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. 

Merry Christmas Eve Eve from Our Pal Steve

Zahn, that is.  Because I'm talking about the HBO Max original movie 8-Bit Christmas (which does indeed, however indirectly, have something to do with this pic.  But we'll get there.).  As nostalgic and charmingly rough around the edges as A Christmas Story, 8-Bit Christmas strikes a chord with anyone who's ever made a Christmas list, but especially those of us who grew up in the '80s.  Jake Doyle (Neil Patrick Harris) tries to connect with his cell phone-obsessed daughter by telling her the tale of how his tween self would stop at nothing to get a Nintendo.  So starts the setup for a classic Christmas frame story as Jake detours down memory lane.  And it turns out that scoring an NES is a tall order for young Jake (Winslow Fegley) and his ragtag group of friends.  First, because Nintendos are hard to come by in 1988.  Secondly, because, in a rare case of conscience over consumerism, the local parents' protest against video games has convinced stores not to sell them.  Jake's own dad (Steve Zahn) would rather Jake spend his time helping him with his endless home renovations than snagging extra lives and getting to the next level.  That is, when he's not nagging Jake to pick up the dog poop dotting their yard.  But Jake doesn't listen.  When he realizes that he's not getting a Nintendo for Christmas, he enters a competition to win one.  His tunnel vision pursuit of Super Mario Brothers bliss begets one disaster after another.  Yet somewhere in this caper -- which also features girls' Esprit snow boots, counterfeit Cabbage Patch Kids, and a steady stream of upchucked SpaghettiOs -- is the meaning of Christmas.

This was only one of my takeaways from the movie.  The other was that I won a Nintendo in 1989 for drawing this:

Never mind that the "little" girl is too big to fit through the door of the candy cottage.  Or that the angel doubles as a banner plane.  No, the most questionable thing going on here is the seemingly inexplicable sentence scrawled at the bottom: "I'm a girl!"

 All I can say is that for Halloween that year, I'd gone as an astronaut, and some young thug at the mall (because, yes, that's where I went trick-or-treating) hooted, "Hey, look at the little astronaut dude!"  Although I now see this as the compliment it was, I was filled with all the righteous indignation of a serious seven-year-old, my fury so fierce that it made its way onto my art contest entry more than a month later.  Which, now that I think of it, has a bit of a gender bender parallel, however tenuous, with something that happens in the movie.  Not to worry; as my gift to you, I'll squelch my spoiler impulses.  

None of this is the punchline of this yuletide anecdote, though.  That would be that I already had a Nintendo, kind of sort of making me the spoiled kid in 8-Bit Christmas -- minus the power plays and bullying.  (Always on the other side of the bully divide, I played my two Nintendos by myself, thank you very much.)  But nerd or not, I was still a nerd with multiple gaming systems, and this embarrassment of riches is just one of the reasons I (briefly) considered not blogging about this humble brag of an art contest win.  

We all knew how that would turn out.

Now the NES is a relic and kids play with something called the Switch.  But even if 8-bit doesn't mean what it used to, it's still better than a two-bit anything else.

And also picking up dog poop.

The Search is On: Finding Dory

When it comes to dark comedies, it doesn't get much darker than Search Party.  Because unlike this homemade hat from the husband's last birthday, it's no balloons and cake walk.  It's more creepy clown car.  The kind that kills people.  

Search Party first stepped out in 2016 on TBS.  Then in 2020, it moved on to the cool kids of HBO Max.  Which tracks.  Not just because HBO is hipper, but because it's a more fittingly dysfunctional home for a show about a self-destructive anti-hero.  In this case, that hero -- or rather, heroine -- is Dory Sief (Alia Shawkat), a twentysomething New Yorker stuck in the molasses of millennial malaise.  Half-heartedly working as a personal assistant for bored socialite Gail (Christine Taylor), she's going through the motions of life with her equally navel-gazing boyfriend Drew (John Reynolds) and best buds Portia (Meredith Hagner) and Elliot (John Early).  So when she finds out that their mutual college acquaintance Chantal Witherbottom (Clare McNulty) is missing, she makes it her mission to find her.  What begins as a diversion spirals into obsession, and as I watched, I couldn't help but (sort of snarkily) think: How far would you go for a friend (er, acquaintance)?  How well do you know your friends?  And, finally, that eternal head-scratcher: How well do you know yourself?

