Performance Art Heart: Diffi-Cult Following

Arches and Apples Earrings

If it's weird for me to blog about a show that satirizes crafting on my blog that's mostly about crafting, then if nothing else, at least I'm consistent.  Over the years, I've posted about the Portlandia Etsy spoof, the Whitney Cummings Etsy dig, and my own unwitting star spot on handmade goods roast site Regretsy.  Which is my way of saying that I like laughing at myself and at people who laugh at themselves (and, okay, other people) too.

Enter Difficult People.  This Amy Poehler-produced Hulu original comedy (2015-2017) follows best friend comedians Billy Epstein (Billy Eichner) and Julie Kessler (Julie Klausner) as they snarkily stumble through their mid-thirties and auditions in New York City.  Both are Jewish; only Billy is gay.  It's like a mashup of Seinfeld, Will and Grace, and Curb Your Enthusiasm -- only meaner.  Indeed, in one episode, Billy and Julie describe themselves as a "homelier Will and Grace."  They're the kind of comedians who sacrifice everything (Billy's apartment is a shoebox that he Airbnbs to make extra cash) to claw their way into casting calls even though they -- and we -- know they'll never make it.  Not that that really matters, their dreams -- and the show -- being about the journey.       

Kiwi Cutie Earrings

Billy's day job is waiting tables at a quirky café; Julie's is writing reality show episode recaps.  During court-appointed community service for stealing flowers from an Alice in Wonderland memorial, Julie teaches recap writing to inmates and imparts this pearl: "Show recaps aren't about the show.  They're about you."  I like this, probably because it so closely parallels one of my favorite personal aphorisms: TV is always there for you, but you don't have to be there for (the people inside the) TV.  Romance-wise, Billy is always looking for love -- or at least his next hookup -- and Julie has a live-in boyfriend, the servile and long-suffering Arthur (James Urbaniak), who wears a bowtie and works for PBS.  Impervious to Julie's ingratitude (Where's dinner?!), affable Artie's only crime isn't even his but Urbaniak's, as he played the foot fetish shoe salesman who gave Charlotte a free pair of designer sandals on Sex and the City.  But then again, it's hard to blame Julie for haranguing Artie too much considering her monster mother, Marilyn (Andrea Martin).  Despite being a psychologist, this pint-sized narcissist manipulates Julie into doing her bidding, all while criticizing her appearance, boyfriend, and aspirations.  Of course, Marilyn also gives Julie money.  Because PBS and Real Housewives rants don't pay the bills.  

One of the things that bonds Julie and Billy -- other than their hard-bitten humor and hatred of all and sundry -- is their constant need for attention.  In one episode, Billy is all set to send former Monkee Micky Dolenz packing when the allegedly ailing entertainer begs him to produce his one-man show.  But then Dolenz goes on about how much he admires Billy, and Billy caves: "I have no problem walking away from a dying man, but not a dying fan."  Because that's the thing about this duo (Billy and Julie, not Billy and Micky).  Despite their prickly, don't-mess-with-me personas, their eager-to-please, theater kid self absorption makes them easy prey for any con man with a kind word.

Hearts and Arches Earrings

Nevertheless, at one point, Julie becomes so discouraged by the comedy rat race that she chucks it all to open a shop on Etsy.  Even though she refers to Etsy as a cult. (Yes, finally, the promised crafting connection!)  Her craft?  Wish bags for Midwesterners.  Don't ask me what a wish bag is, because I don't know, and neither does Julie.  But they sell like hotcakes, and Julie discovers that she prefers spending her days surrounded by things instead of people.

Same, Julie, same.

Still, I don't think I need to tell you that this life hack turns out to be as ironclad as those wish bags.  Bitter or not, Julie's got to get back up on that stage.  Because only trouble is interesting, and the show -- or in this case, showbiz -- must go on.

With witty one-liners, a galaxy of guest stars (Tina Fey!  John Mulaney!  Amy Sedaris!), and the kind of misanthropic humor that can thrive only on a sitcom full of eccentric, dysfunctional, and codependent heart, Difficult People is easy to love. 

