What Happens in the Galapagos Stays in the Galapagos

Or does it?  That's the question in Jodi Picoult's Wish You Were Here.  A book, by the way, that I initially wished I weren't reading.  It was my mom's book club pick.  And she's a fan of serious books, so.  Here's the premise:  

Diana O'Toole is a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker waiting for her surgeon boyfriend Finn to pop the question.  Already the darling of Sotheby's, her career is on track, and she's itching to get on with her meticulously-mapped ten-year-plan.  She craves stability because her famous photographer mother was never around.  Diana and Finn are all set to go on a romantic vacation to the Galapagos when COVID paralyzes the city.  As a front-line worker, Finn has to stay.  But he urges Diana to go.       

As I ventured deeper into Diana's struggles in the ghost town that is the pandemic Galapagos, I wasn't sure how much I could take.  Diana's luggage is lost.  She has no place to stay, almost no money, and doesn't speak the language.  She even narrowly misses eating a poisoned apple before a stranger stops her.  Yet most depressing of all are Finn's emails.  He goes into excruciating detail describing patients on ventilators, his 72-hour shifts, and feeling hopeless.  It's the stuff of nightmares and catapulted me right back to the beginning of the pandemic and all its uncertainties.    

But then the stranger and his family take Diana in.  She begins to relax and appreciate the beauty of the island, even rediscovering her passion for creating art instead of just selling it.  (Not that there isn't heavy stuff still going on; the stranger's daughter self harms.)  Before long, Diana's frenzied life in Manhattan seems like a distant memory, a realization that Picoult illustrates through this simple but telling line:

"Busy is a euphemism for being so focused on what you don't have that you never notice what you do." (172)

So, yeah, like Diana, ahem, adapting to the Galapagos, I was getting used to this book.  

And then something totally unexpected happened, throwing me for a loop.  It made me make the leap from merely tolerating the book to enjoying it.           

And . . . that's where I'll stop.  Except to say this:

Thanks, Mom, for getting me to open my mind to life's sometimes poorly wrapped curveballs and mysteries.  

That said, it's my turn to pick the next book -- and this time we're reading a rom com. 

Animal Print Stint: A Very Merry Unbirthday to Me

Tights: Xhilaration, Target

As you know, I hit the big 4-Oh in the beginning of the month.  But the family party (okay, get-together, as there were a pod-approved nine of us) took place last weekend -- which gave me an excuse to celebrate all over again.  And if Alice and animal print don't say happy birthday month -- or merry unbirthday, to quote that wonderfully wacky Alice in Wonderland ditty -- then I don't know what does.

Socks, ? (they were a Christmas gift :) 

Skirt: Bubblegum, Macy's

Boots: Jessica Simpson Collection, Amazon

Sweater: Bar III, Macy's

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

My parents pulled out all the stops, decking their house with pink decorations.  It was the best bash I could've hoped for, with all of my favorite people.  At one point we were covered in streamers, but I decided not to post any pictures of that.  I respect the privacy of others, if not my own.  

Anyway, it's a good thing we partied down last weekend, because this is what it's like out today:

There's fifteen inches of the white stuff here at the Jersey shore.  As always, I took it in from inside my window.  And then promptly hit the couch to watch TV, this time the pilot of ABC's new vineyard-set drama, Promised Land.  It's good; I raise a glass to it.

Even if what's in my glass is cinnamon apple tea.

From Head to Tow: An Unplanned Adventure

Sweatshirt: Macy's

Boots: Olivia Miller, Kohl's

Pink and True Blue Boho Necklace

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Today the husband and I were all set to visit my sister, who had her third baby last week.  The outing called for an out-of-the-house outfit, and I went with my new celestial sweatshirt, old denim mini, and a necklace I made last night.  Oh, and also my beloved Betsey Johnson couch purse.  Or maybe I should say love seat, considering its heart-shaped pillows.  So attired, just before noon, I climbed into the husband's truck.  We took that instead of my Honda because we were stopping at a storage unit to pick up a shipment from the husband's wood monger.  Yet no sooner had we pulled into the lot than we heard the sickening hiss of a flat. 