As Dory, Drew, Elliot, and Portia become more deeply entrenched in what began as the Chantal mystery, their friendship -- and sanity -- are tested.  Just when you think the plot can't get any more twisted, it contorts itself into a whole new pretzel.  

Search Party reveals secrets of the human heart and mind, taking us on a psychological roller coaster that's made marginally easier to ride because it's in a theme park swathed in style and satire.  Danger lurks around every corner -- but it's funny!  Mind control runs amuck -- but check out that faux fur capelet!  It's this tempering of very scary stuff that makes the show not only palatable but, to me, fascinating.  Because even as Search Party tongue-in-cheekily mocks youth and privilege, it shows just how much it means to be seen.

So, if you're looking for something weird to watch and don't mind hanging out in the shadows, then your search is over.  

Search Party returns to HBO Max in January for what promises to be a superbly strange final season.

Rusted Root Coot: Million Dollar Stapler

The other night, I was watching Mad Money when I thought, hey, I know that craggy-faced ginger.  He's the stapler guy from Office Space!  For yes, none other than Stephen Root plays the holier-than-thou head honcho at the movie's main setting of the Federal Reserve.  It was a little weird seeing him as "the man" instead of as a basement-banished cog in the wheel.  Although not as weird as it could've been given that he's also Bill Hader's boss on Barry.  

Still, despite making such an impression on me, Root's character in Mad Money is minor.  The story is about his underlings, a trio of blue-collar female Reserve workers including ringleader Diane Keaton, single mom Queen Latifah, and free-spirited kook Katie Holmes. Sick of life screwing them over, they hatch a scheme to steal greenbacks so old they're marked for destruction.  You know.  Kind of like when Ron Livingston and friends use their programming prowess to try to skim some off the top in Office Space.

Almost, but not quite.  The women are far craftier.

That said, please enjoy this pic of my, not red, but pink polka-dot stapler adrift in a sea of Monopoly money.  I got it at Marshalls for less than ten dollars.  But to me, it'll always be priceless.

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.

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.  

Hair Wear Flair: Knots Banding

Left to right: Ella & Elly, Zulily; So, Kohl's; Lady Arya, Zulily

If you were around in the '80s, then you know all about the super squad quad of nighttime soaps that included Dynasty, Falcon Crest, Dallas, and Knots Landing.  My parents were fans of all four, so their theme songs, along with the ones for Sesame Street and Mister Rogers, are firmly lodged in my mind.  To me, that music always meant drama, glamour, and, above all else, big shoulder pads and much bigger hair.  And what better way to tamp down or amp up a bitchin' bouffant than with a happenin' headband?

Ah, headbands, those timeless comrades of the cranium.  In the early '90s, I remember soft headwraps accented with knots as being a thing.  I had one in mustard that anchored my teased bangs during many a mall crawl and math class.  So when knot-topped hard headbands recently came into style, I thought, hey, I know you.  More sculptural than their pliable predecessors, these twisty finishing touches add the kind of oomph that can come from only a tiny yet towering turban.  I quickly acquired a trio (above), two striped and one rainbow metallic.  Wearing them makes me feel happy, nostalgic and trendsetting all at once.  

So the next time I'm watching The Undoing or A Million Little Things, I'll reminisce about how my love of stories and accessories started.

To paraphrase one of my favorite songs from the '80s:

"Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth?  Ooh, Heaven is a place on earth."

You know.  If heaven were a hair doodad that didn't feel like it was squeezing your skull.  

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.  

