P.S. Finally snagged one of these for our stroller, as mini tends to like water and snacks on our long walks through Manhattan. I find her to be lovely company now while I’m running errands — but only when she’s stocked up on snacks.
P.P.S. I also bought her this, finally, and she’s going to FLIP. She loves draping toys over the front of her walker and pushing them around, so this will be a huge upgrade for her.
P.P.P.S. In search of a couple of “indoor activities” on hand for rainy days, I also snagged this set.
By: Jen Shoop
I recently listened to a few snippets of an interview with Joanna Coles, Chief Content Officer for Hearst Magazines, and former longtime editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan, and at one point, she commented breezily that she never cries.
Never cries?
Never?
Oy.
I am a crier. Like, a weekly crier. Maybe — if I’m being honest — an occasional daily crier. Not necessarily over serious stuff, either: it might be minimagpie throwing her arms around me in a hug, or a moving scene in a movie (I may or may not have open-mouth sobbed during portions of the movie Hostiles, which I loved until the final scene), or a sweet gesture from Mr. Magpie, or a little love note from my mom, or three boxes of pantry items tumbling onto my head at a particularly frenetic moment, or — and this has happened, too — a tender kindness from a stranger on a hard day, or that time not so long ago that Mr. Magpie and I observed a middle-aged gentleman sitting, solo, in a favorite Italian restaurant of ours in Chicago, and we noticed a little pamphlet at his side: “The best dishes in Chicago.” There he was, by himself, dutifully ordering the pasta a la norma and a glass of white wine, per the article’s recommendation. There was something so moving about his earnest pursuit of The Good Stuff, his unblinking faith in the article’s assertions. We couldn’t help but spool an entire maudlin storyline out of our brief glimpse into his life: was he recently divorced and looking to live his best life? A bachelor foodie with a bucket list of dishes to try, but no one to try them with? A traveling businessman making the best of a solitary trip? Whatever it was, something about his lonely foray in search of a culinary treat spoke to us, and I couldn’t help but wipe a tear away later as we discussed it back home.
I wish I weren’t a crier. It’s embarrassing. It often exacerbates an awkward or emotionally fraught moment — leading people to pause, awkwardly, and wonder what to say or do. And it can undercut a genuine emotion when friends sigh or roll their eyes comedically or crack a smile: “Oh, there she goes again” or “Why is she crying?!” or “Oh, Jen…” And so I’ve tried — fruitlessly — various strategies to prevent myself from crying over the years:
“Look up at the light,” one college girlfriend said, rather gruffly, when tears pooled in my eyes as I spilled my guts over heartache of one form or another. “You won’t cry then.” I was taken aback at her seeming tough love — it was this that stayed the tears rather than the look-into-the-light trick, which I’ve tried dozens of times since, to no avail.
“Bite your cheek if you feel like you need to cry,” my sister wrote in a note to me when I was eleven and upset about something or other. This, also, has failed me at inopportune moments: I’ve tried this, and also tried pinching my hand, the theory being that focusing on another type of mild pain — physical — might distract from the impending waterworks.
I’ve stockpiled funny moments — I especially love the slapstick and bawdy humor of A Million Ways to Die in the West, and will force my mind to replay favorite moments in a valiant attempt at self-distraction as I feel tears forming — but, again, without success.
I hoped that after surviving some of the travails of the past few years — deaths, losses, failures — and also enjoying some of its extreme triumphs — births, moves, successes — I might be better situated to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to tear-worthy moments. But no. I might have a better perspective on things in a general sense, but I seem always a minute away from a cry.
Recently, I’ve accepted this in myself. Crying is as natural to me as smiling — when something funny happens, I laugh; when something moves me, I cry. We all know the impossibility of stifling the giggles once we get going; the same goes for crying — so why fight it? Why denigrate it? If anything, it’s a testament to how deeply I feel the world around me, to how much of my heart I wear on my sleeve — it’s me. I’ve even come to embrace the laughing reaction it sometimes elicits from loved ones, which I’ve come to learn might be a form of relief, the displacement of the grief or anger or heartache they are experiencing into a sort of avuncular condescension: “Oh, Jen — there she goes again.” And the conversation shifts, and the mood lightens, and we can all take a breath.
What about you? Are you a crier? Do you stifle it, or do you own it? And if you’re not a crier — God bless you. (How do you do it?!?!?)
Post-Script.
New org-dork alert: we have a lovely upholstered Parson’s chair with built-in storage under the seat. Unfortunately, minimagpie has learned how to remove the seat cushion and dig around in the basin, and the basin is where we store batteries, pens, shipping tape, and other office supplies. I resolved the problem and indulged my inner Marie Kondo by sifting through everything, tossing much of it, and organizing the rest in a combination of these and these (perfect for surplus pens and batteries!). It’s borderline humiliating how happy this organization project left me.
