Self Care Dare: Taking Back Fun Day

Sasha Worth is in a serious funk.  She's so bogged down by her job that she can barely function.  Making dinner seems like an insurmountable task, she has no energy for friends, and the only thing that comforts her is watching Legally Blonde.  So when a cashier asks her out, she tells him she's not interested in sex because it's just "genitals rubbing together." (14)  Pretty cringe, right?  But also hilarious and charming and stranger-than-fiction real.  Because this is Sophie Kinsella and her second-latest book, The Burnout.

That said, it's bizarre but not surprising when Sasha tears out of her office in a burst of can't-take-it-anymore anxiety and runs into a brick wall.  Emotionally spent, she takes a leave of absence and holes up at the seaside resort where she vacationed as a kid.  All Sasha wants is to be left alone.  But the universe has other plans.  Soon she befriends the quirky hotel staff, delves into a twenty-year-old mystery, and asks herself what she really wants.  And she does it all with a man who seemed awful but turns out to be just what she needs.

Every time Sasha stumbles or has a wish-the-earth-would-swallow-her moment, I feel like it's happening to me, and I bet other readers do too.  That's the magic of Kinsella.  She shows us the dark in the light and the light in the dark through the eyes of relatable heroines.  In a world where self care is often just a buzz word, Sasha asserts her worth and puts herself first, making The Burnout a standout.

So thank you, Sophie Kinsella, for giving us yet another wonderful read.  There's no one I'd rather have a breakdown -- er, burnout -- with.

Seeing the Forest Through the Sleeves: ELLE Spell

Skirt: Modcloth

Yellow flower barrettes: Goody, Target

Top: ELLE, Kohl's

Bag: Elizabeth and James, Kohl's

Top: ELLE, Kohl's

Skirt: Dolls Kill

Happy Hummingbird Barrette Brooch

Shoes: Worthington, JCPenney

Bag: T-Shirt & Jeans, Kohl's

Dress: Kohl's

Shoes: Jessica Simpson, ROSS Dress for Less

Skirt: Wild Fable, Target

Top: ELLE, Kohl's

Bag: JCPenney

Ah, fall.  Among other things, you mean the rebirth of sleeves.  True, the first outfit doesn't even have any (and the forest snapped here is more of a thicket).  But the message of the long sleeves that dominate the rest of this post is as clear as long johns on a clothesline: winter is coming.  So, bundle up -- but make it fashion!  Not that I think that Tyra Banks thinks that haute couture can be caught at Kohl's, which is, as per usual, where I got most of these clothes.  But consumer scores are in the eye of the beholder.  And I, as you know, behold polyester.  It's no wonder, then, that there are three poly tops here bearing the brand of a certain francophone magazine.  So let's all yell for ELLE, shall we?  The clothing line, that is, not the Legally Blonde character.  What the hell; let's yell for her -- and her little dog -- too.

By the way, this post has a nice new make instead of just golden oldies.  In case you can't spot it, it's the humdinger of a Happy Hummingbird Barrette Brooch!  For consistency's sake, let's call him Humbert.  Like Engelbert Humperdinck -- but not.  Because the outdated pop culture references from Game of Thrones and America's Next Top Model weren't enough, and the best and worst things come in threes.

On that note, I think I'll make like Mr. H and fly away someplace warm.  

Dragon style.

Spend and Snap: Perks Every Time

 80s Ella Barrettes

80s Emma Barrettes 

80s Elly Barrettes

Top: POPSUGAR, Kohl's
Floral skirt: Stoosh, Macy's
Peach skirt: Amazon
Shoes: Jessica Simpson, ROSS 
Bag: Xhilaration, Target
Belt: Wet Seal

Ah, the bend and snap.  A time-honored, much-documented parlor trick for snagging a man's attention.  Actually, I don't know about much-documented, as the only place I've seen it is in Legally Blonde.  But the dance number that exploded in that Cambridge salon was enough to convince me that it was something that girls in the know knew about.

