Only Book Club With People You Love

So you joined a book club.  And it's your turn to pick.  Your ideal title?  One that's not too serious but not too light, right in the sweet spot of what you'd enjoy and what you think others would enjoy too.  You search and search, but it isn't easy.  You've read this one, the others wouldn't like that one, and this one is about aliens.  Wait, what's this?  A New York Times bestseller and, oh look, the 2021 book club pick of the summer!  Plus, it's by an author you already know and love.  You click Add to Cart, feeling virtuous and even a little smug about what a good choice you've made.  But then again, you know books.  You've been a reader all your life.  You brought books to the playground, you majored in English.  You've got this.

And then one of the other book club members starts reading the book and tells you that there's something in it that'll upset another member.  And you're suddenly feeling all of the things, none of them good.  Your confidence in your ability to recognize quality literature has been shaken.  What's more, now you know how the others felt when you were so put off by The Guest List that you couldn't even finish it.  

Obviously, the "you" in this story is me, and the person who couldn't read my book was my mom or sister.  I'm not going to tell you which, nor will I reveal the title of my bad apple pick.  Partly because I don't want to open that door, but mostly because I protect the privacy of my nearest and dearest better than my own.  When I told the husband what happened, he said that 1) (without any prompting) I know good books (I knew I married him for a reason!), and 2) unless all we read is comics, this is going to keep happening.  He is, of course, right.  As was I when I said that reading is a very personal thing in last year's hard-hitting My Book Club, My Boyfriend.  

Nevertheless, this experience has forced me to grow.  There was a time when I'd cringe even after picking a movie that the other person didn't like.  So if nothing else, then being in a book club has ripped the Band-Aid right off that nonsense.  It also reminds me that other people have nonnegotiables and triggers too, and that we all need to be sensitive to each other's needs.  Still, I don't think I could be in a book club with anyone who isn't family.  Because although my mom and sister and I may sometimes disagree, there's no malice under it.  They're a safe space because they're my people.  And if I'm going to discuss books -- and all the baggage and emotions that come with that -- then I want to do it with people I love.        

That said, I'll still read my slush pile selection.  

I'll just keep it between me, myself, and I -- a.k.a. my book club of one.    

Au Revoir to X: Autumn on Target

 Jazzy Jaune Necklace

Jacket: Wild Fable, Target

Top: Wild Fable, Target

Skirt: Wild Fable, Target

Shoes: Delicious, Zulily

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Sunglasses: Wild Fable, Target

Eclectic Emoji Charm Necklace

Top: Wild Fable, Target

Skirt: Wild Fable, Target

Shoes: Ami Clubwear

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's

Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's
Belt: Wild Fable

Yellow necklace: Kohl's

I used to think of fall as a time of darkness and death (I'm looking at you, Halloween), but now I see it as a chance for rebirth and beginnings, an opportunity to enjoy something old that's now new again.  Which is very fitting, because this fall, there's a renaissance of '90s fashion.  Remember that irresistible mash-up of grunge and glam?  Well, it's back: corduroy, mock turtlenecks, happy faces, crop tops, faux fur, checkerboard prints, rainbow stripes, plaid, and much more.  Then again, saying that plaid is big for fall is like saying that flowers are big for spring or that ugly sweaters are big for Christmas.  But this isn't any old lumberjack or prep school tartan.  It's Clueless plaid in all of its yellow pleated glory, reigning as the queen bee crown jewel in the tiara of Target's Wild Fable label.  (Hey, that rhymes.)  Surely you'e seen that Target commercial with the Cher, Dionne, and Tai look-a-likes kitted out in revamped versions of the movie's (and decade's) top trends.  Aesop would be rolling over in his grave if he knew that Wild Fable is the name Target gave to the brand replacing its longtime juniors headliner, Xhilaration.  Then again, maybe he's a fan of teen flicks and is doing an, ahem, wild jig.  

Now, at first I wasn't happy about this coup.  I have many an Xhilaration piece in my wardrobe and hated the idea of the beloved brand being edged out by some new kid on the block.  Much like when the Backstreet Boys edged out the actual New Kids on the Block.  Then I remembered that I like the Boys better than the Kids.  I mean, "Everybody" vs. "Hangin' Tough?"  No contest.  And that's when I took a good look at the racks and realized I love Wild Fable.  Its edgy elegance transported me back to the days of Seventeen and Saturday mall crawls in a way that Xhilaration's boho blouses never could.  I was captivated by the studded belts, colorful Lucite-like earrings, and novelty wristlets (although, oddly, not a chain wallet in sight), that made up these punk princess spoils.  But it was the display centerpiece that really transfixed me.  For, arranged on a table like so many treats were -- are you ready for this? -- Caboodles!   