Never Never Netherlands: Layers of Levity

Blouse: Candie's, Kohl's

Dress: Speechless, Kohl's

Blouse: Candie's, Kohl's

Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Zulily; Belt: Marshalls; Bag: Francesca's; Yellow bangles: B Fabulous; Pink bangle: Don't Ask, Zulily

Dress: So, Kohl's

Dress: Xhilaration, Target

Sweater: Hooked Up, Macy's

Good things come in layers.  Cakes, bar cookies (which are a lot like cakes), lasagnas, and, of course, clothes!  Spring is the perfect time to slip on a sweater over a dress, or a dress over a blouse.  Here I am doing just that, twice in front of a windmill.  This household has an affinity for all things Dutch (which is fitting, the house itself being a Dutch colonial).  And it doesn't get much more Dutch than a windmill.  My parents got this one for the husband for his birthday a couple of years back, and when the winds are high, it really gets going.  Just last week it was spinning so furiously that I thought it was going to take off.  So I dashed outside to rescue it.  If only the operation went as easily as that sentence suggests!  Once I wrapped my arms around the cedar cylinder, I realized that it was much heavier than I anticipated.  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought, dragging it off the lawn, then hoisting it over the cement to avoid damaging it (like Larry David, I respect wood).  I got as far as the back door when I put it down, unsure how to wrestle it up the steps.  Then another wind swept in, tilting the windmill precariously toward my car.  Fueled by a surge of adrenaline (mothers save their kids from getting crushed by cars; I save my car from getting crushed by tchotchkes), I lifted it up the steps and forced it through the door.  Exhausted, I left it in the entryway.  In the cramped space it looked even bigger, like a lighthouse protecting a gray sea -- of tile, that is.  I thought maybe we could keep it in the house for good, dismissing the fear that mice or some other vermin might be squatting inside.  Later that night, when the husband came home, he couldn't believe I'd been able to carry it.  When I suggested that it live with us, he was less than amused.  (Well, actually, he was very amused.  But that didn't make him go for it.)

The next morning, the windmill was back out on the lawn.

I don't think there's anything more to say except to quote the chorus of "Feel Good Inc." from Gorillaz:

"Windmill, windmill for the land

Turn forever hand in hand

Take it all in on your stride

It is ticking, falling down

Love forever, love is freely

Turned forever, you and me

Windmill, windmill for the land

Is everybody in?"

I'm sure that whatever they're singing about is far more serious than the fate of some lawn ornament.  That said, the husband is probably right.  Windmills belong out in the elements, taking chances like nature intended.

And providing shelter for the gorillas.  

Top Forty, Top Five, Prepare for the Dive: Growing Up is Hard to Do

I've always wanted to read Nick Hornby's novel High Fidelity, and last week I finally did.  Although I saw the movie first, I ended up preferring the book.  Truth be told, I couldn't get through the movie, which is rare for me.  I fell asleep and woke up thinking, oh, John Cusack's still whining.  Time to switch to Curb Your Enthusiasm!  You know.  For an entirely different kind of, albeit more entertaining, whining. 

High Fidelity, for those who don't know, is the first-person account of a newly-dumped, music-obsessed, thirty-five-year-old manchild named Rob who owns a struggling record store in the '90s.  Rob spends most of his time with his two Championship Vinyl employees, dudes who are even more hopeless than he is, making fun of people who like bubblegum pop and creating top five lists of their favorite songs, albums, and Cheers episodes.  So in an effort to pinpoint how and when his love life went wrong, Rob describes his top five failed relationships in excruciating detail, casting his exes as the villains.  If this whole commitmentphobe-guy-in-his-thirties-who-loves-music-more-than-he-loves-love thing sounds like Tom Perrotta's The Wishbones, then that's because it is.  Only British and broodier -- and, to be fair, published three years earlier.  

As the story unravels, Hornby hints that Rob is an unreliable narrator, slowly acquainting us with all the reasons why these breakups may actually be his fault.  Getting to know Rob and his problems requires going on a journey with not only this one very specific and very self-absorbed man, but with men in general.  According to Rob, men don't expect women to look perfect or even to deliver mind-blowing sex.  It's just that they can't shake the thrill of meeting (and yes, sleeping with) a new woman every so often.  In other words, Rob is exasperating -- but he's also human.  And through Hornby's satiric yet sensitive eyes, he sometimes becomes sympathetic.  

It should come as no surprise, then, that despite my distaste for Rob's misogynistic behavior, there's a part of me that still kind of gets him.  Not the thing about wanting to play the field, but the thing about not wanting to lose his independence.  Because for him, independence is music.  It's the language that helps him understand the world, and I respect what it means to him:  

 " . . . sentimental music has this great way of taking you back somewhere at the same time that it takes you forward, so you feel nostalgic and hopeful all at the same time." 63

So true, Rob/Hornby, so true.  The best songs defy space and time, transporting us to a place where everything's possible.  And that, in a nutshell, describes Rob's dilemma: he's a guy who, like most of us, wants it all.  So he gives up what he's got for what he might get.  But it doesn't make him happy.  Will he ever be able to sacrifice the possibility of the polygamous past for the certainty of a monogamous future? 

Probably (no spoiler here; you know how these stories go).  Because music will always sound sweeter coming from a record player than a computer -- but you're never too old to grow up.  

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.