The same can be said about barrettes (also brunettes, but that's an argument for another day).  They may not have an 83% return rate on a dinner invitation, but they do offer a 100% guarantee that you won't eat alone.  Which is to say that your barrette buds will always be with you at the breakfast buffet.  As long as you can cough up the couple of dollars to pay for them and your coffee.

Yep, barrettes are the bomb (remember when people said that?).  Here are a brunch, er bunch, that I didn't make:

Some are as photogenic as a Christmas ham, whereas others look like they oozed out from under a seven layer salad (I see you, sequins.  Beauty queens and kidney beans are the only Bs where you belong.).  But in the end that doesn't matter because they're all part of one big, happy hair family.

So, locks and lox, perfect together.  Just as long as you don't find a hair on your bagel.  

Which is why -- barrettes or not -- I steer clear of buffets. 

Baby, You're a Fire Perk: Can't Hold a Candle to Sandals

Left to right: Penny Loves Kenny, DSW; Mix No. 6, DSW; Shoe Carnival

A Roman candle, that is.  Because these sandals are plastic and will explode if near an open flame.  That's right.  This Fourth of July, I'm rolling out the red, white, and blue carpet for new kicks.  Only the white is yellow, which is okay because yellow is the final destination of white anyway.  (Kind of like Legally Blonde 2: Red, White, and Blonde.  But you know.  Not.)  You need only look at your teeth (unless you use those painful whitening strips) or your mother's wedding dress (unless your mom tied the knot yesterday, in which case, get in on those cake leftovers already) to know that it's true.

That said, there's nothing to raise the spirits like a new pair (or three) of sandals.  (Unless it's a new handbag.  Or a piece of cake.  Or a new handbag shaped like a piece of cake.)  And there's something especially glam and feminine about shoes that show off your toes.  Even if they do make your feet sweat like Big Foot slogging through the Sahara.

Anyhoo, here's a shot of me all dressed for the Fourth:

What's that you say?  Why am I not wearing my new heels?  Because it's America's birthday, and my tootsies are taking a break.  I am, however, wearing Katy Perry flip flops and a balloon necklace (which, full disclosure, I made for one of my birthdays).  And am, most importantly, keeping the red, yellow, and blue theme alive.

So, three cheers for things getting old and crusty.  And for pyromania in the name of patriotism. 

It's what our forefathers would've wanted.

I'm So Hungry I Could Eat a Horse . . .

 Plucky Poultry Necklace

 Cheery Double Cheeseburger Change Purse

Dress: Zulily

Sweater: Macy's

Shoes: B.A.I.T., Zulily

Bag: Apt. 9., Kohl's

Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

. . . should've been the name of Jim Gaffigan's tour instead of Fixer Upper.  The husband and I have long been fans of the pasty Midwestern food comedian and were psyched to snag tickets to his show in Atlantic City a couple of Saturdays ago.  I loved his books, and we both watched The Jim Gaffigan Show on TV Land.  So, we were all set for an evening of monologues on McDonald's and Krispy Kreme.  You can imagine our consternation, then, when Jim launched into a bit about . . . horses.  Horse races, jockeys, horse owners who seem like they've never met their cash cows in those blue ribbon photos.  The inhumane nature of horseshoes.  The idiocy of the phrase horseback riding because, where, other than the back, are you going to ride?  He even said that no one in the audience would know if he was lying about any of it or not because we were all from Philly and had probably never even seen a horse (and no, he didn't make a pun about Philly and fillies, although I don't know why the hay not).  It was kind of weird.  But also kind of awesome.  You know, in its weirdness.  (The husband really liked it and said he thought that there weren't enough horse jokes.)  He did sign off on a Hot Pockets note, though, so all was right with the fun-with-food world.

Horse or no horse, I can't do a Jim Gaffigan post without fashion featuring food.  So, order up on this Cheery Double Cheeseburger Change Purse and Plucky Poultry Necklace.  To echo the sentiments of fellow funnyman Joel McHale's The Soup, Chat Stew segment, So meaty!

