Giving Pants and France a Chance

Top and jeans: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Enchanted Eiffel Necklace

Bow: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Socks: Amazon; Shoes: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Top: New York & Company; Pants: Vylette, Kohl's

Shoes: Mix No. 6, DSW

Headband: INC, Macy's

Elephant Anchor Necklace

Sweater: Maison Jules, Amazon; Bag: Skinnydip London, Macy's

Shoes: Betsey Johnson, DSW

Everything But The Kitchen Pink Necklace

It's true.  I'm taking on trousers and the land of croissants.  My pink pants are even from the French-sounding brand Vylette -- although that label has gone the way of the guillotine.  No matter.  I went the extra mile for Francophile style with my Enchanted Eiffel Necklace (because what's the City of Lights sans unicorn?) and my micro review of Jenn McKinlay's Paris is Always a Good Idea. 

Oddly, this romcom can best be described by The Big Bang Theory (Season 5, Episode 9).  Leonard and Penny are on a platonic movie date when Leonard suggests that they see a documentary about building a dam on a river in South America because he's tired of Penny picking romcoms that are "an hour and a half of beach houses in the rain until the woman turns around and realizes that love was here all along."  Penny retorts that that's a great movie and it's starting in ten minutes.  The classic soulmate search trope that Leonard so callously mocks is Paris is Always a Good Idea in a nutshell -- or, more appropriately, a popcorn kernel.  Here are (some of the, remember this is micro) details:  

After hearing that her widowed dad is getting remarried to a woman who won him in a bachelor auction, super-serious-professional-woman-who-doesn't-have-time-for-fun Chelsea Martin (shoutout to Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?) gallivants across Europe to track down three old flames to reignite her belief in love.  But she can barely choke down a bite of baguette before her office nemesis Jason Knightley pops up and cock blocks her.  Sure, this plot's a little familiar.  But then again, so are the plots of those movies.  And sometimes the familiar is what you need.

I can't say the same for documentaries.  Unless they're about croissants or baguettes or why we love romcoms so much.

Punch Line? Feeling Fine! The Tears of a Clown are the Saddest

Judd Apatow's Sicker in the Head hit me the same way that his first book, Sick in the Head did.  Which is to say that it's not a laugh-a-minute collection of interviews with comedians and entertainers, but an introspective look at how the comedy sausage is made.  And one of the main ingredients, unsurprisingly, is emotional damage.  Because for all its seeming frivolity, comedy is a coping mechanism.  And if laughter is the best medicine, then comedians self medicate.  Apatow puts it best in his foreword:

"I have always seen comedy as a lifeline -- which is why I've been interviewing comedians about why they do what they do since I was fifteen years old.  Without comedy, I don't know how I would survive.  When the pandemic was at full force, I grabbed my family and made a really silly movie.  I didn't know what else to do.  Is that healthy?  Is it denial?  Is it medicine?  Is it sick?  I am not sure.  But now I know that when the world seems to be collapsing my reaction is to make a movie about a group of people having a meltdown during a pandemic as they attempt to make a movie about flying dinosaurs." (Apatow XII)

Apatow picks the brains of many beloved funny people, including Jimmy Kimmel, John Mulaney, Mindy Kaling, Pete Davidson, and Samantha Bee, ending, appropriately, with Will Ferrell.  Because who better than the guy who wrote "I've got a fever -- and the only prescription is more cowbell" to close a conversation about being sick in the head?  Ferrell talks about that, how the idea for the famous Blue Oyster Cult sketch came to him because he roots for the underdog:

"Even just the notion of driving along and listening to "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," by Blue Oyster Cult and hearing a faint sound of a cowbell.  I don't know how I had that idea.  I remember, the first time I heard that song, for some reason I focused on the cowbell, and I immediately thought, What's that guy's life like?  Does he ever get to hang out?  The sad weirdo who's trying to be a part of the group really appeals to me." (451)

Me too, Will.  Me too. 