Calling All Cacti: Late Bloom Baby Boom, Drink it In

Cactus cardigan: Collectif X, Modcloth
Cacti blouse: Amazon
Floral surplice top: Flying Tomato, Marshalls

 Arid Elegance Necklaces

Fabulous Felt Yellow Cactus Barrette, Fabulous Felt Pink Cactus Barrette 

Susan Green is a cool customer. She wears only black and gray, she likes rules, she collects cacti, and she never lets anything get in her way -- or, to use Mindy Kaling's parlance, she's a very busy woman who never has time for fun.  So, she's a classic rom com heroine.  And Sarah Haywood's The Cactus, which is a selection of Reese Witherspoon's book club, is the story of how this chick gets, well, lit.  Metaphorically.  Although there is a fair bit of wine drinking.

Forty-five-year-old Susan informs us, in her no-frills, straightforward way, that her mother has just passed away and that she's facing an unplanned pregnancy.  The father is a like-minded, no-nonsense professional with whom she had an "arrangement."   So, a boyfriend without the hassle -- or romance. She also has a ne'er do well younger brother who seems intent on ruining her life by swindling her out of her inheritance.  But he also happens to have this friend . . .

Ah yes, the friend.  The male friend who's appealing and funny and kind despite being a borderline ne'er do well too.  In this instance, he's Rob, the professional gardener, and his oat sowing days are behind him.  Now he's ready to put down roots, becoming a constant if held-at-arms-length fixture in Susan's life.  I know what you're thinking: we've seen this before!  Susan's the prickly, tough-skinned succulent, and Rob is the loosey-goosey horticulturist with the patience to penetrate her guarded layers.  Which makes this book sound like a bodice ripper and/or a Hallmark mush fest, but it's neither.  For one thing, there is zero sex, not even a kiss.  And the tiny bit of emotion that eventually does eke out is hard-won and all the sweeter for it.  

The thing about Susan is, she's the opposite of America's sweetheart (and not just because she's British) and of what the world expects women to be.  Instead of being warm and selfless, she's self-contained and standoffish, like one of those HBO antiheroes that it's hard to like.  That said, her inner sanctum can be an uncomfortable place.  She's so rigid that she sometimes seems inhuman, and her lack of self awareness can be as annoying as it is gently funny.  Here are a couple of glimpses into her head:

"It could simply be, however, that I was aware from an early age that a close relationship with a boy or man -- or indeed anyone -- would undermine my freedom, dilute my individualism, take up precious time and cause the unnecessary expenditure of emotional energy.  Looked at logically like that, it's astonishing that any rational person would want to engage in intimate relationships." (195-196)

"As you're aware, I've always been the author of my own destiny.  We can choose how to define ourselves, and I define myself as an autonomous and resourceful woman.  What I lack in terms of family and other close personal relationships is more than compensated for by my rich inner life, which is infinitely more constant and dependable." (205)

From Susan's point of view, she's protecting herself.  Why throw caution to the wind in an unstable world when you can craft your own custom, temperature-controlled solarium full of indestructible, botanical wonders?  Yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, I can't help but like her.  Especially when she shares some story from her past that's so sad you want to be that one kid she can turn to when she's alone on the playground.  And that's what keeps the reader -- and, I imagine Rob -- interested.  Speaking of which, this is what he has to say:

"He picked up each of the containers in turn, remarking that several of the plants were pot-bound and would soon cease to thrive if they weren't repotted.  And light, too, he said -- they would benefit from being in a position with more direct sunlight, at least six hours a day.  I must say, although I may have been impressed by his expertise in plant cultivation, I was more than a little disgruntled.  I've managed to nurture some very impressive specimens without anyone else's interference.  Admittedly, none of them has ever bloomed, but that's a detail." (217)

Rob is saying that Susan's doing a mostly fine job with her cacti -- but that they'd be better off with some changes.  Predictably, Susan bristles, going as far as to say so what if her plants have never bloomed?  But she knows, deep down, that Rob's right.  Because although green (and indeed Green) can symbolize a tough as nails cactus, it can also mean inexperience and vulnerability.  As accomplished as Susan is in the rest of her life, she's awkward when it comes to people.  Which is mostly fine; we don't all have to be social butterflies!  Still, in (tentatively) accepting Rob's friendship and, yes, in having a baby, she discovers that sometimes -- even for a cactus -- companionship can be nice.

