Sleuth Spoof: Deserts and Daheim: A Case of Killing It

' "What could be more fun than discussing the brutal murder of a friend?" '

So trilled Beverly (Wendi McLendon-Covey) during this week's episode of The Goldbergs.  Adam (Sean Giambrone) had just dragged her to see Clue, and she loved it so much (not, she's quick to point out, the mystery, but the fancy food and clothes), that she wastes no time in planning her own murder mystery party.  The result, of course, is as hilarious as any of the beloved Jenkintown family's hijinks.  But Bevy's not the only one to get caught up in the excitement of a good thriller (whatever her motivations).  

As you know, I'm into whodunits.  These days, I'm reading my way through Mary Daheim's Emma Lord mysteries.  (Daheim, as I've mentioned, also writes the zany bed-and-breakfast books featuring sleuthing cousins Judith and Renie.)  Emma traded city life at The Oregonian for The Advocate in backwoods Washington.  As such, she's an outsider in a small, as she calls it, mountain "aerie," even once she's lived there for years.  People trust her, but she's not one of them.  Despite dabbling in romance with sheriff Milo Dodge, she remains haunted by the one that got away.  Essentially, she's alone, pitting her against her most formidable adversary -- herself.   Although the Emma Lord series is still categorized as "cozy" -- it's seldom gory, it's set in a small town, and the heroine is a small business owner -- it's darker than its bed-and-breakfast counterpart.  But it's every bit as funny.  And although the crimes are compelling, they're not what really draw me.  That honor goes to Daheim's irreverence and offbeat wit, both of which are machete-sharp.  Her descriptions of the local yokels -- foibles, family trees, and all -- create characters that are layered and familiar.  They keep me coming back to this crime-ravaged corner of the Pacific Northwest -- even if I never want to meet these weirdos in person.

Anyway, getting my hands on every Emma Lord title means sometimes buying used (these started coming out in the '90s), which I'm not normally into.  But now when these gently thumbed missives arrive in the mail, I look at them with fresh eyes.  I wonder if the person who read them before me also questioned how one small logging town could be hit with so many homicides.  Or how Francine's Fine Apparel could survive in a place with such high unemployment.

Here I am reading one of them!  Truth be told, this is a staged shot (but then, aren't they all?).  Because this (Colonel Mustard, ha ha) chair, lovely though it is, isn't the most comfortable for reading.  Same goes for the jeggings and jewelry.  But I decided not to show you how I really read, all sprawled out on the couch with unspackled skin and wayward hair.  That wouldn't be fair to you.  Or me. :)    

As for the necklace, it's one I restrung recently.  When I first made it, I used yellow silicone beads, which I'd bought without knowing what they were made of.  They were sticky and, after a few wears, attracted as much dust as a lollipop in a lint trap.  So I made a mental note -- silicone: bad for breasts, bad for beads -- and started again with hard plastic.  I'm happy with the way the "new" necklace turned out.  I especially love how it blends in with my leopard sweatshirt like a camo cactus (the charms are western, even if there isn't a saguaro in sight).

Wild West Wynona Necklace

Sweatshirt: Zulily

So it's no -- surely, you knew this was coming -- mystery why I heart crafts or crafty pseudo-detectives.  Creating something from nothing (or an old something) is a thrill, and sitting back while someone else solves an (entirely different kind of) problem is the ultimate lazy river of vicarious living.  Whether the murder takes place on the side of the road or in a gilded conservatory, it coaxes me out of my humdrum existence -- and then, once the body bag hits, makes me grateful for it all over again!  In the case of Clue, the genre injects a dose of Agatha Christie-level gravitas and glamour.  After all, what little -- or grown-up -- girl doesn't want to be Miss Scarlet?  

Bananas or not, Bev was on to something.