Pheromones vs. Funerals: Love Finds a Yay

Belt: Marshalls

Shoes: Betsey Johnson, DSW

Dress: B. Darlin, Macy's

Top: Candie's, Kohl's

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Amazon; Orange and striped bangles: Mixit, JCPenney; Green, red, and yellow bangles: B Fabulous

What do you get when you mix Richard Curtis, Mindy Kaling, and a classic '90s rom com?  The Hulu original series Four Weddings and a Funeral, of course!  (Kaling is one of the show's creators but isn't in it.  Far be it from me to cause great but unfulfilled expectations.)  If there's anyone who loves TV more than me, then it's my sister.  So when she told me to check out this 2019 ten-episode comedy inspired by the movie of the same name, I binged it right away.  And it did not disappoint.  

Four Weddings and a Funeral follows four American thirty-something friends living their best lives in London.  Complications, misunderstandings, and that old chestnut honor keep the right couples apart and pair off the wrong ones in a plot that's as engaging as it is funny.  Featuring a diverse cast of characters more layered than the sum of their haircuts, it's at the same time timely and timeless.  The vibe is a little Masterpiece Theater goes clubbing, which means that the fashion's divine.  There's even a reality show within the show that ratchets up the weird factor.  Easter eggs (or should I say valentines?) include a cameo from Andie MacDowell and Love, Actually-style grand gesture posters.  To parrot the British, brilliant!

Speaking of birds, in the spirit of love and many-splendored things, I made this Loco Lovebirds Necklace.  Because -- spoiler alert -- I'm crazy in love with color. :)

Loco Lovebirds Necklace

That said, may life always invite you to four weddings for every funeral.  

And send you four lovebirds for every turkey buzzard.  

Light at the End of the Funnel Neck: Shirts of Schrute

Skirt: Celebrity Pink, Macy's

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Top: TJ Maxx

Shoes: Mix No. 6, DSW

Wrap: Amazon

Headband: Lady Arya, Zulily; Mustard bracelet: Cloud Nine, Ocean City; Brown ring: Charlotte Russe; Black bangle: Mixit, JCPenney; Yellow bangle: Silver Linings, Ocean City; Black and white bracelet: Mixit, JCPenney; Magenta ring: Express

Bag: Kohl's

Shoes: Circus by Sam Edelman, Kohl's

I thought I knew everything there was to know about The Office, but now that I'm reading The Office: The Untold Story of the Greatest Sitcom of the 2000s, I can see that I was wrong.  Written by Rolling Stone veteran Andy Greene, this comprehensive, interview-rich history of how The Office went from underdog British knock-off to one of America's most beloved shows is nothing short of pure joy.  

The Office began life as a dark comedy, and when it first aired, I, like many others, didn't like it.  But when it hit its stride in Season 2, I began to appreciate, then love it, understanding that it wasn't really about an office at all, but about the people who felt trapped inside it.  The hilarious and sometimes sad way they got through their day was a spark of hope, that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.  So, it's inspiring to read about the cast and crew experiencing the same kind of slow success as they rode the wave from obscurity to fame.  It's cool to hear how Creed (Creed Bratton) weirded his way into becoming more than an extra, or how Andy (Ed Helms) started calling Jim (John Krasinski) Big Tuna because showrunner Greg Daniels once had tuna twice in a row for lunch.  There's even stuff about the set design and camera style, which I didn't expect to like but did.  I learned that in most sitcoms, the crew curates the set to look like a painting by choosing prop and costume colors that pop and complement.  This makes sense; I can think of tons of mediocre sitcoms I've tolerated over the years just because they looked pretty.  But The Office didn't want to look like a painting.  It wanted to look like an office, a real office.  And despite my love of color, that (eventually) made sense to me too.  The Office would never have been as believable if Dunder Mifflin and the people who toiled there looked glamorous.  

Nevertheless, one piece of clothing in the series stands out.  No, it's not one of Kelly Kapoor's (Mindy Kaling) outfits, the wrap dress that Pam (Jenna Fischer) wore during the fashion show at lunch, or even Michael's (Steve Carrell) Burlington Coat Factory fur from the infamous budget surplus debacle.  It's Dwight Schrute's (Rainn Wilson) mustard dress shirts.  Dwight's shirts became so integral to his identity that he complained about not getting to wear them during his short-lived and ill-fated stint at Staples.  Dwight's signature color is fitting because mustard is kind of like Dwight himself, unpalatable at first but strangely appealing once you get to know it.  So I decided to devote this post to outfits where this warm yellow shade, well, cuts the mustard (even if in just a few drops).  Sure, these ensembles also feature un-officey looks like a bold funnel neck top and hot pink faux fur.  But in the spirit of The Office's more, ahem, workaday aesthetic, I included a version of each with a muted, nearly black-and-white filter.  