I have also heard that these bins are great all-purpose organizational wizards — use them under the sink, over the laundry machine, in the closet, etc.
Apparently this pineapple basket was so popular it sold out immediately — but is available now for pre-order. I think I need this for our entryway! Would be a great spot to conceal our stash of mittens, miscellaneous totes, dog toys, etc.
You know I can’t say no to a highlighter. This stuff looks magically pretty.
I think I need this for minimagpie! She’s years and years away from needing her own key, but…! Imagine stockpiling it for the day she gets her key to the apartment? I love it.
Super mad I missed out on this dress — it’s sold out in my size but still available in a few others and looks like the spitting image of an Alessandra Rich!
A couple of photos I’ve come across on Instagram and Pinterest that have inspired me lately…starting with the stunning tennis court shot above, which reminds me of a lazy summer morning. It also reminded me that, a few summers ago, I took tennis lessons, bought a bundle of tennis clothing, and had Mr. Magpie buy me a tennis racket, and absolutely none of it’s been put to use since. Maybe I’ll ferret out an instructor here in Manhattan…after all, I’d love an excuse to wear this or this, or to splurge on one of these.
Every now and then, I ask our nanny to stay an hour late and I run across the street to a wine bar for a glass of wine or a cocktail and an hour of reading my kindle — solo. It is an indulgent kind of heaven for me. I shared what I’m reading right now / planning to read soon here, but do you know what I always want to re-read when I go on these excursions? Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier, an eerie but romantic mystery novel set in a gorgeous mansion. It feels like just the kind of escapism I need…
This bedroom is so EXTRA, I can’t even. I love the designer’s borderline reckless use of elaborate and intricate color, shape, pattern, the semi-jarring contrast of a stately, masculine, marble-topped side table against the lush, vintage-looking velvet headboard. It’s layered and busy but also sophisticated. I especially love the De Gournay wallpaper and the Cologne and Cotton bedding, and that palm leaf lamp base had me scouring Etsy for lookailkes (I love this — imagine it with a crisp white lampshade! Epic!). If nothing else, maybe I should finally pull the trigger on those Aquazzura for De Gournay shoes I’ve lusted after for a year or more, or the Waverley bedding set I’ve mentioned at least 245 times, or maybe this set of De Gournay-inspired melamine plates (swoon!).
This snap makes me excited for our upcoming trip to the Hamptons (I described my imagined perfect day there), even though I don’t think the photo above is actually of the Hamptons. I love the climbing lilac (what is it with me and lilac?!) and can almost feel the heat of the sun on the steps as I run down them barefoot, with Tilly at my heels. It’s summer, in a picture. (Only I’d probably be wearing something like this.)
Speaking of what to wear in the summer, I have a small to mid-sized problem with white dresses. I own about 324 of them and have no intention of attending to the addiction. I mean — how easy, how chic, how perfect does the beachy blond above look?! A few others on my radar: this, this, this, and this. I also love the oversized, label-less straw tote…something like this might suffice.
I recently discovered the label Hunting Season and am dying for one of their raffia and lizard shoulder bags. Love the retro shape and the colors couldn’t be more up my alley. Yes, please!
Mr. Magpie and I just committed to a trip to Tuscany with family next summer! I am over the moon — it’s been way too long since we went on a sustained trip somewhere. Is it too early to start shopping for it?! I am definitely going to read this book by Gabrielle Hamilton, the chef behind celebrated NYC restaurant Prune (and I think Mr. Magpie is taking me there for my birthday later this month!) A friend of mine recommended it after I mentioned our trip to Tuscany, as apparently Hamilton had a magical experience there as well. I’m already imagining myself in summery, ladylike shirtdresses like this, this, and this. Maybe a pair of simple braided slides? And a new Marysia suit? (The house we’ll be renting in Tuscany has a pool!!!!) But mainly I’d love to wear this sophisticated, printed kaftan…
P.S. This would make an incredible gift for a hostess with a green thumb!
We had been dating for a couple of months when Landon invited me to a house party hosted by some of his best friends from high school, several of whom were girls, and several of whom belonged to a friend group self-dubbed “The Butterflies,” of which Landon had been an honorary member.
Like any self-doubting, occasionally petty-minded girl in her late teens, I was instantly suspicious.
“Girl friends…?” I trailed off, feigning calm, preoccupying myself by studying a few strands of hair for split ends. “You had…you were a part of a group of…girl friends? Called…the Butterflies?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. A silence pooled between us.