A flurry of phone calls to AAA and Firestone later (sadly, our donut was toast), we went to the gate to wave in the tow truck.  An unmasked woman charged out of the storage unit office and profusely apologized for not having invited us in from the cold sooner, adding wouldn't we like to warm up now while the tow truck guy did his thing?  During the course of her monologue, she mentioned that she was sitting around doing nothing, waiting for Animal Control to come bag, of all things, a bat.  Oh, I thought, she's lonely; that's what this is.  Then, Go back inside, crazy bat lady.

I said thanks but no thanks, then turned heel and hopped in the tow truck.  The driver was also unmasked, which unnerved me, but the lack of a lethal critter made him seem like the safer option.  Little did I know I would question this a mile or two later when he started coughing.  As for the husband, he stayed behind to call an Uber (we both couldn't fit in the tow truck).  I spent the ride studiously staring out the window, clutching my couch purse and wishing that I'd never left the safety of my actual couch in the first place.

We met at Firestone, where we waited a couple of hours for them to replace the tire, then doubled back to pick up the wood.  We never did make it to my sister's.  Still, although this misadventure was annoying, expensive, and violated almost every personal COVID prevention protocol that I hold dear, it could've been a lot worse.  If the tire had blown out on the highway, then we might've gotten into an accident and been spattered all over the asphalt like an Olive Garden lasagna that flunked food inspection.  

That would've been awful.  

As would passing COVID or anything else on to any of you.  Which is why the Pink and True Blue Boho Necklace is now airing out in the craft room.

By the way, Pink and True Blue Boho is the name I settled on after rejecting Flat Out Fab, Road Rage Sage, and Wagon Wheel Teal.  

I had a lot of time to think in that Firestone.

As Queasy as 1, 2, 3: You Can't Count on Numbers

For those of us who despise math -- and most of us writers do -- it's hard to accept that some aspects of life are all about the numbers.  Especially when there are so many of them about such crucial things to keep track of:

How much money is in my bank account?

How many days until the milk expires?

What's my cholesterol?  Blood sugar?  Blood pressure?

How many days until my next period?

How many more crunches before I can plop back on the couch?

How many miles are on my car?

How many hours of sleep until I'm really rested?

And, of course, the killjoy of killjoys that lurks everywhere:

How many COVID cases in my county?

Everyone has a body and a bank account, so there's no escaping these nefarious numerals.  Yet if age is just a number, then why can't all these things be just numbers too?  You know, up to interpretation, like song lyrics or a journal entry.  Some people find comfort in knowing that 2 + 2 always = 4.  But to me, numbers are unforgiving.  They don't care if you had a bad day that drove you to buy an ice cream maker ($100), crank out a batch of butter brickle (cholesterol, blood sugar, and BP through the roof), and stay up all night watching The Great British Baking Show (3 hours sleep).  Letters, on the other hand, are so much more sympathetic.  They make up words designed to describe how that day made you feel, turning it into art instead of a series of 0s and 1s that don't add up on a computer. 

Then again, maybe numbers neurosis isn't a writer thing but a me thing.

No wonder I'd rather read than count sheep.

Party of One, Party of Fun: One Isn't the Loneliest Number

"You need to get out more."

We've all heard it, whether in fiction or in IRL.  Sometimes it's tossed off in an all-in-good-fun spirit ("What, you've never been to the Cheesecake Factory?!  You need to get out more!").  Other times it's snarkier ("How do you not know who Jim Parsons is?  You need to get out more."  Insert eyeroll;  bonus points if it's lazy.).  But there's no mistaking that it's never a term of endearment.  That's because the speaker (we'll call him "the extrovert") deems himself worldlier and worthier than the speakee (that would be "the introvert") and therefore justified in dispensing his glib, disingenuously cruel-to-be-kind advice.  But I've always been of the opinion that it's not getting out more that grows a more knowledgeable, interesting, and ultimately more empathetic human.  It's staying in.     

So you can imagine my delight upon finding Hallie Heald's 41 Reasons I'm Staying In: A Celebration of Introverts.  If ever there was a book that countered the aforementioned life-of-the-party propaganda -- or, indeed, that was designed for the new normal shelter-in-place lifestyle of the COVID pandemic -- then it's this one.  Dedicated to "all the introverts I've met and may never meet," Heald's strange and fanciful picture book challenges the inherent shame of the home-alone-on-a-Saturday-night stereotype, elevating solitude to an art form.  Her forty-one for-one activities range from the hilariously selfless "midwifing for my gerbil" to the self-indulgently creative "designing my Halloween costume" to the downright dark "making voodoo dolls of my exes."  Each pursuit illustrates (both literally and figuratively; the pictures are a hoot) that it doesn't matter what you do in hermit mode as long as it makes you feel like you, a commodity that's all too elusive when in a crowded club or conference room. All of us feel like this some of the time, and some of us feel like this all of the time.  And I for one am a homebody who firmly falls into camp number two.  

