A Passion for Fashion and Family

You know that I loved Jennifer Weiner's novels Big Summer and That Summer.  So of course I was looking forward to the third installment in this not-quite-a-trilogy tribute to the most wonderful time of the year (sorry not sorry, Andy Williams).  Even if some of the things that happen are more sun-streaked sad than beach read.  This last book, The Summer Place, is no different, a bittersweet family drama about the road not taken.  Each of Weiner's characters comes to a crossroads, forced to choose and then wonder what might have been.  Their destinies are intertwined in peculiar yet believable ways, creating the kind of irresistible suspense that makes this novel such a page turner.  Yet it's a passage about almost-concert-pianist-turned-music-teacher Sarah's love for -- what else? -- clothes that I find most captivating:

"Sarah's job at the music school had no dress code.  If she'd wanted to, she could have worn jeans and blouses, or even T-shirts and sneakers to work.  But Sarah loved clothes.  She loved finding new boutiques and discovering new designers; she loved the feeling of buying the perfect azure-blue necklace to wear with a new navy-blue dress, and a pair of vintage leather riding boots to pull the look together.  Even the clothes she didn't wear made her happy.  She'd brush the sleeve of the pale-pink cashmere sweater she'd worn on her second date with Eli and feel, again, the first flush of infatuation; she'd flick past the black gown she'd worn for her last recital and feel a bittersweet pang.  She loved the challenge of putting together an outfit, searching out each individual piece, shopping her closet, combining old and new.  Getting dressed was its own kind of creativity, and it satisfied her in the same primal way she imagined gathering a perfect sheaf of wheat or an unblemished handful of berries might have delighted her hunting and gathering forebearers." (121)   

Weiner gets this exactly right, elevating Sarah's -- and women's -- passion for fashion to an artform.  It's as reverent as it is whimsical and sentimental.  The setup (which really, I should've started with) is that Sarah's husband Eli, who drives her crazy during quarantine, goes on a decluttering kick that involves tossing some of her most prized possessions, the things that make her feel like her.  Knowing this makes Sarah's wardrobe seem even more -- not to get all Narnia on you -- magical.    

Speaking of which, it's the magic of being true to oneself that ties the tie-dyed ribbons of The Summer Place together.  Even when, especially when, following one's heart leads to family conflicts.  Weiner shows us that having it all isn't possible -- but that having something, even it if it's just one thing -- that we truly love always is.    

Summer Stuns Before the Fall

Last night, long after John Mulaney's latest social commentary musical on SNL, I finished reading Jennifer Weiner's latest novel, That Summer.  If the title sounds familiar, then that's because Weiner's book before that was called Big Summer.  Although That Summer isn't its sequel, it does harbor an Easter egg.  

The book jacket doesn't say what it's really about, so maybe I shouldn't say either.  I will say that there are two strangers named Diana (although one goes by Daisy) who find out they share a disturbing bond.  What they decide to do about it will resonate with women everywhere.  

Here are two of my favorite quotes:

On Daisy.  Or rather, on what she thinks her daughter thinks of her:

"Worse, she suspected that Beatrice thought that cooking, cleaning, homemaking, all of what used to be called the domestic arts, were women's work.  A yoke that Daisy wore, of her own choosing, boundaries past which she did not stray; all of it part of a world that Beatrice and her generation had evolved beyond." (80)

On Diana.  Or rather, on what she thinks her coworkers think of her:

"She was sure her colleagues were engaging in some collective Baby Boom fantasy, where she was a bitchy, big-city ice queen who needed some salt-of-the-earth loving, maybe even a baby or three, to make her a woman again." (138)

Both women deal with female stereotypes that eat away at who they really are.  Just as both are victims of circumstances created by men.  Or, rather, by one man.  

To echo Michael Stipe, "Oh no, I've said too much.  I haven't said enough."

The end.

Shrill Quill, Will Thrill: What Happens When Easton Meets West

Last weekend, I binged the third and final season of the Hulu original comedy Shrill.  Based on journalist Lindy West's memoir of the same name, Shrill follows Annie Easton's (Aidy Bryant) journey as a fat twentysomething journalist jousting for justice.  Now, as I said when I blogged about Big Summer, I'm not and have never been fat and don't pretend to know how fat women feel.  But I am a woman and writer who knows all too well what it's like to be weird.  So, I was on team Annie from go.

