Elephants Can Remember Christmas Sweater Weather: The Gift of Peace and Mirth

Boots: Wild Fable, Target

Tee: Celebrate, Kohl's

Bag: Holiday Arcade, Macy's; Ring: PinkBopp, Etsy

Barrette: Claire's, CVS

Glasses and platter: Gifted

Sweater: Gem Holiday Sweater, Kohl's; Boots: Simply Vera, Kohl's

Bag: Dolls Kill; Bangle: ZAD, Zulily

Headband: Candie's, Kohl's

Ornaments: Hallmark, Lillian Vernon

Sweater: So, Kohl's; Boots: Olivia Miller, Kohl's

Santa and sign: Michaels

Bag: Holiday Arcade, Macy's

Barrette and necklace (you know which ones!): The Tote Trove

Garland: Michaels; Ornaments: Target, Michaels

Boots: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Santas: West End Garage, Cape May; Elf: Michaels

Shirt: Madden Girl, Kohl's

Island of Misfit Toys: Gifted

Bag: Holiday Arcade, Macy's

Ornaments: Lilian Vernon, Hallmark

Necklaces: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Christmas sweaters are always a thing.  But you seldom hear about Christmas tee shirts.  Which is why I was a little befuddled by the candy cane-print tee in the first outfit.  Still, I loved the print, and at $4.99, I couldn't pass it up.  So I layered it over a turtleneck and headed out to LabCorp as if I were bound for a white elephant party.  Which, in some ways, I was.        

Surprise, you (by which I mean me) have slightly high cholesterol!  But this elephant (again, me) already suspected that.  So that's where the gallows humor and elephant references end (not me, but Agatha Christie).  

Yep, the Christmas countdown always sets me on edge, cramming my head full of querulous questions.  Will I ever finish wrapping these presents?  Did I buy my niece the same Barbie doll two years in a row?  Should I put something else outside besides my paltry palm tree?  Basically, it all amounts to, did I do enough?  And the answer is usually no.  

But it shouldn't be.  Because the holidays are hard, and anything anyone does should suffice.

So this year, which is our first with Char Bar, I'm going to try to give myself the gift of a break.  Strangely, it's a gift that everyone always tries to give me but that I have trouble accepting.  And if there's anything I should teach my daughter, then it's that she should give herself this gift too.        

That and Christmas comic relief that comes in the form of a tee shirt.

No Sugar in My Tea: Two Kinds of Cozy

They say that tea has a calming effect, and the same can be said for tea-themed novels.  Even if, in Leslie Meier's English Tea Murder, the scones come with, not clotted cream, but a killer.  Indeed, this installment in the Lucy Stone series has an Agatha Christie feel to it, complete with a trip to jolly old England, a strangely connected cast of characters, and even, not to put too fine a point on it, an outing to see Christie's The Mousetrap.  These elements, mingled with the cozy-yet-creepy mystery that unfurls amidst the steam of Earl Grey, make it one of my Meier favorites.   

By contrast, Elizabeth Berg's Tapestry of Fortunes isn't a mystery.  Unless, of course, you count the mysteries of life.  Because that's what CeCe Ross is forced to confront after the death of her best friend Penny.  Adrift but aware that her life needs more meaning, she takes a sabbatical from her job as a motivational speaker, starts volunteering at a hospice center, and sells her house to move in with three strangers.  Lise, Joni, and Renie are different from CeCe -- and each other -- but turn out to be just what she needs.  Not only do they share her penchant for reading tarot cards and tea leaves, they offer up their own fears and regrets, creating an unbreakable bond.  Berg steeps their poignant yet never saccharine story in irreverent reverence, making Tapestry of Fortunes joy in a cup.

And that's all tea that we have today, friends.  Maybe next time I'll spring for crumpets.  

Thriller Chiller: Don't Take That Tone With Me

Remember that episode of Friends when Joey's reading Little Women and Beth gets sick and Joey gets scared and has to put the book in the freezer?  Well, that's what I had to do with Lucy Foley's The Guest List.  Not that I really wedged it between a DiGiorno and a mess hall-sized bag of broccoli.  But I did stop reading it a third of the way in, much to the consternation of my book club besties.  (Hi, Mom!  Hi, Sis!)  Why?  Because its tone made me nervous.  

