What Happens in the Galapagos Stays in the Galapagos

Or does it?  That's the question in Jodi Picoult's Wish You Were Here.  A book, by the way, that I initially wished I weren't reading.  It was my mom's book club pick.  And she's a fan of serious books, so.  Here's the premise:  

Diana O'Toole is a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker waiting for her surgeon boyfriend Finn to pop the question.  Already the darling of Sotheby's, her career is on track, and she's itching to get on with her meticulously-mapped ten-year-plan.  She craves stability because her famous photographer mother was never around.  Diana and Finn are all set to go on a romantic vacation to the Galapagos when COVID paralyzes the city.  As a front-line worker, Finn has to stay.  But he urges Diana to go.       

As I ventured deeper into Diana's struggles in the ghost town that is the pandemic Galapagos, I wasn't sure how much I could take.  Diana's luggage is lost.  She has no place to stay, almost no money, and doesn't speak the language.  She even narrowly misses eating a poisoned apple before a stranger stops her.  Yet most depressing of all are Finn's emails.  He goes into excruciating detail describing patients on ventilators, his 72-hour shifts, and feeling hopeless.  It's the stuff of nightmares and catapulted me right back to the beginning of the pandemic and all its uncertainties.    

But then the stranger and his family take Diana in.  She begins to relax and appreciate the beauty of the island, even rediscovering her passion for creating art instead of just selling it.  (Not that there isn't heavy stuff still going on; the stranger's daughter self harms.)  Before long, Diana's frenzied life in Manhattan seems like a distant memory, a realization that Picoult illustrates through this simple but telling line:

"Busy is a euphemism for being so focused on what you don't have that you never notice what you do." (172)

So, yeah, like Diana, ahem, adapting to the Galapagos, I was getting used to this book.  

And then something totally unexpected happened, throwing me for a loop.  It made me make the leap from merely tolerating the book to enjoying it.           

And . . . that's where I'll stop.  Except to say this:

Thanks, Mom, for getting me to open my mind to life's sometimes poorly wrapped curveballs and mysteries.  

That said, it's my turn to pick the next book -- and this time we're reading a rom com. 

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.

Collage Barrage

Dress: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Magenta Mix Necklace

Barrette: Dolls Kill

Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's; Light pink bangle: Don't Ask, Zulily; Yellow bangles: B Fabulous; Dark pink bangle: Mixit, JCPenney; Flower ring: Claire's; Square ring: Express

Skirt (a dress!): JCPenney; Top: Hippie Rose, Macy's

Happy Hodgepodge Necklace

Bag: Nordstrom; Bracelets: So, Kohl's/Amrita Singh, Zulily; Rings: PinkBopp

Sundae Sundae Sundae Barrettes

Shoes: Ami Clubwear; Socks: Xhilaration, Target

Cardigan: So, Kohl's; Skirt: Indigo Rein, Macy's

Shoes and bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Top: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Mint Mix Necklace

Turquoise bangle: Mixit, JCPenney; Purple bangle: Don't Ask, Zulily; Green bangle: Burlington Coat Factory; Mint bracelet: H&M; Heart ring: Delia's; Oval ring: Express 

Barrettes: SHEIN

Spring means flowers.  But gardening and I . . . don't get along.  So instead of digging around in the dirt, I glue fake flowers to keychains and call it art.  Because what's a collage if not a barrage of all the things that you love?  

That's all.  Time to make more collages.    

Tea Time Crime

Flower clips: Capelli, ULTA

It's been eleven years, but I finally found my way back to cozy mystery author Laura Childs.  In 2012, I got crafty with a book from Childs' New Orleans-set scrapbooking series called Frill Kill.  This time I moved on to a volume from her Charleston-based tea shop series entitled Haunted Hibiscus.  Yet the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Because in both books I was struck not by whodunit-related intrigue, but, surprise surprise, fanciful fashion:

"Racks of denim jackets, skirts, and slacks were jammed next to soft sea island cotton dresses and diaphanous beach cover-ups.  A circular rack had long ball gowns and filmy silk wraps to match.  Antique highboys spilled out offerings of jeweled belts, strappy sandals, hand-painted silk scarves, bangle bracelets, and beaded handbags." (223)   

This scene takes place at a "denim and diamonds" event in an upscale boutique.  Yet as much as it charmed me (and it charmed me a lot), I'd be remiss in not reporting that the piping hot cup of homicide that is Haunted Hibiscus heats up when an author is hanged in a haunted house.  It's a grim incident to say the least, so Childs' imagery of beautiful clothes, as well as that of heroine Theodosia Browning's picture-perfect Indigo Tea Shop, go a long way in dispelling the gloom.   