The Cactus is a lovely story, a kind of middle-aged coming-of-age.  Also, it's refreshing to read about a suitor who's not, even once, the proverbial prick.

Cactus humor, you never let me d(r)own.

Bridal Blues and Social Cues

June is for brides.  And brides are all about something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.  Maybe that's because wearing blue is good luck for ladies.  That's something I just learned, by the way, from reading Practical Magic.  But blue doesn't always deliver.  Which is also something I just learned, but from watching Pete Holmes's "Crashing."  In Season 1, newly divorced and struggling comedian Pete tells a "blue" joke (his words, not mine) in front of a live TV audience, saying something unseemly to Rachael Ray's mom.  He's immediately canned, destined to "crash" on yet another sofa.  Then again, maybe his misfortune is par for the course because 1) Pete's not a woman, and 2) being down and out is sort of his thing.  For instance, in the pilot, he catches his wife with another dude.  Named Leif.  Which isn't very lucky.  Despite what the pie filling says. 

But back to happily ever after.  Last Saturday, the husband and I went to his cousin's wedding.  It was at a lovely local historical site, which was rustic and old-timey, like something from an indie movie.  I especially liked the way they had lights strung under the pavilion.  For the occasion, I wore this (admittedly not old-timey) blue necklace:

Blue Boon Necklace

It started out (as so many things do) as a bargain buy Mudd bib from Kohl's.  I liked that it was clear and gold because it meant that when it came to embellishments, the sky was the limit.  So I thought,  sky blue it is, and jazzed it up with chains, charms, and crystals.  The day before the wedding, I test drove it with a blouse and jeans to make sure it could stand up to dancing.  Not that I danced in it then.  Although I did walk through Macy's at a pretty fast clip.  Which convinced me that it could survive the hand clap and shuffle that passes for me breaking it down.

Here are a couple of pics of the husband and me exploring the grounds before the ceremony:

 Loitering like a librarian at ye old bookbindery.

Bringing down the hammer at the forge.  Although I'm not sure if this is really a forge.  Whatever.  I like it.

It's always nice to go to a wedding, especially with someone you love.  The past and future melt into one, and nothing seems impossible.  Plus, there's cake.

So . . . time to add the bread lid to this divorce-slash-happy marriage sandwich.  Because apparently that's what this post has morphed into.  What would that sandwich taste like, anyway? Shrimp salad on rye?  (In case it isn't clear, I love shrimp but find rye disgusting.)  Rye, wheat, or otherwise, the piece of bread in question is "Social Cues," Cage the Elephant's new album.  The first single from it, "Ready to Let Go," it about lead singer Matt Schultz's divorce -- and yes, "blue" is in the lyrics.  Here's a snippet:

"Sun went down, sun went down over

Pompeii

On holy ground, our vows were broken

We met up, we broke bread

I was was blue your dress was red, ain't it

strange?

We both knew this day was coming."

It's poignant but beautiful (much more so set to music), the way all great songs should be.  And it isn't just about divorce.  It's about letting go of anything that has an unhealthy hold on you, even if -- especially if -- letting go of that something is hard.   

So, what am I trying to say with all this (in addition to parading a passel of bad puns)?  Appreciate what you've got.  Because sometimes it takes a super sad song (or in the case of Pete, a super sad sack) to remind you whom you should treasure.

Also, avoid guys named after foliage.

