Tuesday, August 29, 2023
Riding the Wardrobe Wave
Wednesday, May 18, 2022
Big Prints, Big House: A Symphony for Sephora
I never shy away from bringing big prints. And in this post I bring a bunch, including polka dots, zebra, plaid, checks, and hearts. Also, a harmonica necklace. You may remember the first harmonica necklace I made using a bright green New Year's Eve party favor. Well, last week I found its tangerine twin behind the TV. I can only imagine that it landed there during one of my long-ago, four-person ragers. Anyway, I was excited to spot it. Even as I tried very hard not to think about how harmonicas are associated not with fun and games, but with jail and, in this case, orange jumpsuits.
Still, I'd be remiss in not mentioning that other big house big on big prints, namely old-timey prison-esque black and white stripes. And that house, of course, is Sephora:
I love its sentiment as much as its billboard-bright colors: "We belong to something beautiful."
We do, Sephora, we do. So think of this orange harmonica riff of a necklace as a symphony written, not in a penitentiary but in a palace, its bittersweet citrus notes sounding -- and in the spirit of perfume also smelling -- just for you.
Tuesday, January 5, 2021
Produce in Paradise: Whoa, Where's My Pizza?
Speaking of tropical things, here's that warm weather post in the dead of winter. How did it get here so fast?!
To celebrate/commemorate/hibernate, I made this Rainbow Palms Brooch Barrette, which features twin palm trees on a stretch of strawberry-lemon sand, a rainbow rising between them. Can you say Calgon, take me away? (Unlike the ocean, Calgon lacks sea lice and sewage.)
When I was little, I used to like that song "(Put the Lime in the) Coconut." I still sing it in my head whenever a big boatload of fruit loot washes ashore (which happens more often than you might think). But these days I should be singing about putting the lime in the raspberry. Because not too long ago, a retailer that shall remain nameless dropped off three cases of sparkling water -- one lime, one cherry, and one raspberry-lime -- that I didn't order. It was mixed in with the stuff I did order, though, so I just shrugged and put it in the pantry. Now, before you go all citizen's arrest, I should point out that one of my orders from this same store was once delivered to someone else, and yet another order was never delivered at all. Needless to say, this place is now dead to me. But when it came to the free drinks, I chalked it up to a round of retail roulette. (My apologies if I've said this already; it's tough to tell what I've broadcasted and what I haven't with the incessant inner monologue that is quarantine brain.) You know how it is with online food shopping. Sometimes another household gets your Friday night frozen pizza and ice cream, and sometimes you get some stranger's spray butter (true story on both accounts, although I've yet to try the butter.) You win some, you lose some, and it all comes out in the wash. Just like Barbara Boxer says about dry cleaner mix-ups during that (but aren't they all?) cringeworthy confrontation with Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm. No, she will not support legislation to return patrons' lost garments because the pants she's wearing aren't even hers! Anyway, I don't like sparkling water. No matter what flavor it is, it always tastes like a fruit salad farted into an exhaust pipe. So, to use it up, I mix it with limeade and maraschino cherry juice, and it isn't half bad. Because what doesn't give you diabetes makes you stronger -- and less likely to eviscerate some poor Shipt driver on Yelp.
In honor of no-show groceries everywhere, I'll leave you with this: Missing milk carton on a milk carton. Think about that for five seconds.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
Bright Tights, Big City
Louisa is the paid companion (I don't know about you, but that term always gives me the giggles) of Agnes Gopnick, a seemingly innocuous if high-strung Polish masseuse-turned-socialite who's in her late twenties just like Louisa. As the second and much younger wife of a captain of industry, she's despised far and wide in Manhattan. That's why she needs Louisa to play therapy dog. Yet things aren't easy for Louisa either. Getting used to a new country, a hideous uniform (no small feat for fashion girl Lou -- although she grins and bears it with the same equanimity as she does everything), and the ways of the one-percenters, all while missing Sam terribly, is nothing to sneeze at. And although this book has an offbeat and keen sense of humor, it isn't of the zany-new-girl-in-the-city variety. It's a story of layers, and sometimes it tears your heart out. Because Louisa is put through the wringer, both on the job and off the clock. Even after everything she's been through, her still-trusting nature lands her in trouble. Suffice it to say that a lot of stuff happens, and she leaves the Gopnick household and ends up as the, albeit unpaid, companion of an old lady named Margot De Witt. Earlier in the book, Mrs. De Witt seems like an unfeeling crone. And initially she doesn't care for Louisa. But after an emergency throws them together, Lou's kindness and their shared love of fashion win Mrs. De Witt over, and the two soon become confidantes. As a retired fashion magazine editor, Mrs. DeWitt has roomfuls of crazy designer clothes and accessories, which, paired with her ballsy attitude, made me picture her as Iris Apfel. (It turns out that this was what Moyes intended, as revealed in the Q&A at the end of the book.) Luckily, I have this book about Iris, which I first heard about on Tiara's Jewel Divas Style blog, to post here for your viewing pleasure:
Anyway, things are finally on the upswing for Louisa. She has a knack for getting herself into impossible situations only to muster her considerable imagination and optimism to turn it all around. This is how Moyes takes us from the depths of despair to the kind of feel-good, well, feeling where the garden explodes into bloom and a trolley of tea cakes races in from the wings (this being an English story; if it were based in New Jersey, then I'd say non-urine-tainted water slides and Manco's pizza). Moyes makes you work hard for the happy ending (there were more than a couple of times when I thought, why couldn't I have just chosen a nice cheerful murder mystery instead of hopping aboard this emotional roller coaster?). But that makes it all the more satisfying; no plot hole-filled Swiss cheese here, just the sweet, gritty crunch of gumballs (like -- insert subtle product placement -- the ones in my Day Glo Gumball Necklace). Because Still Me isn't any old romance; it's a good romance. Plus a journey of self discovery.
Here's one of my favorite parts. Partly because it captures the book's theme, partly because it's about clothes. (I can't tell you my actual favorite part because it's even more of a spoiler than the rest of this post.) Louisa and Agnes are at the famed Yellow Ball, and Agnes is worried that her avant-garde gown doesn't fit in with the other women's more classic looks:
Lou: "Own it. Hold your head up. Like you couldn't give a crap."
She (Agnes) stared at me (Lou).
Lou: "A friend once taught me this. The man I used to work for. He told me to wear my stripey legs with pride."
Agnes: "Your what?"
Lou: "He . . .Well, he was telling me it was okay to be different from everyone else. Agnes, you look about a hundred times better than any of the other women here. You're gorgeous. And the dress is striking. So just let it be a giant finger to them. You know? I'll wear what I like." (54)
Agnes may have billions, but Louisa has wisdom.
Guess you can say she earned those stripes.