Ladies First Curse: Getting Ahead but Flirting With Dead

Cami: Mudd, Kohl's; Skirt: Material Girl, Macy's; Boots: Simply Vera, Kohl's; Bag: Betsey Johnson, Macy's; Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon

Hairpins, Rite Aid

Midnight Magic Necklace

One of the reasons I love blogging is that it gives me a chance to play with outfits I like but would never wear (for yes, there are some, even for me).  Just like watching TV gives me a glimpse of exciting but dangerous things I'd never do.  Enter today's Goth club kid ensemble and NBC's Good Girls. 

If you've seen Good Girls (or even a commercial), then you know that the dark dramedy, which is in its fourth season, is about three ordinary women who turn to crime when faced with financial hardships.  Set in a suburb of Detroit, it straddles the no woman's land between the mean city streets and the cul-de-sac.  Ringleader Beth Boland (Christina Hendricks) is a domestic diva and mother of four married to her high school sweetheart (Matthew Lillard of Scream fame).  Yet when she finds out that her dear Dean's serial philandering and financial mismanagement have landed them face to face with foreclosure, she's forced to expand her repertoire from baking to burglary.  Beth convinces her sister Annie (Mae Whitman), a wisecracking supermarket cashier, and their lifelong friend Ruby (Retta), a happily married but struggling waitress, to join her in her crime spree crusade.  But no sooner do they commit their first felony than they learn that they've trespassed upon the turf of career criminal Rio (Manny Montana).  Like it or not, "gang friend," as Ruby calls him, soon becomes a fixture in their lives.  Yet as Beth plunges deeper into Detroit's underworld, she discovers that illicit entrepreneurship is the road to not only financial freedom but the kind of fulfillment that she can't get from the PTA.   

Good Girls isn't all back door deals and social commentary, though.  It's also funny.  Annie slings some first-class zingers, and the situations in which the "girls" find themselves are often so ludicrous that you can't help but laugh.  Even the background music is French noir cute reminiscent of A Simple Favor.  Finally, there are more than a few Cloud Nine references, which are an Easter egg of a reminder that the dearly departed Superstore is a fellow Midwestern star in the NBC universe.   

Layered and nuanced, Good Girls is masterfully crafted to make you think twice about everything.  Like this unabashedly badass outfit, it starts off as starkly black and white but eventually reveals shades of gray.  And it's the gray that urges you to question the difference between right and wrong, to wonder what you would do if you too were caught in a catastrophic cashflow catch-22.  Just as it's the gray that makes this sensational story not only entertaining but familiar, becoming the silver lining we seek. 

Still, whenever Rio pops out from the shadows, I can't help but think that baking -- which I usually loathe -- looks pretty good.

The Bold and the Beautiful and a Life Less Dutiful: She Who Laughs Last Laughs Loudest

Dress: Candie's, Kohl's

Bag: Marshalls, embellished by The Tote Trove

Belt: Wet Seal

Love bangle: Boscov's

Other bracelets: Mixit, JCPenney

Hip Flip Barrette Brooch

Shoes: Katy Perry; Sunglasses: Wild Fable, Target

It took a quarantine to get me to finally watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  I'd been wanting to, I'd heard it was great, but something was holding me back.  Partly my difficulties streaming Amazon Prime, partly my fear that once I'd binged the show I'd have nothing in my back pocket of rainy day entertainment.  Yet, after watching one rerun too many, I was ready to ditch these deterrents.  

And I was so glad I did!  The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel has everything I could ever want from a TV show: comedy, fashion, romance, old-timey glamour, and girl power.  So, I'm going to recap the premise, even if most of you probably know it.  In late 1950s New York City, young Jewish wife and mother Miriam "Midge" Maisel (Rachel Brosnahan) gets thrown over by her wannabe stand-up comic husband Joel (Michael Zegen) only to find that she's the one who needs to stand up because she's got something to say.  Hilariously and in four-letter words in the very bar where her hubby bombed.  That's right; she's trading in (okay, maybe just jeopardizing) her socialite status to try her hand at the funny business.  And embarks upon the most delightful way anyone has ever blown up her life.  With a hat-heavy wardrobe as snappy as her one-liners, Midge takes on the masculine and streetwise Susie (Alex Borstein) as her manager to take Manhattan by storm.  Well, almost.  Pitfalls await in the old boys' club of comedy, Susie's stumblings (Midge is her first client!), and Midge's painfully proper parents Rose (Marin Hinkle) and Abe (Tony Shalhoub), who are in the dark about their daughter's double life.  Also, there's the small matter of money.  After being dumped by Joel, Midge moves back in with her parents and takes a job in a department store at the Revlon counter (apparently that used to be a thing instead of just a rack at Rite Aid).  She turns out to be a talented lipstick pusher, recommending my own beloved Cherries in the Snow to one customer in search of the perfect red.  Balancing work, children, and the nightclub circuit makes for many a madcap mishap, including getting bailed out of jail by none other than comedy bad boy Lenny Bruce (Luke Kirby).  Then there's the annual family trip to the Catskills where Susie tags along incognito and gets mistaken as the resort plumber.  During this quarantine and the unfortunate purchase of some this-is-all-we-have triple ply, I've often found myself at the mercy of a dubious plunger, thinking, where's Susie when you need her? 