Snow Falling on South Jersey: Entertainment Blitz Blizzard

Fantastic Flora and Fauna Necklace

Top: Wet Seal

Skirt (a dress!): Macy's

Shoes: Christian Siriano for Payless

Bag: Nine West, Marshalls

Belt: Marshalls

It's been snowing a lot in my neck of the woods.  Which I hate.  Because snow is cold and dangerous and prevents me from wearing my very best outfits.  Still, if you don't have to be out in it, it does have its charms -- e.g. curling up with a good book, Pinterest page, or premium cable binge-a-thon.  So, I took full advantage, traveling to sunny California to catch up on Silicon Valley.  Also, I made this very tropical Fantastic Flora and Fauna Necklace.  You know.  To remind me that Memorial Day is slumbering somewhere beneath the permafrost.

So, "Silicon Valley."  This is a show that I shouldn't even like, but love.  As an artsy-craftsy girly girl who thinks "dress" when she hears the word "code," it seems unlikely that I'd be interested in the trials and tribulations of a boy's club of wisecracking technies.  Then again, "Silicon Valley" is really about a bunch of underdogs doing their thing, which is something I'm always on board with.  Also, I really dig wisecracks.  

I can't help but root for Richard (Thomas Middleditch).  As the head of the pack, he's a beta alpha dog if ever there was one, the ultimate David to Corporate America's Goliath.  He's brilliant and painfully awkward and never stops trying to get his brilliance out there.  He's like an artist that no one understands but who knows he's got something special.  Of course, there's a part of me that sometimes thinks, wait a minute, though, he's not an artist.  He's an engineer promoting a product that's supposed to make people's lives easier.  But most people aren't as smart as he is.  So why doesn't he just add the Word-Help-Paperclip-clone Pipey (yes, as in Pied) thing to the software to walk people through it?  Sorry, Richie, but remember, this is the technically-challenged part of me ranting.  The trailblazing creator part still thinks you're badass.  Anyway, you do adopt Pipey.  And win over your biggest regular person user critic, Bernice.  So, well done.  But all of that, like everything else in this show, becomes moot because of some crazy plot shift that I no longer remember.  It's this chaos -- and Pied Piper's deus ex machina ability to rise above it -- that makes Silicon Valley such a great dramedy.

That said, if Richard has the goods, then Big Head (Josh Brener) has the life I'd most want.  Because no matter what troubles assail him (and there are many), his response is always, "whatevs."  In this way, he is high-strung Richard's foil.  He never lets his circumstances cloud his outlook, or a quest for power hamper his happiness.  When he discovers that he's a guest lecturer instead of a grad student at Stanford, he copes by showing vaguely computer sciencey movies, starting with The Social Network and ending with the sophisticated cyber stylings of You've Got Mail.  He's content to be the easygoing court jester, guzzling his ever-present Big Gulp the way most Pacific Northwesterners suck down Starbucks.

So, maybe he's on to something.  Because anyone who can make a sno-cone-like drink from snow can't be all that bad.  

Girls Just Want to Have Puns

Delicious Double Scoop Necklace

Tee: So, Kohl's

Skirt: Modcloth

Shoes: Bongo, Kohl's

Bag: Journeys

Belt: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Cheery Cherry Sunglasses

I Heart Unicorns Necklace

Dress: Kohl's

Tee: So, Kohl's

Shoes: Payless

Bag: Call it Spring, JCPenney

Jewel Jumble Necklace

Top: Lily White, Target

Jeans: Vanilla Star, Target

Shoes: Guess, DSW

Bag: JCPenney

Yellow Gumball Necklace

Top: So, Kohl's

Jeans: Earl Jeans, Macy's

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Candie's, Kohl's
Sunglasses: Mudd, Kohl's

Backwoods Bling Necklace

Tee: Mudd, Kohl's

Skirt: New York & Co.

Shoes: Payless

Bag: American Eagle, Payless

Belt: Candie's, Kohl's

I always think, "Huh?" when people say "no pun intended."  Because isn't the pun always intended, if even just subconsciously?  That having been said, I've probably logged at least one such infraction somewhere on this blog.  But I'm willing to overlook that if you are.