Now, I've read more than my share of murder mysteries.  But they're always either dignified and distant, like Agatha Christie, or hilarious and homespun, like all those cozies, that I barely notice anyone's bit the big one.  In other words, their tone is lighthearted.  You know.  Sunny.  Funny.  And sometimes accompanied by recipes.  And that little light is all that I need to go on to find out whodunit.  Yet a story that's shadowed through and through, with characters as damaged as their murky dismal surroundings (even my "serious" descriptions are "silly," Rainbow Brite's Murky Dismal being as cartoonish a villain as they come), plunges me into an abyss of black-out blinds.  And for a spirited sunseeker such as myself, that's a bad place to be.  

That said, my mom and sister weren't really surprised that I dropped Ms. Foley like a bad habit.  They know I don't do well with darkness and were very understanding.  Being in a book club is funny like that, even with -- especially with -- people you know really well.  The titles we choose say a lot about us and what we want and need from books.

And I know what I'll need when it's my turn to pick is something with a colorful cover. 

From Page to Stage (er, Screen): Run, Don't Crawl to the Cove

When it comes to books vs. movies, the book is (almost) always better.  But the film adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing is a near doppelganger of Delia Owens' masterpiece.  I say this because when the music started to swell over the marsh, my personal waterworks sprung a leak.    

Daisy Edgar-Jones (Normal People) stars as Kya Clark, the little girl-turned woman who raises herself in the wilds of North Carolina.  Sensitive yet steely, she's exactly who I imagined, her refinement and reverence for nature defying the town's crude opinion of her.  The rest of the cast is spot on too, with Taylor John Smith as the earnest Tate Walker and Harris Dickinson as arrogant Chase Andrews.  

That said, the movie is less gritty and violent than the book.  And although this detracts from the horror that helped shape Kya's worldview, it highlights the parts of the story that are charming yet enshrouded in mystery.  In other words, it's Nicholas Sparks-meets-Agatha Christie -- in the most wonderful way.  To make for a trifecta of icons, Taylor Swift's "Carolina" accompanies the credits, translating the haunting feel of Owens' unforgettable pages.      

So if it's eerie enchantment you crave, then this is the flick for you.  And if not, then no need to grouse about it.  

There are plenty of other crawdads in the marsh.

Denial File: Spy Me a River

If you've been reading this blog for awhile, then you know that I'm a big fan of Agatha Christie.  Yet despite having read all her books, I hadn't seen a single movie adaptation.  So when Kenneth Branagh's version of Death on the Nile popped up on HBO, I knew I had my night's viewing sorted.

It's an old story (as old as 1937, in fact).  Wealthy, beautiful, and young honeymooners Linnet (Gal Gadot) and Simon (the disgraced and disgraceful Armie Hammer) set off on a luxury cruise down the Nile.  Although they're surrounded by supposed well-wishers (Annette Bening and Russell Brand among them), one of their party is a killer, and it's up to Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) to catch him.  Or her, crime being an equal opportunity employer.

Like all Christie classics, Death on the Nile highlights the ever-intriguing theme of British propriety and elegance pitted against the sordid business of murder.  It fascinates me that ladies and gentlemen who wouldn't be caught, ahem, dead without a hair or cuff link out of place think nothing of sullying themselves to take a life.  It's disturbing to consider that we may all be an inheritance away from doing the same, dismantling the delicate smokescreen of this construct called society.  That said, there are elements in the movie that seem out of place in a tale otherwise imbued with Christie's reserve.  For one thing, I figured out the murderer right away, and when I'm reading, I never figure it out at all.  Yes, I had read this book, albeit twenty years ago.  But even if I hadn't, I think I still would've known.  Because it's a movie.  And everything is laid out and exaggerated, from Simon's suggestive dance moves to Poirot's outing of characters' various side hustles (blackmail, embezzlement, jewel theft, etc.).  By contrast, Christie's books, both in general and this one in particular, are nuanced, everything hinging on the minutest of details, making you work to put it all together but still come up short because you weren't privy to the fact that Lord Chesterfield had a secret second cousin or whatever.

Then there's Poirot himself.  In the books, he's always a bystander.  Impeccably dressed and brilliant, but a bystander nonetheless.  We don't know about his personal life, nor do we care.  He's there to see that justice is served, and that's it.  Yet his character in this movie is different.  Not only does he get a dramatic backstory that reveals the origin of his famous mustache, but one of the suspects becomes his love interest.  Sacré bleu indeed!  Despite his taking note of the odd pretty girl in the books, it never goes any further than that and, as a result, I've always thought of him as firmly asexual.  