Much like, I suppose, a restorative cup of Earl Grey or Celestial Seasonings.

A Passion for Fashion and Family

You know that I loved Jennifer Weiner's novels Big Summer and That Summer.  So of course I was looking forward to the third installment in this not-quite-a-trilogy tribute to the most wonderful time of the year (sorry not sorry, Andy Williams).  Even if some of the things that happen are more sun-streaked sad than beach read.  This last book, The Summer Place, is no different, a bittersweet family drama about the road not taken.  Each of Weiner's characters comes to a crossroads, forced to choose and then wonder what might have been.  Their destinies are intertwined in peculiar yet believable ways, creating the kind of irresistible suspense that makes this novel such a page turner.  Yet it's a passage about almost-concert-pianist-turned-music-teacher Sarah's love for -- what else? -- clothes that I find most captivating:

"Sarah's job at the music school had no dress code.  If she'd wanted to, she could have worn jeans and blouses, or even T-shirts and sneakers to work.  But Sarah loved clothes.  She loved finding new boutiques and discovering new designers; she loved the feeling of buying the perfect azure-blue necklace to wear with a new navy-blue dress, and a pair of vintage leather riding boots to pull the look together.  Even the clothes she didn't wear made her happy.  She'd brush the sleeve of the pale-pink cashmere sweater she'd worn on her second date with Eli and feel, again, the first flush of infatuation; she'd flick past the black gown she'd worn for her last recital and feel a bittersweet pang.  She loved the challenge of putting together an outfit, searching out each individual piece, shopping her closet, combining old and new.  Getting dressed was its own kind of creativity, and it satisfied her in the same primal way she imagined gathering a perfect sheaf of wheat or an unblemished handful of berries might have delighted her hunting and gathering forebearers." (121)   

Weiner gets this exactly right, elevating Sarah's -- and women's -- passion for fashion to an artform.  It's as reverent as it is whimsical and sentimental.  The setup (which really, I should've started with) is that Sarah's husband Eli, who drives her crazy during quarantine, goes on a decluttering kick that involves tossing some of her most prized possessions, the things that make her feel like her.  Knowing this makes Sarah's wardrobe seem even more -- not to get all Narnia on you -- magical.    

Speaking of which, it's the magic of being true to oneself that ties the tie-dyed ribbons of The Summer Place together.  Even when, especially when, following one's heart leads to family conflicts.  Weiner shows us that having it all isn't possible -- but that having something, even it if it's just one thing -- that we truly love always is.    

Festive Fits and Fatal Hits: Don't Get Murdered this St. Patrick's Day (Weekend)

It wouldn't be St. Patrick's Day (weekend) without one of Leslie Meier's Lucy Stone mysteries.  And Tinker's Cove wouldn't be Tinker's Cove without the always colorful and festive Phyllis:

" . . . Phyllis was at the reception desk, decked out in kelly-green reading glasses and a green-and-white-striped sweater, with some rather large shamrocks dangling from her ears.  A huge bunch of Irish daffodils bloomed on her desk.  "You've got the spirit, I see," said Lucy.  . . . "Look, it's March in Maine," said Phyllis.  "It's cold and gray, and the snow is filthy, and there's mud everywhere.  Truth be told, I'm dying for a glimpse of green and just trying to avoid falling into a depression." ' (214-215)

Same, Phyllis, same!

I won't bore you with the details of the rest of the book, which, by the way, is called Irish Parade Murder.  There's a parade, someone gets murdered (although not at the parade, despite what the title suggests), yada yada yada.  It has all the fun, escapism, and comfy feels characteristic of the cozy genre.  Yet as always, it's the everyday things that grab me because they're the things that make life wonderful.

Well, that and surviving a cold-hearted killer.  But you already knew that.

Happy St. Pat's Saturday! 🍀🌈

The Secret to a Happy St. Patrick's Day? Everyone Knows it's Minty!

The holiday of hooligans and a classic '60s song are more than enough to get me to succumb to the lucky charms of the Mickey D's drive thru.  So that's where the husband and I found ourselves tonight, making our yearly pilgrimage to get Shamrock Shakes.  Well, I got a Shamrock Shake.  The husband thinks they're too sweet, so he got a mint Oreo shake instead (because nothing cuts sweetness like  chocolate).  Yet Oreos or not, it was a fine way to celebrate not only St. Patrick's Day, but the weekend.  Meanwhile, I'm sitting out my exercises on account of my sugar (and okay, French fry) coma.