But The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel isn't all brisket and hi-jinks.  Midge learns a lot about herself and the people in her life.  Like when she's dating an art collector and buys a twenty-five-dollar painting by an unknown artist that comes with -- get this -- a free hat!  She doesn't buy it because it's valuable (or even because of the hat), but because it speaks to her and makes her feel a connection to it the way good art should.  When she relays the story to an esteemed artist and her beau, the artist understands but the beau doesn't.  This vignette and others is why I really love this show.  It tells us that women can and should stand for something and do something more than look pretty -- while still wanting to look pretty, if that's what they want.  That's feminism, the freedom to have it all without having to choose, a message that's as important today as it was in 1959. 

That said, this post is as good a place as any to show off my new Hip Flip Barrette Brooch.  Even if it is hatless and more That Girl than Miriam Maisel.  Of course, Midge's hair and attitude are plenty flip in other ways.  Also, Midge makes me think of that other '60s fashion icon named Miriam, Miriam Haskell.  Even if Ms. Haskell was a real-life costume jewelry designer and Mrs. Maisel is a made-up comedian.

 

So, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.  It's glitzy and heartfelt and oh-so-side-splitting, a must see for any woman who's ever had something to say.  

So . . . all women.  

Amazon, is there anything that you can't deliver?

Soft Serve Curve: When Life Hands You Lemons . . .

Pink and Orange Pompom Necklace

Top: Rite Aid

Skirt: Forever 21

Shoes: First Love by Penny Loves Kenny, JCPenney

Bag: DSW, embellished by Tote Trove

Belt: Marshalls

Sunglasses: The Tote Trove 

Blue and Green Pompom Necklace

Top: Material Girl, Macy's

Skirt: Material Girl, Macy's

Shoes: City Streets, JCPenney

Bag: Marshalls

Sunglasses: Rampage, Boscov's

. . . wear a shirt that looks like lemonade.  Not, of course, that you need a reason to strut your stuff in sunny citrus.  After all, what else has all the rustic charm of a Mediterranean village and the free-spirited flair of a Caribbean island wrapped up in one tidy rind?  (You know, other than Bob Marley touring Tuscany).  To keep the exotic edge of these tops, well, edgy, I added punchy pompom necklaces that all but shout passport.  As soft, sweet, and bright as the juiciest fruit grove, they've got summer on a string -- er, wire.

Better than a bird, as Tweety and I always say.

Friends and Dames in Fancy Frames

A cupcake, a finless Ariel, and a sock monkey in sticker-form. 

"Dame" is a weird word and one of the few that makes me think of palaces and pool halls in equal measure.  If I had to pick my favorite (palace-y) Dame, I'd be hard pressed to choose between Dame Agatha Christie, Dame Judi Dench, and Dame Edna to commemorate my love of books, movies, and wacky eyeglasses.  But mostly wacky eyeglasses, so I guess Edna wins.

This past week I tried my hand at a project that brings new meaning to the term nail art.  I'd scored this fashion plate print for free at Michaels some six months ago and finally got down to jazzing it up with . . . nail polish!  Or, at least, I started with nail polish.  Eager to unload some of my collection (crafting and fashionable fingertips are about as compatible as piranhas and pandas), I opened a bottle of Revlon's Mint Gelato and let the strokes fall where they may -- which, as it turned out, was no farther than the meager confines of an ever so slightly lopsided teardrop.  That stuff smelled -- and I'm not just talking about the admittedly delightful chocolate mint scent that the good people at Revlon had mixed into their cosmetic chemical stew -- but about the chemicals themselves.  Abandoning my ambition of polishing the entire mat in the interest of preserving brain cells, I slapped on four more teardrops before moving on to the more merciful medium of scentless markers.  I drew flowers and foliage -- always a go-to when I need to fill a big space -- and, after finishing the last fern in my jewel-tone jungle, reached that crucial point when I had to decide whether to keep going or to leave well enough alone.  Sadly, I went with the former because I thought that I had to have (and this sounds so silly, pretentious even, to me now) contrast.  So I grabbed my colored pencils and glitter glue and created a line of shapes across the bottom.  The result was pale and sugary and vaguely 1980s, kind of like something you'd see on a Trapper Keeper.  I wasn't crazy about it, but my dissatisfaction only spurred me on further. On went the big rhinestone necklace and bows, completing this dame's transformation from chic to cheeky.  Que up boys, this one's pool hall-bound.