So.  Once the credits rolled, I knew there was nothing for it except to return to the scene of the crime.  That's right.  I cracked open my old copy of Death on the Nile.  Literally.  Ancient Egypt's got nothing on this paperback; the cover snapped off when I opened it.

Now, over the years, I've reread many beloved books, but never a mystery.  And I don't recommend it.  Although it was satisfying to confirm that I wasn't wrong, that the book did have a subtlety that made it more surprising and satisfying than the movie, the fact remained that I now knew how it would end.  And that took all the magic out of it.  Also, subtle or not, it seemed kind of shameful that I hadn't been able to figure it out the first time.  

If I'm hard on Branagh as a filmmaker, then I'm even harder on myself as a reader.

Anyway, despite being a Poirot purist and listing these seeming cinematic criticisms, I enjoyed Death on the Nile, the movie.  It was lovely to look at and offered a new perspective on the story, one untainted by my own biases.  Also, I got a kick out of seeing Russell Brand in a role so serious that I had to IMDb him to check.  The movie was different from the book but not bad, and that, perhaps, was as it should be.

In other words, you can reread a book, but you can't go home again.  

But you can always go to the movies. 

The Bad Old Cays: Another Maine Murder

The puffins on this book cover are adorable, the bright blue backdrop serene.  Even the girl clinging to the cliff edge for dear life has a comfortingly cartoonish quality.  But Leslie Meier's Invitation Only Murder, the 2019 installment in her popular Lucy Stone series, is more creepy than cozy.  

Reporter-slash-sleuth Lucy is at it again.  But this time she's ventured from the relative safety of Tinker's Cove to an island frozen in the nineteenth century.  Peculiar patriarch and billionaire Scott Newman has plunged his family, which includes his second wife, two sets of twins, and a skeleton crew of salt-of-the-earth staff, into the ultimate eco-warrior experiment: modern life minus modern conveniences.  No cell phones, TVs, or electricity.  Or, as they said on Gilligan's Island, not a single luxury (although even the Professor had a coconut radio).  Just miles and miles of pristine Maine countryside -- where no one can hear you scream.  

And you thought your family was crazy.

Scott claims it's all in the name of protecting Mother Earth, but his controlling ways suggest that something far more sinister is afoot.  And then someone turns up dead, with two more lost in the fog-shrouded forest.  I couldn't help but think that this setup of a strange, wealthy family marooned in the boonies had an air of Agatha Christie.  And when I got to the part where Lucy tries to talk herself off the ledge, my hunch was confirmed:

"Get a grip, she told herself, determined to resist the paranoia that seemed to be infecting the house.  This isn't an Agatha Christie story; people aren't going to disappear one by one, slain by a killer intent on avenging a past wrong." (167-168)

But rattled or not, Lucy isn't one to throw in the towel.  So, like Hercule Poirot, she puts her little gray cells to the test.  She's not a journalist for nothing; her ease with people and observational skills prove invaluable as she works to unmask the killer.  

Invitation Only Murder wasn't what I expected.  It's grimmer than the average Lucy Stone caper, going so far as to include a description of Scott's faithful servant laying out a dead body.  Nevertheless, I found it intriguing, spellbound by the eerie vibe and fog to find out if the good guys -- whoever they were -- would survive.

And also, at the very least, it made me appreciate Wi-Fi. 

Detecting Deadly Sins: Moths and Sloths

I've said it before, and (hopefully!) I'll say it again.  Just when I think I've read my last Agatha Christie mystery, another one comes out of the woodwork.  This time it's a collection of short stories called While the Light Lasts.  And although it includes two stories I read in other compilations (always a danger with collections), the rest are as fresh as a just-killed corpse.  That said, they aren't so much whodunits as mysteries of the mind.  Which are, in some ways, more frightening.  Because it's all well and good to find out who killed Professor Plum in the conservatory with a candlestick (I know that's Clue and not Christie, but if mixing murder metaphors is wrong, I don't want to be right).  Yet sometimes envy, greed, and/or vanity can poison the well between a husband and wife even more potently than cyanide.  Because Christie's not just the crème de la crème of crime writers.  She's a master of human nature, spinning stories around the seven deadly sins with the supernatural skill of a sorceress. 