The Lady and the Tiger: Prints Don't Make the Princess

Bag: Dancing Days by Banned, Modcloth

Pink Rodeo Clown Barrette Brooch

Boots: Simply Vera, Kohl's

Coat: Candie's, Kohl's

Tights: Mixit, JCPenney

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Sweater and skirt: Anthropologie, Zulily

Coat: Anthropologie, Zulily

Shoes: 2 Lips Too, JCPenney 

Bag: Marshalls

Fabulous Felt Sea Turtle Barrette

Coat: POPSUGAR, Kohl's

I told you there were more coats!  Here's some schtick about the accessories surrounding the first one:

Yep, I'm wearing a Rodeo Clown Barrette Brooch on my coat and one in my hair.  Because unlike a mullet, they bring the party in the front and the back.  As a bonus, my boots have beloved (to me, anyway) ring zippers.  Which nearly makes for a tidy three ring circus analogy.  You know, if there were three zippers instead of two.  

Now, for the schtick surrounding this title.  Remember that short story, "The Lady, or the Tiger?" from back when you were just a chit trying not to drool on your desk (or even if you always got your full eight hours and never desecrated school property)?  Here's a recap if you're drawing a blank.  (Full disclosure: I misremembered some of the details and had to hit up Google.  Thanks, Internet!)  

"The Lady, or the Tiger?" takes place a long, long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away.  A cruel king forces alleged criminals into an arena and commands them to choose door number one or door number two.  One of the doors has a tiger behind it, and the other has a lady, or, more precisely, the man's ideal woman.  If the tiger comes out, then it means that the man is guilty, and the tiger kills him.  If the lady comes out, then it means that the man is innocent, and the lady marries him.  The king happens to have a daughter.  This princess, who is heartbreakingly beautiful, has inherited his cruel streak.  Yet as is so often the case in these stories, she falls in love with a man beneath her station.  The king finds out and tosses the man into the arena.  The princess is in the audience.  Unbeknownst to her beau, she knows what's behind each door.  She also knows that the lady behind the door is of the man's social class and is gorgeous, perhaps even more so than herself, making her a bitter rival.  The man looks up at the princess, and she very discretely indicates the door on the right.  So, trusting his love, the man picks that door . . .   

And that's where the story ends.  We never find out if the man gets mauled by the tiger or betrothed to the maiden.  All we know is that he doesn't end up with the princess, a woman who may have sent him to his death or safely into the arms of another.  It's an age-old moral conundrum.

Now, as a wearer of not one but two tiger prints (in outfit number two), I'm, in a sense, the lady and the tiger.  Which doesn't mean anything but kind of sounds like it should.

Eclectic Unicorn Necklace

Speaking of fantastic (albeit gentler) beasts, I loved making this Eclectic Unicorn Necklace.  It started out as a bargain buy.  I planned to embellish the wooden crescent, but it turned out to be much smaller than I expected.  No worries!  I just happened to have the perfect size ceramic heart beads to slip along the gold-tone chain, then, for the piece de resistance, an adorable unicorn charm to chain to the crescent.  I like the contrast between the wood and the candy shop extras.  It's -- as so many things turn out to be -- very kawaii meets commune.  

Getting back to our story, though, I don't remember what I thought happened at the end when I first read it in high school.  But now I think that the princess steered her love toward the lady.  Or at least, that's what I like to think.  Even if experience has taught me that more often than not, people throw each other to the wolves.  Because an arena is like a circus -- and any place there's an opportunity to exploit human frailty. 

Still, maybe's that's why I made this unicorn necklace, and so many others before it.  I want to believe in goodness and magic even if everything else points to evil.  There's good and bad in all of us (aha! Being the lady and the tiger does mean something!), but that's no reason why the bad should win.

Except for with Cats.  Catty or not, it's a bad business.  

Maybe that's because it's in cahoots with the tiger.