McDonald's, you are a cruel mistress.🍀

Self Care Dare: Compendium of Compassion

I was so excited to read Matt Haig's The Comfort Book.  I loved his novel The Midnight Library (remember that, exploring the meaning of life through time travel and, of course, the library?), so when I heard that he'd written this nonfiction book, I was like, sign me up.  

Right off the bat, Haig tells us that there's no right way to read this book, gently and humorously letting us know that we're in a safe space.  The rest of the book is just as, well, comforting.  It's for anyone who's ever been stressed, depressed with a capital D, and/or overwhelmed.  So, all of us.  

This is one of my favorite parts:

"The sky isn't more beautiful if you have perfect skin.  Music doesn't sound more interesting if you have a six-pack.  Dogs aren't better companions if you're famous.  Pizza tastes good regardless of your job title.  The best of life exists beyond the things we are encouraged to crave." (51)

It's so simple, a reminder to appreciate life.  Because there's no rush and no one's keeping score (well, no one important, anyway) and our only job is to be.  To say "no" when we need to and relax and enjoy instead of relentlessly racking up achievements.  The Comfort Book is both soothing and joyful, a literary hug from a writer who's been there and knows what he's talking about.  

And outside a department store duvet display, it doesn't get much more comfy than that.

Sailing into Spring, What a Wonderful Thing

Sweater weather might not be quite over yet.  Still, I couldn't help but snap a pic of the sundress section of my closet.  Also, the buoy raised canvas in my living room.  

They make me think of fireflies and lemonade and other sweet spring summer things.  

Not (real) boats, though.  I get seasick. 

Shannon Cannon

When I heard that Molly Shannon had written a memoir, I thought, oh, that'll be hilarious.  And it was, crammed with all the outlandish childhood and SNL anecdotes you'd expect.  But Hello, Molly! is so much more than a punchline.  It's ultimately Molly's story of her relationship with her dad.  Her mom and baby sister were killed in a car accident.  Four-year-old Molly and her older sister were also in the car, and their father was the one driving.  I'm going to pause to let that sink in for a moment because it's extraordinarily heavy. 

But -- and I cannot stress this enough -- Hello, Molly! isn't a downer.  It's the bittersweet, clean kind of sad that makes you appreciate life and remember that everything happens for a reason.  Like This is Us, plus comedy.  In other words, it has a good tone (and you know how much I value that).  Molly describes the highs and lows of life with her dad -- and her struggles to make it in showbiz -- with the straight-from-the-heart candor of a coming-of-age novelist.  She always sees the best in everything, even when audition doors are slammed in her face and her father acts more like a child.  Because it all really happened -- and made Molly the lovable, no-holds-barred performer we know today -- it's much more engaging than fiction.      

Of course, you can't talk about Molly Shannon without mentioning Mary Katherine Gallagher.  Or, as Shannon calls her, MKG (not to be confused with that other Irish icon, Machine Gun Kelly).  Shannon created the character while she was at NYU, almost a decade before she crashed into Studio 8H at SNL.  And it turns out that everyone's favorite painfully earnest, awkward Irish Catholic teen is based on Shannon herself.  Shannon joined SNL in 1995, so I remember the MKG years vividly.  And the sketch that stayed with me the most is the one where she's reenacting a scene from A House Without a Christmas Tree.  Not only is it cringeworthily funny, it's heartbreaking, showing Mary Katherine at her most vulnerable, reminding you that she's just a kid from a dysfunctional family who wants the world to love her.  After learning about her life, it rings even truer.  

Raw and sweet and hysterical, Hello, Molly! is an American tale (and no, not like when Fievel goes west; although, on second thought, maybe?).  It embodies timeless themes that readers hold dear: Midwestern girl makes good, optimism in the face of incredible odds, and an unorthodox but unbreakable father-daughter bond.  It's universal, its magic extending far beyond SNL.  At the end, I felt like hers was a life well lived (not that it's over yet!), brimming with love and adventure.  

No doubt about it, she's a Superstar.

Bagging Books and Elephants

Bags: All from Amazon except for the seashell, which is from Zulily

Ella Elephant Charm Necklace

Today was a good day to dig in the vault and unearth two old pictures.  I chose these because they're of some of my favorite things: quirky bags, books, and (my!) jewelry.  It doesn't seem like much -- or maybe it does, given that this is just a fraction of my rainbow collection -- but it makes me happy.  And that counts for a lot!  