Which brings us to something else that's not human, namely the moths on the cover.  Their dark beauty reflects the macabre allure of the tales within, proving that sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.  Also, they remind me of my own moths.  No, I'm not keeping the winged things as pets.  We just have a real influx of them this year, with at least one clinging to the wall in each room, looking as lifeless as a pinned specimen.  As everyone knows, they're famous for eating fabric (hence those malodorous moth balls beloved by octogenarians).  So, I've been annihilating them with my Dyson.  Now you know my secret.  Not only am I not one of those people who insists on shuttling offending insects outside; I'm a willing murderess when it comes to preventing crimes of fashion.  

And with that we come full circle to my favorite sin: vanity, with a side of sloth.    

Who wouldn't want to live the life of such a carefree cutie?

As for Christie, my quest for new-to-me titles continues.  But even if I plumb the depths of the obscurest book shop, I don't expect to find any about an outfit-obsessed shut-in who sleeps until noon.   

Poirot Christmas Pudding: Gettin' Figgy With It

I thought I'd read everything that Agatha Christie had ever written.  Then I read a post on the blog My Thoughts On . . .  about Christie's short story collection The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and discovered that there was at least one extra helping and that a portion of it was holiday flavored.  (My Thoughts On . . ., by the way, is a must read, offering insightful reviews on books, movies, and the world as we know it.)  Now, I could go off on a tangent about my issue with British puddings, about how they're not puddings at all but cakes and how some of them have blood in them.  But the only bloodshed I'll discuss here is the kind connected to the crime.  

The first story in the collection, also called "The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding," features Christie favorite Hercule Poirot.  A paper pusher (it's obvious that Poirot doesn't respect him) hires Poirot to help a Middle Eastern prince in distress.  It seems that some minx has stolen the prince's ruby.  To find it, Poirot needs to leave London and spend Christmas in the countryside.  He shudders at the idea of an old-fashioned English Christmas -- an eccentricity befitting of the moustache-twirling, crime-solving savant if ever there was one.  But after being assured that the host house indeed has central heat, Poirot begrudgingly accepts.  Now it's up to him to recover the prince's priceless heirloom.  Never mind that the prince is marrying -- and cheating on -- his cousin.  Such details, as Christie assures us in her worldly way, are immaterial and to be expected.  The important thing is that justice be served -- along with the Christmas pudding!

Christmas at chez Trove is coming along, happily without the distraction of murder.  I'm still putting up my decorations.  This year, in quarantine-land, it's nice to be able to do it right.  For example, I think this is the first time that I straightened the limbs on my (fake) tree before loading them with ornaments.  I've also been taking the time to really look at every knickknack and keepsake.  I even kind of like how my tree garlands, etc. look tangled up on the floor!

Quarantine or not, Christmas is a time to be cozy -- and hopeful.  Even Agatha Christie, who exposes the darkness of the human heart like no other, succumbs to sentiment at the end of "The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding."  It's a real testament to the magic of the season.

One way or another, that Christmas pudding will get you.

Charm Farm Harvest: Falling for Flash Charms (Again) and Playing the Scotland Yard Card

 Far East Feast Charm Necklace

Top: Lily White, Target

Pants: Xhilaration, Target

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Belt: B Fabulous

Sunglasses: JCPenney

 Glitter Critter Charm Necklace

Top: So, Kohl's

Skirt: Candie's, Kohl's

Shoes: Chinese Laundry, DSW

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: JCPenney

 Hip Trip Charm Necklace

Top: Decree, JCPenney

Skirt: Xhilaration, Target

Shoes: Charles Albert, Alloy

Bag: Nine West, ROSS

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

Beauty Cutie Charm Necklace

Top: Merona, Kohl's

Skirt: Xhilaration, Kohl's

Shoes: Guess, DSW

Bag: Gifted

Sunglasses: Cloud Nine, Ocean City

I'd like to begin this post by saying that the original was very different.  I had one lone necklace, and I called it Far East Eats instead of Far East Feast.  The post itself was called Dress to Impress on the Orient Express, Only This Time Without the Murder.  It went like this:

Hercule Poirot used his little gray cells to see cases in black and white to catch the killers -- but even he never saw spots like these (see exhibit A, outfit #1).  Unless they were spots of tea, of course, which works for both England and China, and, don't you know it, is served in china, too. (Cue over-zealous laugh track).

Then, somewhat inelegantly:

Oh, Agatha (Christie).  It's hard to believe that your name was once the height of sophistication and glamour, along with those of your besties Gertrude and Mildred.  I mean, Mildred has the word "dread" right in it.  (Laugh track gets a little weaker).