Jost Post: The One About Colin

Like most Saturday Night Live fans, I assumed that Colin Jost was 1) spawned from the spotless teak of a yacht anchored at a Connecticut country club, an idea that was only fueled by those Izod ads he did with Aaron Rodgers, and 2) a bro.  But it turns out that he's 1) a fat kid from Staten Island, and 2) a guy who got beat up by bros.  That's right.  He's from New York City's most undesirable borough, i.e., Pete Davidson's brother from another mother.  In retrospect, I should've seen this coming.  Because bros don't become comedians.  They become fry cooks or investment bankers.  I learned these tidbits and others about Jost after reading his book, A Very Punchable Face.  And that's when I began to really like him.  

Because I didn't -- like him, that is -- when he first appeared on Weekend Update.  I was like, "Who is this clown?  He's no Seth Meyers!"  And the husband was like, "Um, he's exactly like Seth Meyers, only not blond."  But I wasn't alone in my rage disappointment.  In Face, Jost parodies the bad press he received after landing the gig (196):

"I rarely use the word 'hate' and I rarely put words in boldface and underline them and italicize them, but I hate Colin Jost." -- USA Tomorrow

"I'm finding out where Colin Jost lives and I'm going to murder him." -- That Stalker Who Came to My House and Tried to Murder Me

"Two Stars." -- My Aunt in Her Annual Christmas Letter

Still, I began watching Update more closely.  Maybe the husband was right; maybe Jost wasn't as pompous as he seemed.  And his subtle, admittedly wry wit was reminiscent of Meyers's.  Over time, I grew to laugh with him instead of at him, and after a couple of seasons, I couldn't imagine Update without his boyish charm (or without Michael Che's snarkiness).  But it wasn't until I read Face that I found out what was really going on behind the man mask.  He's just a regular guy who just happens to have the perfectly coiffed hair of a Ken doll.  What's more, he wasn't some rent-a-rando who crashed SNL to oust Meyers.  He was good friends with Meyers and had been writing with him for years.  Which just goes to show that even after reading countless showbiz autobiographies, including several by SNL alumni, I still don't know how anything works.  

A Very Punchable Face is very funny.  And not just because it's a book-long joke about the scrappy yet eager-to-please, never-say-die bookworm behind Jost's tennis-anyone? kisser.  But because it includes an entire chapter about an adult Jost pooping his pants.  (See?  I told you he was regular.)  Jost also shares his travel adventures, revealing himself to be a bit of an adrenaline junkie.  Then again, you don't get your mug punched without seeking thrills and, intentionally or not, provoking the locals.  

Here's a passage that I particularly liked, partly because of my own past phone phobia, partly because I get the giggles whenever anyone mentions Omaha Steaks:

"I even get scared when the phone rings because I think, I'm not ready to speak yet.  I haven't figured out what to say.  But when I push through that fear and start saying words, I'm instantly relieved.  That's why answering the phone and talking to another human still feels like a huge psychological accomplishment.  (And that's why I currently have 254 un-listen-ed to voicemails.  The oldest is a call from Omaha Steaks in 2007!*)

*My credit card was declined for the "Surf and Turf Sampler" I bought my grandparents for Christmas." (5)

It's hard to imagine the seemingly sophisticated Jost WHO SPEAKS FOR A LIVING as tongue-tied.  Or spending his years at Harvard consorting with cape enthusiasts.  Or getting kicked out of a Russian nightclub, then leaving his host family their requested teddy bears before slinking back to the States.  Or routinely ordering a cheeseburger and nuggets as side dishes for his McDonald's Extra Value Meal.  And those are just the wholesome parts.  But it's all true (despite the husband's belief that every word in celebrity memoirs is fiction).

As for his relationship with wife Scarlett Johansson, Jost doesn't spill much (way to keep it classy).  But he does say that he and Scarlett first met on the set of SNL when he was just twenty-three and she twenty, which was more than a decade before they'd start dating.  Awwww!  

So, yeah.  I liked this book.  And I can't wait to watch Weekend Update again.  Because how can you not laugh with a guy who's so willing to laugh at himself?  

Still, I don't think I'll ever be able to see Jost without thinking, Get this guy a Porta-Potty!

Birthdays are Like Blogs . . .