When we first meet Annie, she's meek on the outside and enraged on the inside.  Although she's a staff writer at Portland's The Weekly Thorn, she's relegated to writing calendar entries, a gig that stifles her creativity.  She's sleeping with a guy who makes her use the back door so his roommates won't see her.  And everyone from strangers to her own mother urges her to lose weight while feigning concern for her health.  Usually, she shrugs it all off.  But one day she stops being quiet and starts questioning everything (indeed, an early chapter in West's book is called "How to Stop Being Shy in Eighteen Easy Steps").  The angrier Annie gets, the more powerful her writing becomes, earning her a reputation as a voice for the voiceless.  This isn't to say that she doesn't make a boatload of bad and hilarious decisions involving but not limited to vandalism, light stalking, and awkward social encounters.  Still, Bryant brings a kind of I-got-this calm to the crazy, reminding us that Annie's not only smart, sensitive, and talented, but worthy of our respect.  This is just one of the reasons why her many wrecked romances rankle.  I had to remind myself that Shrill isn't a rom com, however much I might want it to be, and that Lindy West's own story didn't exactly wrap with her and some dude riding off into the sunset.  But that's okay.  Because Shrill is about something more important, namely accepting yourself even when -- especially when -- no one else does.  

Along for the Shrill ride are Annie's no-nonsense, Nigerian, gay best friend Fran (Lolly Adefope), on-again-off-again bad news boyfriend Ryan (Luka Jones), narcissistic drama queen boss Gabe (John Cameron Mitchell), laidback but put-upon office husband Amadi (Ian Owens), and kooky coworker Maureen (Joe Firestone), whose Carol Kane energy all but levitates from her manic persona and wild curls.  

Some other stuff to watch for: 

1) Annie's dad, who's played by Daniel Stern, the non-Joe Pesci burglar in Home Alone.  (I knew he looked familiar!) 

2) Portlandia's Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein (Season 3).  Armisen cameos as Gabe's long-lost bandmate, and Brownstein directs three episodes.

And that brings us to that tired old thing that people do when they start speeches.  Dictionary.com defines shrill as "betraying some strong emotion or attitude in an exaggerated amount, as antagonism or defensiveness."  And to that I say, betray away. Because emotions aren't meant to be hidden.    

After all, the (quill) pen is mightier than the sword, that early and admittedly questionable line about "jousting for justice" notwithstanding.  

Maybe I should've started with the dictionary bit after all.

Big Summer Stunner: Mean Girls Gone Wild

I haven't read a Jennifer Weiner novel since In Her Shoes.  I did read Weiner's memoir, Hungry Heart, though, and I'm glad I did, because it explains so much about the pain of growing up, which is front and center in her latest novel, Big Summer.  Part mystery and part romance plus a commentary on social media, Big Summer's got a little bit of everything, making it a page turner.  Fluff and intrigue aside, though, its focus is female friendships.  And not just the Golden Girls-theme-song-slash-going-out-for-strawberry-milkshakes part.  But the part about women building social hierarchies so that friend or foe becomes friend and foe, or, in the more popular parlance, "frenemy."  Which is to say, friendship can be war.

In Big Summer, the brave warrior is Daphne Berg, a fat fashionista and social influencer who was always picked on in school.  Fat is Daphne's word, not mine.  She prefers it to euphemisms like plus-sized and Rubenesque, and I don't blame her.  Despite promoting yoga mats and doggie treats on Instagram, what Daphne really wants is to feel less alone and to help other people feel that way too.  Back in the day, Daphne became best friends with this rich, popular girl named Drue Cavanaugh.  Drew made Daphne's life miserable but was, as all queen bees are, a blast.  Inevitably, they had a falling out in college.  They don't speak again until five years later when a desperate Drue asks Daphne to be her maid of honor.  And that's when the true battle begins.   

Weiner's talent for describing the social dynamics of girl world is what makes her such a powerful writer.  She shares Daphne's trials in a way that's real and raw.  Reading about them sent me right back to my own school cafeteria and its swirling sea of piranhas.  Although I wasn't fat (just a bookworm in weird clothes), I know exactly what it feels like not to fit in, and I'm sure a lot of you do too.  Reliving it isn't pleasant for any of us.  But it's important that Weiner explores it in this book and others.  Because if she helps even one kid -- or adult -- work through her hurt in a constructive way and feel, as Weiner says, "seen," then it's worth it.  

To that point, in Big Summer, there's one woman who hasn't worked through anything.  Unable to let go of her past, her anger consumes her, ruining her life and the lives of others. Which is a cautionary tale if ever there was one.  Because two wrongs don't make a right, and queen bees are people too.  Remember Regina George (Rachel McAdams) in Mean Girls?  Bitch though she was, she had a heart underneath it all and stopped being mean once she channeled her rage through field hockey.  Which is about the only time I can get behind sports, but if it makes the world a kinder and gentler place, then I wholeheartedly shout, "Go team!".     

That said, Big Summer's message isn't tidy, is even, at times, contradictory.  But that makes it even more relevant.  Because life is messy.  So to my way of thinking, the book's message goes something like this: To have a friend, you have to be a friend.  But keep your friends close and your frenemies closer.  Protect yourself, but don't become so suspicious that you grow bitter.  Be grateful for what you have because, chances are, they're the very things that make other girls jealous of you.  Most importantly, revenge is a dish best not served at all.  It's better to serve yourself whatever you want, extra pounds and Internet trolls be damned.

I guess that's how you win the war.  Or at least survive the mystery meat in the mess hall.