Here's a not-so-short-story about Plucky Poultry.  The pendant is a dollhouse miniature, and when I first saw it, I thought that it was a lobster instead of a chicken.  And I thought, oh, that's perfect, because: 1) Whenever I'm working on something that involves glue and I leave it to dry, I keep checking on it to make sure that the glue's doing its thing, and when I do this, I (silently) refer to it as "checking the lobster pots."  Why, I don't know.  Maybe because it's folksy and strange and makes me feel like I'm doing something as high stakes as battling sharks for my dinner.  (Similarly, whenever I publish a post, I think of it as "releasing the doves."  Like at the wedding of a pesticide heiress or the funeral of a B-list pop star.)  2) Lobster makes me think of Maine and summertime fish fries.  Which makes me think of that part in Legally Blonde where Elle Woods gets to Harvard and asks for her calendar of social events and the preppy orientation guy glares at her, and she says you know, clambakes, trips to the Cape? before giving up and asking where she can find Warner Huntington III, at which point Preppy cracks, try the lido deck.  3) And finally, this crustacean-that-wasn't made me think of Jim's hatred of seafood, or, as he refers to it in Food: A Love Story, "seabugs."  (Which checks out, I guess, Indiana not being known for its shrimp cocktail.).  But this faux food charmer isn't a lobster.  It's a chicken.  Which has nothing to do with summer, Legally Blonde, or Jim Gaffigan's disgust of bottom feeders.  If anything, it's a distant cousin of Thanksgiving.  Which, come to think of it, is right in Jim's wheelhouse (elastic waist pants, Middle America fare in economy-size quantities, naps).  Which means that we've come full circle.

Just like a pumpkin pie . . . or Kentucky Derby wreath.

The Saturday Story: Help Wanted

Trish hadn't wanted to fill out the online dating profile.  But her friend Jackie had insisted, saying that she couldn't spend every Saturday night holed up in her apartment eating microwave pizza and watching reruns with her cat.  So, Trish had dutifully and painstakingly answered the questions set against Soulmate Search's bright aqua screen.  Trish supposed that the Web designers meant for it to be calming, but it only made Trish more irritable as she struggled to answer questions about her favorite foods and hobbies.  Was it pathetic to admit that she enjoyed bacon and a night of knitting?  Maybe.  She started to type "salad" and "aerobics" instead and then stopped.   No, if she was going to do this crazy-ass thing, then she might as well do it right.  Bacon and knitting it was.  She'd have to upload a photo, too (just the thought of that made her cringe), so at least her prospective suitors would know that she was thinner and younger than her interests suggested.  Not that she was exactly Gisele.  But her thin build and shoulder-length blond hair were a cut above average, even if her penchant for cat sweatshirts set her appearance back a few pegs.  Speaking of cats, Trish's profile wouldn't be complete without more than a few words about her beloved tabby, Tabitha.  Trish put on the breaks just as she was getting to the part about her and Tabitha's marathon sessions of hide-and-seek.  It was important, after all, to maintain an air of mystery.  With a few clicks, the questionnaire was finished.  Trish logged off her computer in relief, then channel surfed until she hit pay dirt with Legally Blonde.

Over the next few weeks, Trish logged into her Soulmate Search account with a mix of excitement and trepidation.  At first, she didn't receive any responses.  Then a few questionable ones trickled in, the most disturbing of which was from a magician looking for a lovely assistant to saw in half.  Trish hastily deleted that one, then steered clear of the computer for the next few days as if merely touching it threw her in harm's way.   When she finally got up the gumption to try again she was surprised to find a message from an attractive and normal-sounding insurance salesman named Bob.  He was quietly handsome - more Tom Hanks than Tom Cruise - and he enjoyed reading, camping, and live music.  She could do without the camping, but then no one was perfect.  Anyway, he had a cat, a calico named Cumin - because - and Trish could hardly read this without laughing - he firmly believed that variety was the spice of life.  Hokey stuff, to be sure.  And yet, there was something down-to-earth and warm in such honesty, in Bob's willingness to - as the kids said -let his freak flag fly.  Trish decided to message him. As she typed, Tabitha meowed from her perch on the couch. Trish couldn't help but take it as a sign of approval.

