Cherries and Berries and Mushrooms: A Walk in the Woods With a Fungi

 Fabulous Felt Cheery Cherries Brooch

Fabulous Felt Magic Mushroom Brooch 

Fabulous Felt Sweet Strawberry Brooch

Top: Candie's, Kohl's
Skirt: H&M
Shoes: Ami Clubwear
Bag: Betsey Johnson, Boscov's

Or perhaps I should say "fun girl."  Because when I see these brooches, I think mushrooms, and when I think mushrooms, I think woods.  And when I think woods, I think The Lady Who Lives in the Woods (also, Smurfs, but this is not about them).  The Lady Who Lives in the Woods is Ruth, a recurring character on truTV's At Home with Amy Sedaris.  Remember Simple Times: Crafts for Poor People?  Well, this is the live action version, complete with guest stars (Stephen Colbert!  Justin Theroux!  Chris Elliot!  Did I mention Steven Colbert?).  To be accurate, the show is more like a dysfunctional marriage between Simple Times and I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, but being a borderline hermit uninterested in entertaining, I never read that one.  Anyway, The-Lady-Who-Lives-in-the-Woods Ruth is a seemingly laidback yet controlling naturalist who lives in a lodge and is always picking passive aggressive fights with her long-suffering, mime-like, live-in girlfriend.  Distinguished by her long, red Earth Mother hair and loden green poncho, Ruth says things like, "Moss -- that's nice" in a soothing yet grating voice that's a cross between Martha Stewart and half of the duo from SNL's "Delicious Dish." (Both of which, fun fact, were played by Ana Gasteyer.  So maybe I'm just saying that Ruth sounds like Ana, in which case, Ana, you're welcome.)  But that's Red -- I mean, Ruth -- for you, bursting the bubble of the myth that the forest is peaceful.  Which is just one of the reasons, I suppose, that she seeks solace in her pet bird, Artemis.  

Anyway, I think Amy would like the brooches.  Because they're weird and retro and could have easily been made by a tree-dwelling seven-year-old.  (No disrespect to tree dwellers.  Or seven-year-olds.)  Also, her show logo is a mushroom.

From one toadstool fool to another, I say: I'm talking to you too, Smurfette. 

The Leftovers

 Midnight Masquerade Necklace

Top: Kohl's

Skirt: Ellen Tracy, JCPenney

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: Marshalls

Jacket: Mossimo, Target

Belt: Izod, Marshalls
Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

Scarf: Wet Seal

 Emerald Impostor Necklace

 Amber Ember Necklace

 Pretty Peacock Necklace

Tee: American Rag, Macy's

Skirt: Material Girl, Macy's

Shoes: Payless

Bag: DSW

Sunglasses: Mudd, Kohl's

 Jungle Journey Necklace

Dress: Modcloth

Boots: Charles Albert, Alloy

Bag: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Jacket: Tommy Hilfiger, Marshalls

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: Relic, Kohl's

I'm not talking about that Justin Theroux series or last night's meatloaf.  I'm talking about the beads that you have left over after completing the projects for which you bought them (also about my leftover summer photographs, as flowers, smoothies, and purple bicycles should not go unshared).  You know how it goes.  Some plastic beads here, some glass beads there, with the odd extra pendant or cabochon thrown in.  More often than not, these odds and ends don't go together, and you're left wondering what to do with them.  Although this can be annoying, it's usually fun, kind of like making that questionable clearance rack caftan work with your wardrobe.  Lately, I've been trying to make necklaces that are more suited for everyday wear, and managing this mishmosh of supplies fits right in with that plan.

On a not-so-related note, I was recently flipping through some new magazines and was dismayed to find myself kind of disgruntled.  Not so much with the appearance stuff, which I take with a grain of salt (nothing like heeding the advice of Baz Luhrmann's "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)": "Do NOT read beauty magazines; they will only make you feel ugly."), but with the pop psychology, how-to-be-a-better-person sort of stuff.  It's either stuff I already know, or stuff I don't want to know, like how to bake a gourmet turkey, how to do exercises at your desk, or how to strike up conversations with strangers.  I couldn't help but remember a college professor who had a negative view of women's magazines.  She said that they were all about convincing women that they needed to fix themselves, showing them how to be skinnier and prettier, better cooks, better lovers, better mothers.  Twenty-year-old me thought she was full of it.  Magazines were bursting with color and possibility, not to mention a welcome escape from my World Drama homework.  I think it took so long for me to realize their true duplicity because I never set out to do what they said, instead mesmerized by their splashy layouts like a child immersed in elaborate picture books.  Although still of that mind, I now find the content even less entertaining.  Stripped of such glitter, it all seems a little stress-inducing and judgy, the very antithesis of an indulgent diversion.