. . . because both are self-centered.  Then again, a candy's gooey center is the best part -- even if it pulls out your teeth.  And today is my thirty-ninth birthday.  So here are the things at the center of me, both literally and figuratively -- a collage of the best of my big ass brooches!  Clowns, cacti, balloons, aliens, guitars, cupcakes -- they're all here in a happy hodgepodge.  But then, I'm no stranger to birthday flair.  Here I am on my ninth birthday back in 1991:

My favorite gift was a wearable stuffed animal called a Brush-a-Love (so named for the brush at the end of its tail), which I'm somewhat creepily cozying up to.  The eagle-eyed observer will also notice the Nosy Bear peeking out from the table and the fact that I'm missing a tooth.  Not from eating candy (I don't think), but still.

Those were the days.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to craft (and, okay, nap) until leaning into my cheeseburger and cake and ice cream coma.

Produce in Paradise: Whoa, Where's My Pizza?

Sweater: Mudd, Kohl's; Shoes: Unlisted, Marshalls; Belt: Marshalls

Rainbow Palms Brooch Barrette

Skirt: Candie's, Kohl's

No, I'm not talking about a thick, cheesy pie smothered in ham chunks and pineapple rings.  I'm talking about my new pineapple purse . . . and, eventually, my dearly departed DiGiorno.  The purse was an early birthday gift, and I was mighty excited to get it.  Not just because it's cute, but because it's one of the few full-size (I do have a pineapple coin purse) fruits missing from my fashion fruit basket.

Bag: Amazon

Speaking of tropical things, here's that warm weather post in the dead of winter.  How did it get here so fast?!  

To celebrate/commemorate/hibernate, I made this Rainbow Palms Brooch Barrette, which features twin palm trees on a stretch of strawberry-lemon sand, a rainbow rising between them.  Can you say Calgon, take me away?  (Unlike the ocean, Calgon lacks sea lice and sewage.)

When I was little, I used to like that song "(Put the Lime in the) Coconut."  I still sing it in my head whenever a big boatload of fruit loot washes ashore (which happens more often than you might think).  But these days I should be singing about putting the lime in the raspberry.  Because not too long ago, a retailer that shall remain nameless dropped off three cases of sparkling water -- one lime, one cherry, and one raspberry-lime -- that I didn't order.  It was mixed in with the stuff I did order, though, so I just shrugged and put it in the pantry.  Now, before you go all citizen's arrest, I should point out that one of my orders from this same store was once delivered to someone else, and yet another order was never delivered at all.  Needless to say, this place is now dead to me.  But when it came to the free drinks, I chalked it up to a round of retail roulette.  (My apologies if I've said this already; it's tough to tell what I've broadcasted and what I haven't with the incessant inner monologue that is quarantine brain.)  You know how it is with online food shopping.  Sometimes another household gets your Friday night frozen pizza and ice cream, and sometimes you get some stranger's spray butter (true story on both accounts, although I've yet to try the butter.)  You win some, you lose some, and it all comes out in the wash.  Just like Barbara Boxer says about dry cleaner mix-ups during that (but aren't they all?) cringeworthy confrontation with Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm.  No, she will not support legislation to return patrons' lost garments because the pants she's wearing aren't even hers!  Anyway, I don't like sparkling water.  No matter what flavor it is, it always tastes like a fruit salad farted into an exhaust pipe.  So, to use it up, I mix it with limeade and maraschino cherry juice, and it isn't half bad.  Because what doesn't give you diabetes makes you stronger -- and less likely to eviscerate some poor Shipt driver on Yelp.

In honor of no-show groceries everywhere, I'll leave you with this: Missing milk carton on a milk carton.  Think about that for five seconds.  

Day One, Fun Run: Sneakers That Ignite a Spark

Sneakers: PUMA, Zulily

Despite this title, I'm not running for charity -- or for any other reason -- this New Year's.  Still, I did get some new sneakers.  I've never been much of an athletic shoe girl, but I must admit that the architecture of the sneaker offers ample surface area for the kind of color and pattern play I enjoy.  Also, I thought that these neon numbers might motivate me to do more than the occasional jumping jacks.  