And that's why it's so great that 41 Reasons I'm Staying In applauds those of us who prefer our own company.  Because sometimes being alone isn't about being on the outside looking in.  Sometimes it's about being on the inside looking out.  Not in envy, but in the kind of comfort that can only come from being where you know you belong.

You know.  In your favorite chair knitting a tracksuit, singing to a sourdough starter, or curating a cicada circus while The Big Bang Theory hums in the background.  

Game, set, and match, lazy eye.

Mall Crawl Before You Can Catwalk

After a year and two months of buying stuff only online, last weekend I busted out and went shopping IRL.  Three weeks had passed since my second Pfizer shot, and I had a dentist appointment in a few days.  So I thought it was time to mingle with the masses -- and see if I remembered how to drive.  I chose my outfit carefully, settling on a navy sweater with a rainbow stripe in the middle, ripped jeans, navy crushed velvet flats with yellow socks, a quilted red and black shoulder bag, and a side pony tied with a red and white polka dot ribbon.  It turned out to be way too warm -- I was sweating even before I crossed the parking lot! -- but I liked the look, so no regrets.  

My first stop was Macy's.  It was a Sunday, so it was crowded.  I threaded through the racks, careful to avoid fellow shoppers even though they were masked.  I visited my usual haunts, namely juniors, shoes, and costume jewelry, and was disheartened to come up empty.  Everything was picked over, and what was there was lackluster.  So I hotfooted it up to Macy's Backstage, which is the Marshalls clone section.  Fashion-wise, it too was a wasteland, but I did find a cute picture frame, some pastel gnome salt and pepper shakers, and a pink potted faux succulent for my office.  When it was my turn to pay, I slid my finds through the opening in the Plexiglass that separated the clerk and me.  "I like your outfit," the clerk said, "It's very mall girl."  "I'll take it," I answered.  But that's where the good vibes ended.  Because next he asked what brought me to Macy's, and I explained that it was my first outing in a year after getting vaccinated.  "And you chose Macy's?" he asked, incredulous.  "There are far better places!"  I bit back the urge to retort, "I don't think Mr. Macy would agree," and instead gamely uttered, "Don't worry, I'll hit them all," meaning other stores.  But that turned out to be the wrong tack to take.  "You don't have to spend money! You can do anything!" he counseled, wrapping my $20 worth of baubles with the authority of a financial advisor trying to talk his client out of buying a Bentley.  "Now go out and do something fun," he decreed, thrusting the bag at me as if it held dog poo.  Oddly enough, this wasn't the first time I'd been shopping shamed by a clerk.  But it was certainly the most dramatic.  Nothing like dipping your toe back in the pool only to be tossed into the deep end!  

My next and last stop was Kohl's.  I was disappointed that there weren't any exciting clothes there either.  However, I did score two rainbow rhinestone Simply Vera brooches and a faux wicker pineapple picnic server that I now use to store/display beads.  This time the clerk was much kinder, so much so that she erred on the side of anxious.  I felt for her.  I wouldn't want to work in a store during a pandemic, wondering if each and every customer was carrying COVID.   

So, was the expedition a success?  Even before the quarantine, department stores were definitely on the decline.  But being away from them for a year and then seeing them with fresh eyes made me realize that maybe they weren't so great in the first place.  Online, you can find anything in any size, style, or color without having to settle for something just because you could reach out and touch it.  Brick and mortar stores are always there for you, but they don't always have what you want.  They're like that boring banker boyfriend who's punctual and remembers your birthday but whose stories about his coworker stealing his PB&J make you wish you were with a guy who doesn't wear a watch or have let alone manage a bank account.  That said, the best part of the day was, shocker of shockers, the driving -- or, rather, rediscovering the radio (apparently, I like Machine Gun Kelly).  There's just something about being out there on the road with no responsibilities, singing at the top of your lungs.  Another surprise was the, ahem, pedestrian one of walking.  Despite (sort of ) keeping up with my exercises, running in place in my living room just isn't the same as getting out of the house.  Carrie Bradshaw once famously said "shopping is my cardio."  But it wasn't until I became housebound that I realized it was mine too.  That said, some shopping trips may not deliver the goods in terms of actual, well, goods.  But they give you more than you bargained for in other (good!) ways.