And, finally:

Whether it's mu shu, pu pu, or even just those tasty if enigmatic fortune cookies (because "Good luck!" isn't an optimistic prediction, but rather something you say to your cat sitter when you leave her with your near-rabid Fluffy), chances are, there's at least one morsel of Chinese takeout that tickles your taste buds.  (Laugh track burps and squeaks out "excuse me" before petering out altogether).

Needless to say, these aren't the sharpest of hooks.  And not just because, as the husband pointed out, naming that necklace Far East Eats made it sound like Mr. Panda was part of the entree (a sad commentary, especially as his flip side sweetly entreats us all to "Be Kind").  Thankfully, I opted to make three other thematic charmers, requiring me to expand my storytelling scope.  Now we've got nature (bumblebees, birds, bugs, and butterflies!), travel to exotic lands (which may or may not include Asia but probably does given that I used the same aesthetically eastern chain charm in the center), and make-out-worthy makeup (love to love you, love potion #9).  Talk about a crop of cute chaos!  Because these necklaces aren't just made up of Flash Charms.  Oh no, siree bob.  This time I got real fancy, adding metal, enamel, and rhinestone-encrusted charms to the mix before embellishing the Flash Charms with rhinestones and a few cabs and crystals.  The result is a (sometimes) tangled mass of magical madness, an eclectic elegy (no, that's a poem about death; murder mysteries get off my mind!), er, ode to the 1980s and all that's good and pure about excess.

That said, our pal Poirot was a natty, not to mention ostentatious, dresser.  Who may (hey, one never knows) be interested in and covetous of what the Trove has on tap.  

Take heart, dear Hercule; I'll make you a hatband.  

Friends and Dames in Fancy Frames

A cupcake, a finless Ariel, and a sock monkey in sticker-form. 

"Dame" is a weird word and one of the few that makes me think of palaces and pool halls in equal measure.  If I had to pick my favorite (palace-y) Dame, I'd be hard pressed to choose between Dame Agatha Christie, Dame Judi Dench, and Dame Edna to commemorate my love of books, movies, and wacky eyeglasses.  But mostly wacky eyeglasses, so I guess Edna wins.

This past week I tried my hand at a project that brings new meaning to the term nail art.  I'd scored this fashion plate print for free at Michaels some six months ago and finally got down to jazzing it up with . . . nail polish!  Or, at least, I started with nail polish.  Eager to unload some of my collection (crafting and fashionable fingertips are about as compatible as piranhas and pandas), I opened a bottle of Revlon's Mint Gelato and let the strokes fall where they may -- which, as it turned out, was no farther than the meager confines of an ever so slightly lopsided teardrop.  That stuff smelled -- and I'm not just talking about the admittedly delightful chocolate mint scent that the good people at Revlon had mixed into their cosmetic chemical stew -- but about the chemicals themselves.  Abandoning my ambition of polishing the entire mat in the interest of preserving brain cells, I slapped on four more teardrops before moving on to the more merciful medium of scentless markers.  I drew flowers and foliage -- always a go-to when I need to fill a big space -- and, after finishing the last fern in my jewel-tone jungle, reached that crucial point when I had to decide whether to keep going or to leave well enough alone.  Sadly, I went with the former because I thought that I had to have (and this sounds so silly, pretentious even, to me now) contrast.  So I grabbed my colored pencils and glitter glue and created a line of shapes across the bottom.  The result was pale and sugary and vaguely 1980s, kind of like something you'd see on a Trapper Keeper.  I wasn't crazy about it, but my dissatisfaction only spurred me on further. On went the big rhinestone necklace and bows, completing this dame's transformation from chic to cheeky.  Que up boys, this one's pool hall-bound.

Speaking of make-up (at least I was speaking of it earlier, and I'm sticking with that, transitions being hard to come by), it's a true wonder woman who can manage her makeup while driving.  This is one of those tricks that I wish I could master, especially when I'm running late and have to take the wheel without my lipstick.  Stuck in traffic and at lights, I imagine sneaking the little black tube (also Revlon -- only Rite Aid's finest for me) out of my purse and dashing on a quick stripe like a heroine in a spy novel.  But it's buried in my cosmetic bag, which is buried in my purse, and even if I end up finding it, there'd be the matter of unscrewing the cap and getting the stuff on without smearing it, all the while worrying that the traffic will move or the light will change at the exact moment I'm painting the Cupid's bow.  I've attempted it once or twice, and the stress isn't worth the coup of the multi-tasking.  That, my friends, is a game for a less anxious dame.