Not so with Trevor Benson in Nicholas Sparks's latest, The Return.  That's right, I'm segueing from shoes to a book review.  Then again, it's probably not the first time.

Trevor runs six miles a day even though he hates it and passes up most of his French fries because he can imagine his arteries hardening.  Which is to say that he's as tightly wound as any Sparks hero -- even if, in the first few pages, he insists that he's not a hero in that aw-shucks-yet-unreliable-narrator way.  Still, Trevor has good reason to be uptight.  He's an ex-Navy doctor who came home minus an ear and with PTSD.  So, he's literally running from his problems.  The book's called The Return because Trevor's back in New Bern, North Carolina -- the setting of many a Sparks saga -- to fix up his late grandfather's house.  Yet as he refurbishes the old cottage, he discovers that he doesn't know the whole truth about his grandfather.  Lovely but odd cop Natalie Masterson and troubled teen Callie, no last name, are key in helping him solve the mystery.  Both are running from something, too, connecting these three souls in their struggles.

The Return flirts with romantic suspense even more flagrantly than earlier Sparks novels The Guardian, Safe Haven, and, more recently, See Me.  Although sleepier than any of those barn burners, The Return features the most mysterious -- and at times eerie -- of budding romances.  It also includes that less-oft-discussed but nonetheless noteworthy Sparks staple of low-grade stalking, a phenomenon that gives me the creeps even as it makes me laugh (neither, of which, I surmise, is a response that Sparks was going for).  Finally, Sparks-speaking-as-Trevor vacillates between the usual corny and a new hint of jaded, but then divorce (Sparks's, not Trevor's) will do that to you.  Snarkiness aside, I liked The Return.  Sparks is a classic storyteller.  The way he describes idyllic yet haunting small towns and weaves past and present to show true love delivers.   

That said, let's take a brief break to look at my second pair of new sneakers.  They were a Christmas gift from my sister, and the reason that they're popping up now is because they're called The Fuzz, and love interest Natalie is Johnny (Janey?) Law.

Sneakers: Katy Perry, Amazon

As usual, this sneaker sidebar is my way of making light of something serious -- even if the something serious in this case is fiction -- something, ironically, that Trevor's therapist says he does, too.  But humor -- and funky footwear -- make life's icky stuff easier.  And The Return is crammed with icky stuff, making good on its promise of Sparks's signature sadness.  As for the ending, about half of Sparks's books end happily, a gamble that keeps readers coming back to find out if they'll need that economy-sized box of tissues or if they can save it for This is Us.  I won't spoil the ending of this one, though.  Consider it my New Year's gift to you.

On that note, this year, more reading, less running.  Even if reading is just running in place.

Reptile Resurrection: Buyer and Boa Beware

Clockwise: Mix No. 6, DSW; ALDO, Macy's; Mix No. 6, DSW; Steve Madden, Macy's; ShoeDazzle, Zulily; Mix No. 6, DSW

The only good snake is a dead snake.  Or, better yet, a fake snake.  Which is as good an intro as any to the rainbow of faux reptile rollicking here.  Once upon a time, I had a whole terrarium full of snake print stuff.  Skirts, bags, belts, you name it, I had it, choking the life out of the neighboring leopards and florals.  And then one by one, I weeded them out, thinking, these wild wardrobe sidewinders just aren't for me.  Then, about six months ago, snake print became trendy again, and I, forever a slave to fashion, was helpless to avoid its scaly embrace.  Because there's something irreverent about wearing snake print, especially in unnatural colors.  It's like you're changing the snake from an agent of death into a fun party crasher.  It's still dangerous, but in a good way.  Like riding a rickety roller coaster.  As opposed to, say, riding a rickety roller coaster run by a clown.    

So take heed, boas, cobras, and garters (especially garters, as you're the one I'm most likely to see).  Mess with me, and I'll turn you into stilettos.