Speaking of make-up (at least I was speaking of it earlier, and I'm sticking with that, transitions being hard to come by), it's a true wonder woman who can manage her makeup while driving.  This is one of those tricks that I wish I could master, especially when I'm running late and have to take the wheel without my lipstick.  Stuck in traffic and at lights, I imagine sneaking the little black tube (also Revlon -- only Rite Aid's finest for me) out of my purse and dashing on a quick stripe like a heroine in a spy novel.  But it's buried in my cosmetic bag, which is buried in my purse, and even if I end up finding it, there'd be the matter of unscrewing the cap and getting the stuff on without smearing it, all the while worrying that the traffic will move or the light will change at the exact moment I'm painting the Cupid's bow.  I've attempted it once or twice, and the stress isn't worth the coup of the multi-tasking.  That, my friends, is a game for a less anxious dame.

Packaged Up Pretty

Sometimes, I buy stuff just because I like its packaging.  Like this almost-certainly-icky-tasting-albeit-candy-shop-cute gum (it contains Aspartame), or this pretty-in-pink shampoo and conditioner duo that has no anti-dandruff agents whatsoever (this mane of mine is like a ski slope).  But the mother of all package-driven purchases is this fabulously retro Love's Baby Soft variety pack.  It's haunted me from the shelves of Rite Aid for the past couple of Christmases, only to vanish on the very day when I march in ready to make it my own.  So this year, when I saw those familiar pastel bottles winking at me from behind their cellophane, I knew that I had to act quickly.  Not only do they smell scrumptious, but they take me back to when I first bought a similar set at JCPenney with my allowance money, a memory so fuzzy that it made me consider picking up a second box for the holiday toy drive at work.  But the more I thought about it, cologne, however juvenile, didn't seem like donation material, so I went with a selection of Barbies instead.  Which, to be honest, I also sort of secretly coveted.      

Book Report: The Christmas Cookie Club by Ann Pearlman

I was in Rite Aid the other day, stocking up on Christmas candy, when I wandered over to the paperback rack in search of something sweet for my brain.  (It bears mentioning that I'd already browsed and resisted a 10-piece Coca-Cola-themed Lip Smacker assortment and various Calgon bath and body gift sets.)  I picked up and rejected a couple of murder mysteries, not wanting something even the slightest bit dark.  Then I saw a book called The Christmas Cookie Club, the back cover of which promised laughter and heartache, trials and triumphs.  In other words, all your usual sentimentality wrapped up with a great big holiday bow.  This sounded just marvy to me. What better way to forget life's problems, after all, than to read about a bunch of fictitious characters' undoubtedly more serious problems?

But these problems, as it turned out, were just a little too serious.  So much so that I probably should've stuck with a nice glossy copy of InStyle.  Readers, this Christmas caper was grim.

I don't know about you, but I don't want to hear about stillborn babies and twentysomething men plummeting to their deaths in my seasonal stories.  Or, actually, ever.  I know these things happen - but I'd rather not know about them, much less within the gilded confines of supposedly fluffy fiction.  Although I appreciate the occasional tearjerker, the thing I crave most from a novel is a frothy escape.

Whew.  I unleashed more of my inner mean girl there than I meant to.  Thankfully, I got a ton of really excellent books for Christmas, so my next book report is sure to be sunnier. 

I Scream You Scream We All Scream for Ice Cream

Trash can in Shriver's Gelato on the Ocean City boardwalk

I've long had issues with cars that have Good Humor stickers plastered all over their bumpers. I'm not talking about ice cream trucks; those I find endearing, especially the ones with sculptures of twin pops and ice cream cones jutting from their roofs. What baffles me are those otherwise normal-looking four-door family sedans that appear to be peddling frozen treats willy-nilly all over the Interstate. I saw one of these cars in a Rite Aid parking lot today (this was what sparked my dormant frustration). Just who, I wondered, is the target demographic of such an enterprise? Are these cars feared and loathed by their more illustrious ice cream truck cousins? What's their game? If anyone out there operates such a business or knows someone who does, then I'd be ever grateful for some answers. I'll even throw in a Tote Trove freebie for your trouble.