Every '90s girl had one of these confection-colored cosmetics organizers.  I'll never forget when I got my own sky blue case one Christmas.  I was so excited!  It matched my bedroom perfectly, and I couldn't wait to fill it with treasures.  So, you can imagine my indignation when my (male) cousin referred to it as a tackle box.  Stash mackerel-gut slimed lures and rubber worms where my bubblegum Bonnie Bell lip balm should be?  As if!

So, I picked up this lilac Caboodle as well as the other nostalgic pieces in this post.  My favorite is the checkerboard jacket.  They didn't have it in my size at the store, so I went online and ordered it.  It's like Speed Racer and ska all in one.  Cue the trumpets, Mighty Mighty Bosstones!

Still, as thrilling as the return of all this throwback stuff is, some of it should stay in the moldy basements of our memories of retainers and school dance sobfests.  I refer to you, baby backpacks, flannel, and scrunchies.  (The aforementioned Clueless-inspired, yellow plaid separates are, sadly, flannel.  Otherwise, you know they'd be preening in pride of place here.)   I've made a solemn pact not to cave to the likes of these D-list reincarnations.  And that goes double for jumpers.  I tried one on, and it was hideous.  Which sounds about right, because whenever I hear the word "jumper" I think of a big, bulky sweater knitted by dear old Aunt Agnes with puce-colored, pill-prone acrylic instead of a dress worn over a turtleneck.  Thanks, Sophie Kinsella, Marian Keyes, and Maeve Binchy.  Soon I'll be expecting an elevator when someone says that they've called (a) Lyft.

So yeah, there's something to be said for fall fashion . . . and for fall.  For one thing, it marks the end of swamp ass, sunscreen, and mosquitoes.  But it's not the end of everything sunny.  I could go on about the magic of leaves changing from green to gold and the coziness of sweaters and the custardy coolness of Libby's pumpkin pie.  Yet the sign above the register at the breakfast place where the husband and I went this morning sums it up best:

"Everything will be alright in the end.  And if it's not alright, then it's not the end."

I thought that was beautiful.  (Then again, maybe I was still flying high from all the sugar in my super decadent strawberry cheesecake pancakes.)  It's a simple way of saying that no matter what your troubles or fears, the universe has a plan, and that that plan will take care of you.  Which, I realize, goes way beyond any wistfulness that the transition of seasons might bring.  But it's the little things that make a big difference.  And one of the biggest little things you can do is look for signs.

Especially the kind for 50% off on lunchbox purses.

Boys Don't Make Passes at Girls Who Wear Glasses . . .

 Fabulous Felt Shannon Brooch

 Fabulous Felt Erin Brooch

Fabulous Felt Patty Brooch

Top (a dress!): Modcloth
Skirt (also a dress!): Modcloth
Shoes: Payless
Bag: Betsey Johnson, Boscov's
Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon

. . . unless those glasses are filled with Guinness.  Which I realize sounds, ahem, shady because eyewear can't hold liquid let alone the Emerald Isle's signature stout.  But then again, all manner of magical madness is on tap on St. Patrick's Day.

At least that's what these leprechaun-loving ladies are thinking.  (And no, when I say leprechaun, I don't mean the horror movie starring a young Jennifer Aniston.)  Meet Shannon, Erin, and Patty, the newest members of the Tote Trove hat ladies guild.  Which, believe you me, ain't no book club.  They're off to paint the town green, starting at the local pub for a rousing round of Irish-themed trivia and pin-the-tail-on-the-Mother-Superior before indulging in a pint or two -- and then, just maybe, some pint-sized men.  Festive to a fault, they're decked out in holiday hats and sunglasses, reading glasses' less-than-well-behaved second cousin.  Because nothing says single and ready to mingle like a pair of I-can-see-you-but-you-can't-see-me cat's eye lenses.

Let's face it, St. Pat's isn't the most sentimental of holidays (unless you count caterwauling "Danny Boy" at last call).  There's no animated Peanuts special, no heart-warming kids' book called Seamus Shares a Shamrock or something.  It's all about shillelaghs and shenanigans, green beer and lime JELL-O shots, and trying to outrun the cops.

Or so I hear.  I'm usually curled up with a Shamrock Shake and a dog-eared Maeve Binchy by midnight.  

So much for mocking book clubs.