So, yeah.  It's nice to know I can still take on the world, snarky clerks and all.  But that I don't have to if I don't want to.

Which means that next time I'll hit up Macy's online instead of heading Backstage.

Two for Two: Giving COVID the Cold Shoulder

It's official!  The husband and I got our second COVID vaccines this morning!  Before arriving at the Atlantic City Convention Center, we stopped to get gas and saw a truck that said J-CORONA, with the Os filled in to look like suns.  Weird, huh?  Whenever I encounter "coincidences" like this, I know that everything's connected.  Anyway, as with my first shot, I wore a shoulder-baring top for easy access, although this one was more out-of-style cold shoulder than Susan Sarandon off-the-shoulder in Bull Durham.  I still love it, though (as I do the dozen or so others I'm still hanging onto).  

In other fashion news, the husband asked if I brought a cactus wristlet because I was getting pricked, and I said maybe subconsciously, as I carried a (different) cactus wristlet last time!  See?  Everywhere, connections.

Now that I'm fully vaxxed, it's great knowing that in just two weeks I can safely go out if I need or want to.  The first order of business will be scheduling all those long-overdue doctors appointments.  And then maybe, just maybe, I'll feel ready to reopen The Tote Trove!  Last week someone emailed me asking how long I'd be on break (it's been more than a year), and I said maybe until Memorial Day.  I've been updating my site a little, tweaking listings and weeding out the ones that seem past their prime.  It's strange to think about going back to the post office again.  A little scary, but mostly good.  I miss the thrill of seeing an Etsy Transactions email in my inbox, then drawing hearts and rainbows and cupcakes on a padded envelope and stuffing it with something I made that someone wanted.     

So, yeah, now I'm one step closer to rekindling the human element of this crazy arts and crafts venture.  Which is pretty exciting.  

Also, it balances out the mammogram.      

A Shot in the Arm to Ward Off All Harm: Vaccination Jubilation

This past Sunday, the husband and I got shot up full of Pfizer while Gloria Estefan's "Conga" played in the background.  Or, as the husband likes to put it, we got our "Fauci ouchies."  Because I'm not the only one in this duo who uses humor to combat tribulation.

When I first heard about the vaccine rollout in January, I thought, good, finally.  But also, somewhat perversely, that was fast.  Because I felt a little uneasy.  What if this miracle drug made me sprout a third eye or something?  It turned out that the husband felt the same, so we decided to wait to get it.  I rationalized this decision by reminding myself that only people older than sixty-five were supposed to be getting it at this point anyway.  But then, these last couple of weeks, I suddenly felt like we should get it as soon as possible.  Maybe it was the reports of the new, more serious strains.  Or even just the fear that they'd run out of vaccines.  Probably it was both.  But mostly it was my gut telling me that the husband's luck couldn't hold up forever.      

As you know, I've been working from home since last March and have ventured out of the house only a handful of times to visit my parents, plus once to the office to fix my computer.  The husband, on the other hand, has been working out in the world every day.  He's a painter, which means that he's in and out of people's homes.  This drove me crazy, especially when the pandemic first started.  I tried to convince him to go on hiatus, but he was concerned that his business would dry up and never recover.  Then a few months in, I was like, he's being careful, it's fine, we haven't caught it yet.  Because I couldn't be angry and scared all the time and had to make some sort of peace with it.

So, a couple of weekends ago when I announced that I was starting to look into vaccination scheduling, he was surprised -- but not really.  Deep down, we both knew that he was the one warier of the actual vaccine, whereas I was the one warier of rejoining civilization.  Getting vaccinated would bring me one step closer to saying see ya to the recluse life to which I'd grown so accustomed, and that made me anxious.  Still, my fear of contracting the coronavirus was bigger, and I wanted that shot.  The husband knew that.  So he agreed to get vaccinated, for me.  I thought that was very heroic and romantic and, at the end of the day, just plain kind.    