Although I don't have any Schrute loot to use as a visual aid, I do have this Dunder Mifflin snow globe and Michael magnet.  The snow globe used to be in my cubicle. 

Speaking of keeping it real wardrobe wise, here I am in, of all things, a sweat suit.  (The husband suggested I say that "I mustered the courage" to wear it.  Husband and French's, you're welcome.)  Despite having been voted least likely to wear sweatpants in eighth grade, this quarantine's got me collecting -- and living in -- loungewear.  

Sweat suit: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's      

Now that I work from home, I'm the one wearing mustard to the office -- not to mention any number of other unsightly things (my ratty old bathrobe, pajamas, even, on occasion, a muumuu).  And I've discovered that there's something nice about writing reports and editing documents in the comfort of my down-home duds.

Art imitates life, life imitates art.  The heart wants what it wants, and what it wants is the heart.  And the art.

It's lines like this that make me think of the mumbo-jumbo monologues of Michael Scott.  And remind me to not quit my day job.

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.

Outer Banks Thanks: Sparky Spark and the Funny Bunch

The husband and I don't take many vacations.  Partly because most of our disposable income goes toward ice cream and stickers.  Partly because it's a hassle.  Whoever said, "You know what would be relaxing?  Packing up all your stuff, driving to another state, and then unpacking it and setting it up again in a tiny room with a bed that may or may not make it impossible for you to move your neck the next morning," clearly did not think things through.  Add the beach element and you've got a whole new mess of stress in relaxation's clothing.

"Hang on there, Tote Trove Lady," you may be thinking.  "Are you saying that you don't like the beach?"  Not exactly.  Sure, it's lovely and tranquil and sometimes enchanted.  But still, it requires vigilance.  You know those pictures of people napping on the surf that are supposed to be restful?  When I see them, all I can think is, OMG, wake up, the sun is roasting your flesh like a rotisserie chicken!  Look alive and reapply your SPF 80!  This is also, by the way, how I feel about those pictures of babies all curled up with dogs.  Not that the babies need sunscreen.  But that their mamas better scoop them up before they become Lassie's dinner.  Never underestimate the power of vigilance.  Or vigilantes. 

But I digress.  

Despite my misgivings, when my parents invited the husband and me to join them and my sister, brother-in-law, and adorable two-year-old nephew (because I'm one of those aunties who thinks he hung the moon) in the Outer Banks for a week, we packed our arsenal of UV protection.  The husband had been there once to go fishing and warned me, "It's different, not like our beaches."  On our first day there, I knew he was right.  The coast was covered with coarse, orange sand, whereas Jersey sand is sugary fine.  Also, the air didn't smell like salt, and there wasn't a seagull in sight.  Yet even more of a culture shock was that the shops -- because yes, the appeal of any place to me and mine ultimately comes down to the availability of retail outlets -- were few and far between.  There were no neon-lit boardwalks or quaint downtown streets like at home, and you had to drive to get anywhere.  Still, we were excited.  We had the sun and each other.  And all the shrimp we could eat.

And I, of course, had my outfits.

Remember when your grandparents would make you look at their vacation slides on a projector?  Well, the rest of this is like that minus the popcorn.  Unless you want to make it yourself; far be it from me to get between you and your Orville Redenbacher.  Or, for that matter, you and your Orville Wright.

Kitty Hawk may be the birthplace of aviation, but New Bern is the birthplace of Allie and Noah.  No, I didn't go to New Bern, North Carolina, the setting of The Notebook and many other beloved Nicholas Sparks novels.  But I did go to Kill Devil Hills, which just happened to have a street named New Bern.

What's more, on the way to the Hatteras lighthouse, the husband stopped by this structure.  If it looks familiar, then that's because it's the house from the movie version of Nights in Rodanthe.  If it doesn't look familiar, then that's because it's been cleaned up and moved from its original, super-remote location.  Talk about a labor of love.  Who says that romance is dead?  

Certainly not me and my hat.  