Soft Serve for Soft Hearts: Remembering Marvelous Maeve

 Lemon Lime Lilac Gumball Necklace

Tee: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Jeans: So, Kohl's

Shoes: Chinese Laundry, DSW

Bag: Merona, Target

Belt: Izod, Marshalls

Sunglasses: Mudd,, Kohl's

 Blue Raspberry Rose Gumball Necklace

Tee: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Jeans: City Streets, JCPenney

Shoes: Venus

Bag: Nine West, Marshalls

Belt: Wet Seal

Sunglasses: Michaels

 Mandarin Marigold Gumball Necklace

Tee: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Jeans: City Streets, JCPenney

Shoes: Christian Siriano for Payless

Bag: Nordstrom

Belt: Marshalls

Sunglasses: Michaels

The whole creamy crew, plus our old pal minty.

This week I'm rolling out gumball bead necklaces in soft sherbet shades.  Which is why I included this shot of a larger-than-life custard cone (although I probably would've posted it even if today's topic was rodeo clowns).

The late great Maeve Binchy would certainly second this sentiment, as she's owned up to having a "custard heart."  I'm not sure if this is a Maeve-ism or an Irish-ism, but either way it spoke to me.  Even if custard means pudding across the pond (and pudding means something else); it's still soft and sweet and gooey and all the things that a good heart should be.  I learned this and much more in Maeve's Times, a collection of her Irish Times columns compiled by her husband after her death in 2012.  I've been reading Maeve's books since high school and always assumed 1) that she was in her sunset years, and 2) that she led a quiet life (probably because reading her books was, as their jackets proclaimed, "like having tea with an old friend").  It turned out that I was wrong on both accounts. She was only 72 when she passed, and her life was bustling.  She began her professional life as a history teacher who traveled the world on her summer vacations.  She wrote her father vivid letters about her adventures, and he was so impressed that he submitted them for publication to the Irish Times.  The paper offered Maeve a full-time position, and she ended up working there for decades, even after making it big with her books.  As origin stories go, it's a nice one.  I love imagining Maeve's father proudly posting the letters that would launch her career.  

Teaching and journalism proved apt training for writing fiction.  Binchy went on to produce twenty plus novels, most of them bestsellers.  All focused on the quiet and not-so-quiet dramas of small town Irish life (even Dublin is a village according to Maeve), and for that reason they were all realistic.  Alternately light-hearted, sad, and shrewd about the dark truths of life, Maeve's tales always emerged as optimistic.  It was an optimism that was more trustworthy than the kind that comes without shadows, and for that reason it was all the more hopeful.  Maeve's was a voice you could trust.    

Still, she had some mischief, too (she wasn't Irish for nothing).  Although I always thought she was funny, it wasn't until I read Maeve's Times that I realized the sharper side of her wit.  Take this passage from her July 9, 1996, column "Curmudgeons of Summer" (which also has the bonus of ice cream):

' "I don't like summer myself.  Personally," said the girl in the pale pink shorts and the dark pink halter top.  She was eating a huge ice cream cone and waiting in the crowds to see the USS JFK come into view in Dun Laoghaire.

She looked like an advertisement for summer, with her shining hair, her 97 small, healthy teeth, her light suntan and her air of well-being.

"I know," said her friend, who was no use as a friend.  She had said 'I know' to people for all of her 18 years, and you could tell she would do so forever.  "I know what you mean."

The girl who didn't like summer, personally, was was at least a person of views; she was prepared to elaborate on her stance.

"You see the thing about summer is that you expect so much from it," she said earnestly.  "Every time you open the papers or turn on the television, there's someone saying, "Here comes summer," and you get all excited and then nothing much happens at all" ' (302).

This is just one of the many examples in which Maeve uses gentle, almost companionable sarcasm to expose a character flaw.  As unkind as it seemed to this prematurely sour pink lady, I must admit that I rather enjoyed it.  (To be fair, Maeve ends this exchange with an expression of pity for the girl because she has no tough love friend to set her straight.  Even as she mocks, she mothers.).

Still, the part that hit home for me was the one about writing, namely the November 30, 1984, piece "Develop Your Own Style" (a mantra, apparently, that applies to more than high heels and handbags).  Binchy urges young writers to "write as they talk" instead of crowding their prose with a bunch of big words.  I couldn't help but smile because I used to do this.  My eighth grade English teacher insisted that I rewrite my salutatorian speech because otherwise no one would understand it.  I was, of course, righteously offended.  Who cared if anyone understood it?  I was supposed to use big words -- that was the point of being salutatorian.  Stern but kind, ex-teacher Maeve is sympathetic to such misguided behavior:

"It's not easy to do it at once, not if you have been used to writing as a vehicle for other people's thoughts and expressions.  But once you start, it becomes easier and easier and you will wonder how you could ever have begun a tale with some showy sentence full of words and hiding what you meant to say.  It's a bit easier also to hide the real you, and what you feel if you use the disguise of other people's language.  It's somewhat safer to say "within the hallowed walls of this esteemed place of learning" instead of saying "here at school" because the first one has a kind of sardonic ring to it . . .  the second is more naked." (209)

Now, if sardonicism is your thing and/or if you're talking about said school ironically, then I'd say go full steam ahead with the first version.  But if all you're trying to do is establish the setting of a school dance or bake sale, then listen to Auntie Maeve.