So here's to all the things that make you happy.  Even if, to someone else, they're a white elephant or the elephant in the room.  Because there's no shame in having a trunk or twenty. 

Whether we show it or not, we've all got baggage.  

Tan by Your Plan, Beige Against the Machine

Skirt: Bubblegum, Macy's

Flair Change Necklace

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Boscov's

Sweatshirt: Pretty Rebel, Macy's

Boots: Jessica Simpson, DSW

Skirt: Lily White, Kohl's

Bag and shoes: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Bow: SHEIN

Top: So, Kohl's

Blue Bow Necklace

Boots: Penny Loves Kenny, Amazon

Emboldened Arches Necklace

Sweater: Jessica Simpson, Amazon

Sometimes I buy clothes that are brown.  Or tan.  Or neutral.  I know, I know.  I'm cuckoo for color, not Cocoa Puffs, so what gives with the granola garb?   Maybe I want all the clothes.  Or maybe I just like a challenge.  The challenge being, how can I make this potato-sack-colored fabric more me (or at the very least, stop exhausting food metaphors)?  In one case, the answer was to craft a necklace from a shoe clip (I'm talking to you, Flair Change).  

Yes, the gilded, frilly doodad of a decorative accent at the center was supposed to snap onto a puzzle piece of a shoe designed for that purpose.  (If you're wondering how I came by such an item, it was a gift.)  Of course, I don't own the corresponding Cinderella slipper and have no way of getting it.  So I thought, why not string the clip, plus some fake coins, into some low-key-but-still-kooky neckwear?      

So I did.

Think of it as the grand marshal of this pale palette parade, Tammy Wynette and Rage Against the Machine fighting from the flashiest float.  

Sister Sleuths: Cooking up Carbs and Chaos

With the book club and my own never-ending TBR list, books are taking over my life.  After finishing my sister's pick, Elle Cosimano's Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead, my mom couldn't wait to find out what happened next and went for the next installment, Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun.  I can't blame her, as these books are page turners that bleed into one another.  I think it's the only whodunit series I've read where the same mystery keeps building throughout (because the Russian mob never rests).  Anyway, this time, Finlay and Vero are still trying to find the online hacker who wants to hack Finlay's ex to pieces.  And apparently, the best way to do that is to join the Police Academy.  No Steve Guttenberg cameos here, though; this is the citizens' version of the training.  To that point, even neighborhood busybody Mrs. Haggerty is along for the ride-along, giving Finlay and Vero a run for their blood money in her Juicy Couture sweats.  Of course, hot cop Nick is in charge of the program and is still trying to entice Finlay to sample what her mother referred to as his "nice biscuits."  It's all pretty hilarious, and less gory than its two predecessors.  Best of all, for once I thought I had the perp figured out (I was wrong, but it was nice while it lasted).  What's more, the cliffhanger's a real doozy.  But we'll have to wait until Cosimano writes the next book to find out how Finlay and Vero hang in there.

After vicariously chasing bad guys -- and being chased by them -- I was ready for a different kind of biscuit, or rather, roll.  Yes, it was time for cozy queen Joanne Fluke's Caramel Pecan Roll Murder.  In a nutshell, it's about a blowhard who gets bumped off during a fishing competition.  I read it in a day, probably because it's half recipes, and found its downhome charm kind of soothing.  This isn't always the case; sometimes the local yokel simplicity of this series grates on me.  That said, unlike Finlay, the heroine, Hannah, doesn't have to investigate murders; she just likes to (which presents its own kind of neurosis, but I won't get into that).  She's a mild-mannered Minnesotan, baking cookies and juggling a hot cop of her own -- plus a dorky dentist -- while stepping in to solve the occasional murder.  Not that things ever heat up for Hannah in the romance department.  In Caramel Pecan Roll Murder, the hot gos is that Hannah's bunking with the dentist while her condo is being deep cleaned.  But it's all much ado about nothing, as Hannah never hooks up with anyone.  Still, what I find most horrifying about these books isn't Hannah's love life or even the crimes -- it's the sheer quantity of baked goods that Hannah is expected to produce every day, often beginning before sunrise.  People are always like, hey, Hannah, can you bake three dozen Coconut Mocha Madness cookies for today's Rotary Club meeting? or whatever.  And that's not even counting all the friends and family that drop by her shop to gobble up the candied fruits of her labor. 

It's almost enough to make you want to go undercover . . . which brings us full circle back to Finlay.

But then, I guess that's what books and life are about: finding that elusive balance.