Speaking of hats . . . this is the Hatteras lighthouse.  The guide made it sound like it would be impossible to climb, and for a millisecond I worried that my exercise-averse self might have a heart attack if I tried.  But then I remembered that the guide was just a public servant on a power trip and that he had to make it sound scary as a disclaimer in case of lawsuits.  So up I went, and it was fine.  A couple of other people freaked out once we got inside, though.  I think they were afraid of heights.

The husband suggested that one day we get up to see the sun rise.  Now, like Mindy Kaling (as she says in one of her books), I was pretty sure that I could live my entire life without ever seeing such a phenomenon.  I worship sleep; on weekends, I don't stir until noon.  Still . . . I was curious.  And I figured it was the least I could do for the husband after making him take all these pictures.  So I set an alarm, then set out for the docks.  And I have to admit that the sun bursting through the darkness was nothing short of amazing, all orange and purple and like a Disney cartoon, only better (I was wearing a Little Mermaid tee at the time).  And it was all the more awesome because I got to go back to bed once it was over.

 A lot of the shops and restaurants in the Outer Banks have horse sculptures out front.  This picture was taken outside an art gallery.

When we went inside, the woman behind the counter saw my shirt and exclaimed, "Who doesn't love the Jetsons?"  I guess I wasn't responsive enough because she went on to say, "If you come to North Carolina, you have to talk to people."  I nodded and said that the husband had shown me a YouTube video about introverting in the South.  There was some poor woman trying to read on a park bench, and total strangers kept plunking themselves down next to her to talk about the weather.  I'm always that woman, even on my own turf in New Jersey.  But I didn't say this to the gallery lady.  When she asked where we were from, the husband gave his stock reply: outside Atlantic City.  This inspired her to launch into a story about how she once helped her daughter move to New York and how she could never live there.  You heard it here first; in the South, New Jerseyans = New Yorkers.  Even Southern New Jerseyans.  (Somehow, I don't think New Yorkers would agree.)  Not that it's news that people in different parts of the country have ideas about each other.  Myself included.  For all I know, the gallery lady's loquaciousness might have not been a southern thing; she might have been just as chatty had she hailed from Wisconsin.  But in the end it didn't matter.  Because either way she was nice and, like the rest of us, just doing her best.  That said, I ended up buying this framed fabric flamingo:

And admiring (but not buying) this house:

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . this horse was parked outside a breakfast joint called Stack 'Em High Pancakes.  I didn't see it at first, but he's holding down a pile of flapjacks!

And these fish were swimming upstream while we enjoyed breakfast.

It was fins, fins, and more fins during our rainy day at the aquarium.  Even if this pic is just plants, plants, and more plants.

This room was like an underwater disco.  How cool are these black-lit jellyfish?

Once the rain cleared, it was back into the oven to surf a wave,

sit on a tree,

 and zoom in on my zany barrettes.  Because, like cheddar, they make everything better!

   

But wait.  There's more.  Highlights, that is:

- My nephew 1) singing "People are Strange" (by The Doors, Aunt Tracy!), "Zombie," and his ABCs and 2) saying that my watermelon sandals were "so juicy" and that his new Mrs. Potato Head was "so cute."

- Going to The Bird Store with the husband.  He picked out a duck decoy and I got this tile:

- Browsing Belk department store.  At the height of "Sex and the City" mania, they had a Kristin Davis line because she's from North Carolina.

- I said it before, but I'll say it again: the shrimp!

Surprise, surprise, the beach didn't make the cut-off.  I spent most of my time there under a canopy, wearing a hat, swaddled in a towel, and dousing myself hourly with Neutrogena dry-touch sun block.  I couldn't help but feel like Mary Anne in Baby Sitters Club book #8, Boy-Crazy Stacey, except I didn't wear zinc oxide on my nose.  (Stacey, of course, had no such anxieties and got as tan as a turkey.)  The few times I ventured out, my sister quipped, "You're out of your tent, and you don't look happy about it."

Word.  We're not the funny bunch for nothing.  

Which leads me to the number one best thing about this trip: family togetherness.  Because beneath my aloof exterior beats a heart that loves to be with my loved ones. They're my favorite people, my only people, and I couldn't imagine being without them.  So thanks to them all for such a good time.  

There's no one I'd rather roast with.