During the next few weeks, Trish and Bob emailed regularly.  Bob seemed sensitive and insightful and said all the right things when she emailed him pictures of Tabitha, even going so far as to say that she would have been the perfect mate for Cumin had he not been neutered.  He commiserated when she complained about her job working reception at a car dealership.  For some reason her boss thought it was her job to make a donut run when the bakery box was whittled down to a few stale specimens.  Privately, she thought they'd last longer if he didn't eat so many, but that wasn't the kind of thing she felt comfortable telling anyone except Jackie, so it was nice to have a fresh pair of ears.  Trish found herself staring at Bob's picture more often than was probably healthy, mesmerized by his kind dark eyes and shy smile and the way his blue checked shirt complemented his tan.  There was a red canoe in the background, and Trish imagined she and Bob taking romantic trips down a sun-dappled river arbored by flowering trees.  Never mind that she hated the outdoors and couldn't swim.  She was sure that even the most rustic of activities would be made magical by Bob's presence.

A month passed before Bob suggested a face-to-face date.  Trish was thrilled; in her opinion, four weeks of unvoiced chitchat was four weeks too many.  She wanted to know what Bob sounded like, but he always demurred when she suggested moving their conversations to the phone.  Deep down she knew that there was something weird about his reluctance.   But then, what did she know about online dating protocol?  Maybe this was the way things were done.  Anyway, she was so head-over-heels ecstatic to be enmeshed in her own romance that not even a Mack truck of warning signs could have deterred her.

Bob wanted to meet at a restaurant called Del's Diner, which Trish had never heard of but should have.  It was a few blocks from the car dealership where she worked, and he wanted to meet her there the following Tuesday at seven.  Trish's heart sank slightly at this; she had been hoping for a Saturday date somewhere special.  But maybe this was better, more unpretentious, more cozy, more Bob.  At least that was how she pitched it to Jackie when she told her on the phone that night.  But Jackie was having none of it, uncharitably calling Bob a cheapskate.  Nevertheless, she cautioned Trish not to wear any of her cat sweatshirts, insisting that it was far better to go with something fitted and black.  Trish gave in but secretly plotted to clip a cat barrette in her hair.

Trish thought that Tuesday night would never come.  She daydreamed the hours away at work, inadvertently snubbing customers and flaking out on not one but three donut runs, much to her boss's annoyance.  She hadn't told anyone but Jackie about her date, not even her mother.  That way she could guard her secret like a precious jewel without anyone telling her that it was flashy or fantastic, or worse of all, fake.

Ten minutes before seven on the appointed Tuesday, Trish peered into her compact.  She'd stayed at work past her usual five o' clock quitting time for the convenience factor, a trial that would pay off when she could leave two hours early come Friday.  She pried mascara clumps from her eyelashes, blotted her nose and chin with pressed powder, and applied a fresh coat of her signature Revlon Silver City pink lipstick.  Then she adjusted her cat barrette, flecked an invisible speck of lint from her black sweater, and set out on her way.  Her heart was humming.  As she walked down the sidewalk, she wondered if this was how the beginnings of a heart attack felt.  The air was too hot for the sweater, causing rivulets of sweat to roll down her back.  But before she could dwell on this, Del's Diner emerged from the street, its dingy chrome exterior slicing the sky.   Trish took a deep breath and went in.

It was tiny inside and only half full.  Trish stood at the door, surreptitiously scanning the tables for a man who matched Bob's description.  At first glance there were none.  But when she looked again she noticed a man at the back corner table.  He had Bob's eyes but was blond instead of dark.  Also, he had a sheaf of papers in front of him and was crossing things out with a pen.  Uncertainly, she made her way toward him.

