NFL Spell: Love You to Saturn and Back

Boots: Simply Vera, Kohl's

Sweater: Club Room, Macy's

Bag: Sleepyville Critters, Zulily

Turtleneck: So, Kohl's

Unshrinking Violet Necklace

Bag: Gifted

Sweater: Jessica Simpson, Belk

Skirt: Almost Famous, Kohl's

Sassy Silver Necklace

Sweater: IZ Buyer, Kohl's

Bag: Delia's, Dolls Kill

Sweater: Maison Jules, Amazon

Blast Days of Disco Necklace

I've been wearing lots of stripes lately.  It wasn't the plan, but then maybe the universe -- or Saturn -- had other ideas.  Either way, the result was a happy horizon of color.  The sweater in the first fit is actually a men's small from Macy's.  But the big orange bow, which is Wild Fable from Target, tipped the scales back to girly.  Target offered the bows in all colors (I also have red and yellow) and was marketing them with see-through bags this fall in, ahem, a clear and perhaps Taylor Swift-inspired campaign targeted toward football fan fashionistas.  Which, despite not being into sports, I found fun.  Because I'm forever Team Bow.

And Team Swifty.  

From Nostalgia to Now: Election Connection

When Election came out in 1999, I wanted to see it.  A twisty tale about the evils of high school politics starring Reese Witherspoon?  Yes, please.  After all, I was a high school senior myself and could relate.  Not because I ever ran for office or wanted to, but because the social maze of schooldays were a struggle.  Then again, maybe that's why I ended up not seeing it.

Fast forward to 2020 and the pandemic, which meant that I was catching up on old movies.  One night I was scrolling through my options when Election came up.  Twenty-two years later, and it was finally time.  It was so good!  Witherspoon made the perfect Tracy Flick, an overbearing overachiever intent on becoming student government president no matter what.  And Chris Klein was her ideal foil as Paul, the affable, big-man-on-campus puppet primed to defeat her.  I enjoyed it so much that I ordered the book, by Tom Perrotta, whom I'd heard of but never read.  Not surprisingly, it was even better than the movie, a rich character study of suburbia told baldly from multiple points of view.  So last fall when I heard that there was a sequel to Election called Tracy Flick Can't Win, I was pumped.       

In this installment, Perrotta introduces us to a forty-something version of the high school anti-hero (cue the Taylor Swift).  Tracy's not a senator or even a lawyer like she planned, but a single mom and assistant principal.  For all her scheming and dreaming, she's right back where she started, a big fish in a small pond campaigning to be, not president, but principal.  Still, Perrotta gives us a more vulnerable and nuanced look at her, especially as she comes to terms with sleeping with her English teacher.  Indeed, the novel is full of wronged women, their stories woven like faded rainbows in Perrotta's crazy quilt of suburban satire.  His skill in describing women is impressive, especially when writing about them dealing with -- and falling for -- men who are their superiors.  As they blame themselves for what happened to them, it's all too clear how the patriarchy sets up women to fail.  Yet Perrotta reminds us that, in many ways, it sets up men to fail too.  No character is all good or bad, and that's what makes Perrotta's storytelling so realistic.  Regardless of the obstacles these troubled souls face, they do the best with what they've got.      

And that's always worth voting for.

From Page to Stage (er, Screen): Run, Don't Crawl to the Cove

When it comes to books vs. movies, the book is (almost) always better.  But the film adaptation of Where the Crawdads Sing is a near doppelganger of Delia Owens' masterpiece.  I say this because when the music started to swell over the marsh, my personal waterworks sprung a leak.    

Daisy Edgar-Jones (Normal People) stars as Kya Clark, the little girl-turned woman who raises herself in the wilds of North Carolina.  Sensitive yet steely, she's exactly who I imagined, her refinement and reverence for nature defying the town's crude opinion of her.  The rest of the cast is spot on too, with Taylor John Smith as the earnest Tate Walker and Harris Dickinson as arrogant Chase Andrews.  

