No Shirt, No Shoes, No Nervous

Ah, the cinema. So glamorous and exciting and sweet and not just because it sounds like cinnamon. Is there anything quite like settling into a seat with a box of Junior Mints and a costs-only-a-quarter-more tub of Dr. Pepper while watching previews? Yes, I love going to the movies. And pre-pandemic, I went all the time. But now that my options are limited to whatever I can get on TV, I'm finding . . . that they're not so limited after all. There are a lot more movies out there than I ever imagined, some I've never even heard of. Just last weekend, I was scrolling through the Amazon Prime offerings when one such movie, Barefoot, popped up. I saw that Scott Speedman was in it and thought, oh, it's Ben from Felicity! Let's watch that!

Here's the rundown: Jay (Speedman) is a hospital janitor on parole; Daisy (Evan Rachel Wood) is in the psych ward and may or may not have murdered her mother.  Jay's a world-weary, rich kid-turned-gambler; Daisy's a shut-in who's never even eaten marshmallows.  They meet when Jay saves Daisy from a would-be molester.  Struck by his gesture, Daisy follows Jay out of the hospital and begs him to take her with him.  Jay protests but eventually relents, even though he's going to his parents' mansion for his brother's wedding.  Jay is estranged from his parents.  But he soon realizes that passing Daisy off as his new girlfriend may help get him back in their good graces so that they'll fund his new business venture.  Gentle awkwardness ensues as Daisy unsuccessfully navigates civilized society while garbed in bona fide stripper dresses (for some reason, Jay's favorite club seemed like a more sensible place to procure a wardrobe for Daisy than Target).  Nevertheless, Daisy is charming, a kind of fresh-limbed, Little Mermaid fish out of water who means well even as she stumbles.  Jay's mom takes a liking to her, even going so far as to lend her a dress.  But the wedding's only the beginning.  Jay steals his dad's brand-new, state-of-the-art camper, officially making him and Daisy on the run.  Still channeling Ariel, Daisy expresses wonder at everything she sees, proclaiming her day with Jay at a small town carnival to be the best she's ever had.  On the surface, the two seem so different.  But underneath, they're both outcasts trying to find their way in.  And that's how they get close and get through to each other.

One of Daisy's quirks is that she likes to be barefoot.  She never says why, but I think it's safe to assume that after so many years of confinement, she relishes the idea -- and symbolism -- of freeing her feet.  Daisy's backstory is especially interesting in this time of quarantine, when plenty of people are hunkering down in their houses.  Many of them probably feel trapped too.  Not me, of course -- you know I love living la vida solo.  But that's the thing about this crazy virus.  It makes you want to be kinder to everyone, no matter their point of view.  Because we're all human and going through stuff and deserve to have someone understand.

That said, today's crafty tie-in has nothing to do with sheltering in place or feet (I considered making a felt foot barrette but decided to spare you).  Although it is something that a slightly muddled, barefoot hippie might wear.  Yes, it's the Mixed-up Medallion Necklace, an eclectic accessory for the boho runaway in all of us.

Mixed-up Medallion Necklace

In keeping with the foot theme, here's a quote about feet from another movie that reminds us to be better.  Not that the quote is about being better -- it's not; if anything, it's about being mean.  But we're going for feet here.  You get it.

"The worst thing we've done is make Regina George's face smell like a foot."

Oh, Mean Girls.  You never let me down.

A Sneak Peak and a Story

What do a little girl's tea set, pompom-filled cups from said plastic tea set, and gumball beads have in common?  (Although it's probably not too difficult to guess), you'll have to wait until next week because I'm still toiling away at new projects.  So, for the remainder of this post, I'm moving on to something else, a kind of book review-slash-fiction-exercise mash-up.

The book in question is Barefoot, by Elin Hilderbrand.  The particulars of the novel aren't important (well, they are, but not to this post); all you need to know is that one of the characters is a college student struggling to write fiction that's about something bigger than himself:

"Chas Gorda warned his students against being too "self-referential."  He was constantly reminding his class that no one wanted to read a short story about a college kid studying to be a writer.  Josh understood this, but as he rolled into the town of 'Sconset with the mysterious briefcase next to him, he couldn't help feeling that this was a moment he could someday mine." Hilderbrand, 21.

This passage caught my interest.  After all, I'm always tempted to fictionalize my own experiences, cloaking them in the dubious disguises of different ages, different towns, different names.  (Is that Technicolor-caftan-wearing craftista named Casey a crude caricature of myself?  I should add that  Casey lives on a houseboat, by contrast, paddleboats make me seasick.)  I can't help but wonder what it would be like to make up a story -- or at least the beginning of one -- that's as alien to me as Alaska.  So, I'm forgoing my usual alliteration-addled, pop culture reference-riddled write-up to give it a whirl, even if a blog, by its very nature, is the stuff of self reference.

Ever since she had entered her second trimester, Mitzi was constantly craving things.  She wanted gumballs, ice cream, and lemon raspberry iced tea, but whenever she indulged, she threw up.  "Too sweet," Dr. Lindstrom had clucked when she called his office to to ask his opinion.  She had gotten into the habit of consulting him about these prenatal yet not quite medical queries because he was the only person Mitzi trusted.  Her husband, Mark, was teaching a course about supernatural themes in Victorian literature at Indiana State University while she managed the store at home in Vermont.  The store was, inexplicably, a hardware store, something Mitzi knew nothing about.  But it had been in Mark's family for decades, so when he got the offer to teach his dream course at ISU -- his doctoral thesis had been an analysis of the nuclear family as it related to Dracula through the ages, an irony that was not lost on Mitzi -- she agreed to hold down the fort.  If she glanced at her gently rounded stomach and wondered what she would feel like once she was bigger and alone, then she didn't voice it.  Mark promised to take leave and return to Vermont closer to her due date, hastily adding that until then she would have her mother and sisters.  And, of course, Dr. Lindstrom. She nodded, trying not to think of her mother's more overbearing-than-helpful maternity advice, and of her sisters squabbling, or, in rare spells of harmony, complaining about their husbands and children.  They had six children between them, three each, and watching them tear through their mother's scrupulously maintained pink Victorian never failed to give Mitzi a headache.  Her mother never once rose her voice, instead offering the little miscreants fresh-baked cookies like the born hostess that she was.  True, her eye had twitched a bit when Caitlin knocked over her antique milk glass fruit bowl.  But she let it pass, waiting a beat before reaching into the overturned-but-not-cracked bowl and handing Caitlin an apple with such grace and aplomb that Caitlin cowered, shyly accepting the fruit and slinking off to a corner to eat it.  Mitzi's mother had the rare ability of charming children to that they both loved and respected her.  Thinking of this, Mitzi nervously rubbed her stomach, worrying that she herself would never be as effective.  Unfortunately, that was one problem that even the esteemed Dr. Lindstrom could not fix.  "Aw, screw it," muttered Mitzi, then ducked into the freezer for some rainbow sherbet.