top: Macy's

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Zulily

Striped bag: Current Mood, Dolls Kill

Heart Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon

I'm happy to report that I received my shipment of wire and clasps!  I wasted no time using both to make these daisy necklaces:

 Yellow Mint Daisy Day Necklace

 Tangerine Cream Daisy Day Necklace

 Kelly Rose Daisy Day Necklace 

Turquoise Pink Daisy Day Necklace

I like them because they're sweet and simple, like the weakest link in a gal pal group on a sitcom.  Here they are with some more kitchen textiles I unearthed:

Like the Fiestaware dishtowels, they were from my bridal shower, and I thought that they were too cute to use.  (If you saw the state of my everyday oven mitts, then you would understand.)  Having the time to enjoy these treasures is a welcome bonus of this quarantine. 

In keeping with the kitchen theme, here's a view of a tree outside my window.  (Technically, it's from the window in the laundry room off the kitchen, but I'm sure the blog gods will let it slide.)  I thought that it looked haunting but peaceful, like Halloween on hiatus.  Also, that it would be fun to hang some necklaces from it. 

Maybe I can get the husband to scramble up there someday.