I think that's why I'd rather read novels, which are almost always enriching and peaceful.  I just finished a most restful example, A Week in Winter by the late great Maeve Binchy.  It tells the stories of guests at Stone House, an Irish hotel that serves up solace every bit as warm and restorative as its hearty soups (a ringing endorsement, as I don't even like soup).  Here's one of my favorite parts:

"Chestnut grove [not to be confused with the aforementioned Stone House; this book is teeming with inviting edifices] was a house that would have suited nobody except Eva: it was in poor repair, with a wild, rambling garden, very shaky plumbing, and unreliable electrical works.  She really couldn't afford the cost of maintaining it properly, and it might have seemed sensible to sell the place -- but when had Eva ever done the sensible thing? . . . There were clothes hanging in every room; on almost every wall there were hangers holding colorful, inexpensive dresses, often with a matching stole or hat.  Eva would pick them up at markets, car-boot sales, or closing-down sales.  She had never bought a normal dress in what might be called a normal shop.  Eva found the price of designer clothes so impossible to understand that she had refused to think about it anymore.  What were women doing, allowing themselves to be sucked into a world of labels and trends and the artificial demands of style?  Eva couldn't begin to fathom it.  She had only two rules of style -- easy care and brightly colored -- and was perfectly well dressed for every occasion." (355-356)

I found this passage to be so refreshing and carefree compared to the unyielding do's and don'ts espoused by the glossies.  Chestnut Grove sounds like the kind of house I'd love to live in, a magical mess of a place in delightful violation of most monthlys' rigid edicts.  The rest of the story is just as wonderful.  I hate hiking almost as much as I hate soup, but the book was so enchanting that I found myself wishing that I could stay at Stone House to walk its cliffs in an anorak and wellies.

And finally, as the last thread in this unraveling sweater of a post, the husband and I cannot imagine a world without Joan Rivers or a Friday night without "Fashion Police."  We followed her condition online until she passed last Thursday, somewhat bittersweetly during Fashion Week.  For years we tuned in weekly for Joan's colorful zingers, dissolving into laughter as she delivered one outrageous analogy after another.  Razor-sharp and unrelenting, Joan's wit was the star of the show, the celebrity fashions merely the window dressing.  Without it, our Friday night post-pizza snack will lose some of its flavor, and whatever we watch will be bland compared to its bite.  Rest in peace, Joan.  You always wore it well.

Movie Moment: Wanderlust

I was excited about Wanderlust.  Mostly because it starred Paul Rudd.  But also because it was a comedy about a yuppie couple (the other half of which is played by Jennifer Aniston) escaping the New York City rat race to start fresh on a Georgia commune.  I mean, what wouldn't be hilarious about that?

As it turned out, plenty.

Now, I realize it's a little early in the review for the snark snake to be rearing its ugly head.  And I hate to be that girl.  But I also hate to be dishonest.  So, that girl it is.

George (Paul Rudd) works in an office doing something boring.  Linda (Jennifer Aniston) bounces from jewelry making to ice cream making to making a documentary about penguins with testicular cancer.  Linda wants them to buy an apartment (er, micro-loft), so they do.  But then George gets laid off and they're forced to sell and move in with George's obnoxious brother and his family in Atlanta.  During the drive down, car trouble delivers them to the doorstep of Elysium, a utopian oasis in a gadget-crazy, dog-eat-dog world.  They spend an enchanted night there, an experience that renders life at George's brother's mansion the next day as even more abrasive.  George picks a fight and breaks a dish and before they know it, he and Linda are speeding back toward the serenity of the commune.

Only, Linda's not feeling it.  Weirded out by Elysium's doorless rooms, touchy-feely psychobabble, and unrelieved togetherness, she balks when George suggests they stay for two weeks.  Yet almost immediately the two do a switcheroo, with Linda embracing the alternative lifestyle and George longing for the square society they left behind (which makes perfect comedic sense, as Paul Rudd always plays the lone straight man swirling in a sea of chaos).  Nowhere is their disconnect as apparent as when George strums the Spin Doctors' "Two Princes" on a guitar only to be one-upped by his wife's soon-to-be paramour (Justin Theroux).  Weirdly, this is the movie's high point for me.  Not the part about Paul Rudd being dissed; I didn't like that at all.  But my favorite actor singing my favorite song?  That was downright, dare I say it, princely.

As for the rest of the movie, I couldn't help but feel that it needed to be either funnier in an over-the-top, can-you-believe-this? sort of way or more serious in a poignant, indie film, damn-that-really-made-me-think kind of way.  I think that's about as bitchy as I'm going to get.  Now that that's over with, I'll return to my happy place where Paul Rudd is still singing.