At first, I was overwhelmed by the scheduling logistics.  I didn't even know if we'd get appointments, and on the first try, we didn't.  By the second time I'd learned more about the ins and outs of the system and was able to secure us back-to-back slots for the following Sunday, bright and early, at the Atlantic City Convention Center.  I felt like I'd won the lottery, or at the very least, Air Supply tickets.  When Sunday rolled around, I was so glad that the husband and I were climbing into my Honda together.  We always go to the dentist, dermatologist, and optometrist as a pair.  Why should the vaccination of the century be any different?

I'm happy to report that the whole process ran like a well-oiled machine.  (My car, not so much.  After barely being driven for a year, it now sounds kind of clunky.  But, as Chandler Bing would say, one ridiculous problem at a time.)  The Atlantic City mega site is run by the National Guard, and they, along with the nurses, were so efficient and upbeat, which helped to make it all seem more normal.  As did the selfie station on the way out.  Its bright colors and snappy sayings really brought the carnival flair, befitting a vaccination site located in a city once known as America's Playground.

So, yeah.  One down, one to go.

My only regret is that I didn't wear a snazzier mask.

Also, that I never got to see Air Supply.

Complexion Confection: Matte as a Pancake

Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Zulily

I was going through my shoes the other day when I found these spectator T-straps and thought, Oh, they look like pancakes.  No, there isn't a different color for each foot (because I'm not Helena Bonham Carter; although that would be badass, wouldn't it?); I have two pairs, one yellow and one tan.  But together they reminded me of butter and maple syrup and made me miss the days when you could go out to brunch without fear of catching, not just ptomaine from a gross griddle grill, but the plague.  Yet they didn't make me miss it enough to make breakfast (let's not get crazy now).  Instead, they inspired me to unearth my old Fabulous Felt Pancakes barrette and build a new outfit around it.  

Fabulous Felt Pancakes Barrette

This barrette, as you may recall, started an argument between a mother and son (hashtag barrette brawl) in A.C. Moore back before that store became just another brick and mortar casualty and, consequently, a playground for rats.  Their dialogue went something like this:  Mom: "They're flowers!"  Son: "No, they're pancakes!"  Mom: "They're flowers!  Me (but only after they asked for my intervention): "They're pancakes."  Insert self-deprecating smile.  

Anyway, this sweater is one of my favorites (so cozy and yellow!), and the scarf all but screams Hershey's Kisses. 

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Clockwise (starting with amber): Cloud Nine, Ocean City; B Fabulous; Mixit, JCPenney; Target; So, Kohl's

Sweater: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Breakfast pancakes, by the way, make me think of the other kind of pancake (lots of trains of thought going off the rails here), namely pancake makeup.  And the very best pancake powder on the market is Coty Airspun.  I've been wearing it since high school (except for a brief period when my stuck-up sophomore self would cover my zits with only Elizabeth Arden), and it's never steered me wrong.  Although light and airy (it's right there in the name: airspun), it provides incredible coverage, concealing blemishes so that my skin looks as matte and flat as, well, a pancake.  But then, Coty knows what it's doing.  The company's been cranking out this miracle makeup since 1935.  The big powder puffs on the canister even mimic those on the original cardboard packaging.  Which is so glam and retro.  And also kind of endearing.   

So, the next time I go out for a big stack of buttery pancakes, even if it's forever and a day from now on account of COVID, I'll be wearing a thick coat of this precious powder.  (Also, probably a colorful winter coat, but that's less relevant.)  

Because as many a wise and vain person has said, it's better to have pancake on your face than egg.

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.

Face Case: Jim Carrey Brings the Scary

I've worn a lot of weird things in my time, but I never thought that a mask would be one of them.  Yet here I am all suited up to pick up my groceries at Walmart.  My sister, who is an amazing seamstress, made masks for everyone in our family and for all of her friends.  She said that she added the red lace to mine to make it special.  Well, mission accomplished! 

It (the mask, not the lace) makes me feel a little like I'm about to perform open heart surgery or rob a bank.  Which makes a strange sort of sense as in these times we're all superheroes or villains.

I used the mask as the first building block for my outfit.  Because an outing's still an outing even if you never leave the car.  I especially like how the red lace tie looks like part of my top.  Let's hear it for happy accidents!  And, of course, for a fresh haul of foodstuffs.

If only my mask had not only special lace, but special powers like Jim Carrey's. 

I think his mucus-colored mug from that movie could be just the thing to scare Covie straight.