That said, the movie is less gritty and violent than the book.  And although this detracts from the horror that helped shape Kya's worldview, it highlights the parts of the story that are charming yet enshrouded in mystery.  In other words, it's Nicholas Sparks-meets-Agatha Christie -- in the most wonderful way.  To make for a trifecta of icons, Taylor Swift's "Carolina" accompanies the credits, translating the haunting feel of Owens' unforgettable pages.      

So if it's eerie enchantment you crave, then this is the flick for you.  And if not, then no need to grouse about it.  

There are plenty of other crawdads in the marsh.

Thirty Years War Behind a Pink Door: Barbie Barkeep, Keep 'em Coming

When I found these World's Smallest brand Barbies and Barbie Dreamhouse on Amazon and Zulily respectively, I thought, that's weird.  And not just because the Barbies, Thumbelina-like as they were, were too big to fit in the house.  But because shrinking classic toys down to choking hazard size for the amusement of adults is funny.  The Barbies came in just two styles: 1965 Barbie, who's an astronaut, and 1992 Barbie, who reigns under the Rapunzel-esque title Totally Hair.  

1965 Barbie was, of course, way before my time, and I was too old for 1992 Barbie when she hit the shelves.  But my preschool had the same A-frame dreamhouse, albeit in orange and yellow.  So seeing its mini me made me nostalgic and had me clicking "add to cart" faster than you can say, "We girls can do anything, right Barbie?"  (Well played, World's Smallest, well played.)  

When the goods arrived, I saw that the dreamhouse came with decals of domestic doodads including curtains, shrubbery, and one long lounge chair that didn't seem to fit anywhere.  As I stuck them to the interior walls, my wrist at an unnatural angle, I couldn't help but think that the task seemed needlessly difficult.  Maybe the brain trust at World's Smallest wanted to make the experience as authentic as possible by transporting us back to a time when we were still struggling with silverware.  Then I realized that I could detach the cardboard, making everything easier, and felt kind of sheepish.  Which shouldn't have been a surprise, because it took a long time for five-year-old me to learn how to tie my shoes.  In that vein, "setting up house" also made me think about how far Barbie has come -- and how far she still has to go.  What would 1965 Barbie and 1992 Barbie say to each other -- and to us -- if they could?  This is what I imagine: 

1992 Barbie climbed out of the Uber and looked up at the pink dreamhouse.  A passing breeze ruffled her floor-length hair, and a squirrel almost got stuck in it.  She sighed.  Once, a seagull had become ensnared, its filthy feathers caught in her crimped blond locks during a freak nor'easter on Coney Island.  She'd been doing a photo shoot for Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow magazine, her very first modelling gig.  She thought she'd been big stuff back then, but it turned out that the only big thing was her hair.  Barbie 1992 sighed, ordered herself to shake it off Taylor Swift style, and tugged at the hemline of her too-short dress.  The squirrels didn't need to see her butt crack.

Before she knew it, she was ringing the doorbell, her heart going into overdrive.  This was all so strange, and she hadn't had time to process it.  But when the door opened, she was forced to tuck her thoughts away.  A woman sporting a spacesuit and a blond bob straight from the '60s stared back at her, a tight smile straining her face.  "You're late," she said.  Then she stepped aside to reveal a pink-furnished foyer and living room.

"I know, I'm sorry," sputtered 1992 Barbie, her feet hitting the glossy marble.  "There was an accident on the Santa Monica Freeway; a dog groomer's van overturned, and there were Yorkies and Shih Tzus everywhere.  Oh, and a pit bull that didn't make it."

Helmet Head nodded.  "A pity.  Let me show you your room so you can put down your things."  She paused, suddenly noticing that the newcomer was nearly empty-handed.  "Where's your luggage?"