"Excuse me, but are you Bob? From Soulmate Search?"

The man put down his pen and looked at her appraisingly.  "Yes. You must be Trish."

His voice was flat.  Not anything so awful as high-pitched or girly or even menacing, but nonetheless empty, as if it knew nothing of the confidences they'd traded over the past month.  Unable to do anything else, Trish nodded and slid into the booth opposite him.

"I'm so glad you could make it," he said, giving his papers one last glance before pushing them ever so slightly to the side.  "I have someone else coming at 7:30, but we should be done by then."

"Someone else?"  Trish's stomach churned.  She must have misheard him.

"Yes.  I like to do all my interviews on Tuesdays.  That way I have plenty of time to plan my weekend."

"Your weekend?"  The walls were closing in on her, their dreadful plaid wallpaper hurting her head.  Was it her imagination, or was Bob beginning to look annoyed?

"Certainly.  I like to meet the women I've been messaging face to face.  You know, get a feel for them, see if we click.  Then I pick the most compatible one and plan a date for the following Saturday.  Years of online dating have taught me that this is the most efficient way."

The women he'd been messaging?  Years of online dating?  The words mocked Trish, joining forces with the wallpaper.  Yet curiosity kept her seated.

"Right," she said, as if Bob's little ritual made all the sense in the world.  "Say, why is your hair blond?  You were brunette in your profile picture."

Bob patted his pale pate.  "Studies have shown that women feel safer with dark-haired men.  So I post a picture of myself with dyed hair.  Plus, I like to gauge women's reactions when they see that I'm blond.  Helps me to judge their adaptability to new situations."  He eyed her critically for a moment, then checked something off on one of his papers.

Trish withered, sure that he'd just issued her some kind of demerit.  Then, unable to go on with the charade any longer, she said, "I feel like I'm applying for a job."

Bob didn't look surprised.  But then, he'd probably heard it before.  "An online dating profile isn't so different from a help wanted sign," he pointed out.

"Maybe so," Trish allowed, getting up from her seat, "but I think you're the one who needs help."  Her voice sounded so sure, so steely, so woman-scorned perfect.  He would have never guessed that she was trembling inside, the tears so painfully close to the surface that they threatened to choke her.

He was wordless as she left Del's Diner.  Humiliation clung to Trish like a second sweater.  Yet as stung as she was, there was a part of her that had always known that Bob wasn't real.  Confirming that suspicion was painful.  But it also gave her a strange sense of closure.  Trish put one foot in front of the other, secure in the knowledge that she would soon be back with Tabitha and her reruns, a frozen brick of pizza thawing in the microwave.

All About Clothes

A peek into my wardrobe. Frighteningly enough, this isn't all of it . . .

Every now and then I stumble upon someone who pushes the fashion envelope even further than I do, making my little Technicolor heart swell with pride. Katie of the blog "What Katie Wore" is one such fearless fashionista. During 2009, she wore a different (and may I add inspiring) outfit every day. Her boyfriend took the pictures and wrote the blog (what would we girls do without our bfs?). For the past week he's been posting pictures of their readers in - what else? - their favorite outfits. I'm honored to report that I was included, decked out in my Tote Trove finest. Check it out here (the pictures are in alphabetical order according to name):

http://www.whatkatiewore.com/2010/01/16/what-you-wore-the-sixth-installment/comment-page-1/#comment-7389

Looking at Katie's and the readers' outfits got me thinking about all the fictional characters who've rocked fierce fashion in recent years. Here are a few (in no particular order) who would shine on a blog like Katie's:

Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City
Fran Fine, The Nanny
Betty Saurez, Ugly Betty
Elle Woods, Legally Blonde
Rebecca Bloomwood, Confessions of a Shopaholic
Romy & Michelle (Who cares about their last names?), Romy and Michele's High School Reunion