I don't know where Lena Dunham stands on wordplay, but I can't imagine that she'd be against it.  I've (almost) always liked Dunham, and not just because she favors Etsian necklaces that look like something out of a kindergarten teacher's closet (as documented in the February 2014 Vogue).  It's because this creator and star of HBO's "Girls" is the poster child for taking risks.  So naturally, I was drawn to her collection of essays, Not That Kind of Girl.  Like Shopaholic to the Stars, it has a strikingly hot pink, and therefore blogworthy, cover.  Which made me wonder: Is Dunham being ironic?  As in, pink is for weak girly girls?  Or is she saying the opposite, that pink is empowering?  Or maybe that it's empowering only in the right hands?  Or maybe . . . she just likes pink.  But enough about the cover and its implications; the inside has illustrations!  Check out this kaleidoscopic collage of kawaii-tastic treats including, but certainly not limited to, pretzels, eclairs, pineapples, cheeseburgers, heart necklaces, and exotic birds:

Fun and feminine, its appeal is near-universal.  Although I'm sure that there are some people out there who don't like such things, I sure as heck don't want to meet them.  Anyway, their sweetly retro vibe is in sharp contrast with the book's grittiness, setting the stage for Dunham's unique blend of dark comic naivete.  For it is gritty, despite being reminiscent of Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? And Other Concerns.  You know.  If Mindy Kaling had been raised by an artist in Tribeca instead of a gynecologist in Boston and belonged to the dwell-on-it-until-you-land-in-the-hospital-and/or-psychiatrist's-office school of thought instead of the don't-complain-because-everyone's-got-problems school of thought.  This last bit, by the way, was a lesson that Mindy learned from her mother.  But this post isn't about Mindy; it's about Lena.  So instead I'm going to talk about something that she learned from her mother:

"Luxury is nice, but creativity is nicer.  Hence the game where you go into the ten-dollar store and pick out an outfit you might wear to the Oscars (or to the sixth-grade dance)." (107).

This spoke to me for two reasons: 1) Like so many thirtysomethings, I sometimes get sucked into the pursuit of yuppiness, a misstep that clouds my judgment, making me go all pouty because I don't have a Volvo. Or a Brita water filter.  This quote fixes all that by reminding me that yuppies are yucky.   2) My sister and I used to play the $20 challenge game in Marshalls.  Which is to say we'd go to Marshalls with just $20 and try to buy something cool (far less complicated than most card games and, in my opinion, more satisfying).  Lena's mom gives it to us straight: it's not what you have, but what you do with it.  This optimistic and free-spirited, er, spirit is woven through even the murkiest sections of Dunham's confessional, leave-nothing-out prose, echoing the theme that at the core of every artist surges the need for freedom.  Dunham is as unabashed about this as she is about broadcasting her body and her love of carbs.  Which is nice in a world where self-aware women are (sometimes) dismissed as selfish.  Miranda July puts it best:

"Very few women have become famous for being who they actually are, nuanced and imperfect.  When honesty happens, it's usually couched in self-ridicule or self-help.  Dunham doesn't apologize like that -- she simply tells her story as if it might be interesting.  Not That Kind of Girl is hilarious, artful, and staggeringly intimate.  I read it shivering with recognition." (back cover)

When I first read this quote, my knee-jerk reaction was, "What?!  All those other famous women out there are fake?"  (I'm not kidding; I actually thought this.)  But then I remembered that fame is like any other profession, and as such contingent upon following a set of unspoken but unbreakable rules.  Dunham doesn't seem to fall prey to any such playbook, and for that she should be applauded.

Did some parts of this book make me cringe?  Well, yeah.  Some of them because they were so alien to me, others because they weren't (over-thinking oneself into a tizzy, to my relief, is far more common than I'd previously surmised).  But then, I'm always willing to put up with a little discomfort in the name of authenticity.  Add a good laugh and an even better story, and I'm zipping through it in a weekend.

Which just goes to show that you can't put a good girl down.