Barbie 1992 looked down at her pink high-heel-encased feet.  "This is all I have," she said, holding up her handbag.  "Ken 1992 got everything in the divorce.  He wanted a second chance, but I could barely look at him after catching him in the '57 Chevy with Teen Sweetheart Skipper."

Helmet Head's ice blue eyes narrowed.  "Bastard.  You know, Ken 1965 died drinking a mai tai that turned out to be lava lamp liquid.  He left me penniless."

"That's awful."  Barbie 1992 tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down without being asked.  "I hope you don't mind, but my feet are killing me."

"Stop apologizing," decreed Helmet Head.  "It makes you sound like a child.  And you don't have to tell me about aching feet.  Why do you think I still wear these moon boots?  They're so comfy they're like walking on clouds.  I'm Veronica, by the way."

"Nice to meet you.  I'm 1992 Barbie."

"Not here you're not.  Every woman in this house has a name.  What do you want yours to be?"

1992 Barbie was quiet.  No one had ever asked her that before.  But once she relaxed, the answer was clear.  "Well, I've always liked the name Lila.  It makes me think of lilacs, my favorite flower."  Emboldened, she went on.  "I probably shouldn't be asking you this, but if you were an astronaut, then how did you end up broke?"

Helmet Head -- no, Veronica -- smiled again, this time with a hint of humor.  "I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Hair Model of the Year five years running.  How does your neck not snap from the weight of that mane?  Never mind.  We've got plenty of time to talk about it.  In fact, we have an eternity."  Her smile faded when she glanced out the window, as if it showed her something she didn't want to see. "Welcome to the Halfway House of Broken Dreams, Lila.  Now, what can I get you to drink?"

And so wraps the pilot of Real Barbies of Beverly Hills, sci-fi edition.  Because that, apparently, is the medium through which our dear Barbie chooses to speak.  

Be sure to tune in next time to find out who poured Ken 1965 that fatal lava lamp cocktail.

But not really.  I think we already know the answer to that one.

Flannel Panel: Paul Bunyan Funions

So, Kohl's

The panel has spoken: this holiday season, it's time to take flannel off the naughty list.  I know, I know.  I once declared that I'd never wear this alley cat of fabrics.  But as The Biebs once said, never say never.  (Ew.  I can't believe that I just used the "B" word.  I'm changing my pop princess reference to Taylor Swift, `a la "We Are Never Getting Back Together."  And yes, I just referred to The Biebs as a princess.)  Because flannel doesn't have to be manly or make you look like you lost a fight with a shredder.  It can be feminine and retro and sweet -- like an ad for cotton candy or tampons.  These red and pink plaids fall in that glam camp (glamp?), so naturally I had to have them.  They just looked so crisp and cozy, yet light enough to layer under a sweatshirt or sweater.  Speaking of which, for a minute, I considered calling this post "Sweatshirts: Not Just for Sweating" or, better yet, "Lemonade Lumberjack."  But those applied only to the red shirt.  Which seemed unfair and journalistically unsound, the pink one being my favorite.  

Flannel also sort of says ski lodge.  Which I find appealing despite (or perhaps because of) never having visited one.  And, of course, it also says Christmas.  Just like in that J. C. Penney's commercial with "American Housewife's" Katy Mixon and "Single Parents's" Leighton Meester:

Mixon: "I secretly love the holidays."

Meester: "Me too!  Just look at all this adorable holiday nonsense.  (Nuzzles white furry jacket).  So cozy."

Mixon (grabs rhinestone knit cap).  "I very much want this for the holidays!  (To Meester.)  Santa is always listening."

Meester (spots buffalo plaid flannel PJ bottoms and matching Wild One tee, then looks heavenward) "I want this!"

Then the two take a selfie while Meester utters JCP's current catchphrase: "It's the little things."

Because all roads lead back to JCP -- and TV.  Even if my local Penney's is now a Shopper's World.  

So yeah, flannel.  I've decided it's bitchin'.  

But I still and always will despise Funions.