Finally, Maeve devotes many a column to defending the elderly, the poor, and the all-around unpopular.  This is where her journalistic roots and innate soft-heartedness come into full flower, foreshadowing the underdog-championing sagas that would seal her fame.

So, that's Maeve.  Pretty marvelous, huh?  The next time I'm dithering outside a Kohr Brothers window, torn between chocolate mint and vanilla orange twists, I'll think, Maeve, this cone is for you.

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.

Book Report: Minding Frankie by Maeve Binchy

It's always exciting when one of your favorite authors comes out with a new book.  So, I was delighted when I saw this Maeve Binchy paperback peering out at me at the grocery store.  The title, Minding Frankie, wasn't new to me, as I'd bookmarked the hardback version on Amazon and had had a chance to form some ideas about the story.  I'd envisioned a nostalgic saga set in the 1950s and 1960s about a single mother raising a little boy in an Irish village.  They'd have their struggles, but the laughter would outweigh the tears, and all would be well in the end. 

The real story turned out to be much the same in tone if not detail.  Minding Frankie is set in present-day Dublin and stars a recovering alcoholic, Noel Lynch, whose casual ex-girlfriend tells him that she's dying and pregnant with his daughter.  Noel is a serious but directionless sort, a one-time artist with a dead-end job who, at thirty, still lives with his parents.  (I pictured him as Joseph Gordon-Levitt.)  The story had the potential to be a downer, but because this is a Binchy book, I knew that bright beginnings were on the horizon.  Which is to say that Noel, albeit reluctantly, takes on the baby girl.  And moves into his own apartment.  And enrolls in college.  And acquires a roommate in the form of the warm but flighty Lisa Kelly.  (I pictured her as Katherine Heigl.)  As with all of Binchy's novels, an amusing cast of characters is threaded throughout the plot.  Some are granted happy endings; others require lots of tissues.  But all are interesting and enrich Noel and Frankie's story.

Although I had the ending pegged as predictable, it proved to be more realistic than the tidy stock finale I had in mind.  I appreciated this on an intellectual level but was a little disappointed emotionally.  This fly in the ointment notwithstanding, I enjoyed Minding Frankie.  It was cozy and comforting and kind, all the things I've come to expect from Binchy.

Book Report: Echoes by Maeve Binchy

They say that rereading a favorite book is like going home again (schmaltzy, maybe, but nonetheless true).  That's how I felt when I recently reopened Maeve Binchy's Echoes.  Only, the house seemed a little bit smaller, as it's apt to after being abandoned a decade.

Like so many of Binchy's novels, Echoes is set in an Irish village in the 1950s and 1960s.  Seaside Castlebay is the home to the usual colorful cast of busybodies, drunks, pillars, and unfortunates, the most compelling of which is its heroine, Clare O' Brien.  Although the daughter of a poor shop owner, Clare is brilliant and determined, doing whatever it takes to leave Castlebay to become a history professor (a lofty ambition by even today's standards, let alone 1950s rural Ireland).  With the help of her schoolteacher mentor, the bright and beautiful but put-upon Angela O' Hara, Clare clears hurdle after hurdle -- only to have life intervene. 

In vintage Binchy style, we're treated to the inner thoughts of a host of villagers and Dubliners alike, a dialogue that embroiders this already-rich saga.  It's got all the stuff you'd expect: broken hearts, secrets, and even some danger, yet fails to fall into the trap of a cliché.  Nevertheless, it's not all tea and warm hearths.  Echoes offers layers and characters that cut deep, forcing us to re-examine that age-old conundrum of free will vs. fate.  Among other things.

Book Report: (A Book with) Heart and Soul by Maeve Binchy

I picked up Heart and Soul, by Maeve Binchy, one day on impulse in Walmart. I was delighted and surprised to find a new Binchy novel out and gobbled through it in a matter of days. Like so many of Binchy's books, it was the story of a seemingly unconnected group of Dubliners whose lives become inexplicably intertwined. It's the kind of book that's so warm and charming that it makes you ashamed of complaining about anything. The characters are just so good. And not in that cloying way that forces you to ask, "Is this for real?," but in a way that makes you want to appreciate your own life more. It goes without saying that it had a happy ending. You know, once upon a time I preferred books with unhappy endings. I thought they were more profound. Perhaps I'm maturing.