“That’s cool,” I said, the words wooden and false in my mouth, as my mind got to work determining how best to sleuth out the names of these girls and whether he had been romantically involved with any of them. I opened my mouth and closed it, not wanting to seem “thirsty” or jealous when there was no reason to be, but inwardly convinced — already — that these girls a) had been involved with him before, b) wanted to be involved with him, or c) were going to make me feel horribly excluded in the way only girls can, by taking hearty advantage of years of formative high school memories in order to put me in my place as “the new girl.” I could almost imagine it: “Lan, Lan,” a tall, leggy blond would say, swirling her red Solo cup of beer in front of him “–remember that night you told Vicky that the party was a block away and she got lost?!” Peals of laughter, lots of name-dropping, and then me, staring blankly with an awkward grin glued on my face as I pretended to understand the joke. “Oh, that’s funny,” I’d nod eagerly, to no one.
As the party approached, I decided there were two routes in front of me: I could either feign illness and skip out or I could attend and try to win them over. Because I was convinced by the end of our first month of dating that Landon would be my husband one day, I decided that these friends of his were probably worth the effort. I blow-dried my hair, put on my favorite sundress — a pale pink floral strapless number from Ralph Lauren that tied at the bust — and my requisite pearl earrings, and applied a spritz of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle. I was tan from the summer and I looked in the mirror and thought, “You look pretty. An approachable version of Charlotte York, if I don’t say so myself.” I had baked cookies for the occasion — who can have beef with someone who bakes cookies? — and then waited at the foot of the stairs in my childhood home for Landon’s black Jeep to come roaring up the drive. He was polite enough to cut his music before turning in between the stone pillars at the foot of the driveway, but I could hear his bass from down the block.
As a teenage girl, there is nothing in life more attractive than a teenage boyfriend with a deep tan and a good car swinging by to pick you up for a date. I still get a somersault in my stomach thinking about it — the headiness, the promise, the dewiness of youth.
“I’ll be back later!” I called over my shoulder, practically skipping out the door. Landon always put the car in park and jumped out to get me when he’d pick me up. I loved this — I still love this — gesture of chivalry, especially after growing up in a sprawling, busy family, where my parents routinely dropped us off a few blocks from our destinations to avoid creeping carpool lanes or one-way streets that would add five minutes of navigation to their return trips, and where my brother would often sit, fuming, in the front seat of the car on carpool days, waiting for his four tardy sisters, honking his horn irritably as an accelerant.
And then we were off — zipping down the incline of Tilden Street to take a right onto the winding coil of Rock Creek Parkway. He turned the bass up, rolled down the windows, and idly propped his elbow up in his window, his fingers drumming the roof. He was blond and tan from the summer, freshly showered and shaved, and he smelled like soap and Altoids. He wore his oxford shirt rolled up to the elbow, but — as always — tucked in at the waist. My God, he was something to see. It was too loud to speak, the wind whipping through the car and the music blaring, but at some point he grabbed my hand in the console between us and smiled at me. Something passed between us then, some invisible dynamic in the evening shifted, and the knot that had been forming in my stomach ever since he’d informed me of his tribe of lady friends dissolved. I saw him as mine, and he saw me as his. I felt an implicit, unbreakable alliance between us, butterflies be-damned.
The Butterflies, as it turned out, were nothing like I’d imagined. They were warm — introducing themselves, unprompted; offering small talk; fawning over the cookies; admiring my dress. And though they trotted out inside jokes, I couldn’t fault them for it — what else do high school buddies do when reunited at the dawn of long summer together back home? One of them, E., was especially attentive to me, offering to find me wine when I declined the keg beer, showing me to the bathroom, asking where I lived, laughing politely at my attempts at humor. As the evening wore on and the wine settled in, she introduced me to other friends as Landon’s girlfriend, and I flushed at the label, and also at her tacit, easy acceptance of our relationship. She could have just introduced me as “Jen,” but she made the effort — then, as many times later — to show her support for our relationship, even in its awkward toddler phase. It made me feel sheepish about my suspicions about these gals and their intentions.
I grew to have deep and meaningful connections with many of these girls, all of whom were genuine and down-to-earth in a way that Landon often describes as “OG Arlington, Virginia” — chill and pretense-free, but they’ll call you on your B.S. Still, it took a couple of months — maybe years? — for me to cement my friendships with them, and I remember the exact day I did: my friend E. was going through a tough time with a gentleman she was dating, and one of her closest friends from the Butterfly group, K., pulled her into a bathroom, where I had been reapplying mascara.
“Oh — do you want me to leave?” I asked.
“No no no,” said E. While K. consoled a tearful E., I silently applied 432 coats of mascara, not wanting to interject myself but also concerned for E. and curious about what was going on. I was flattered at their candor in front of me: K. was empathetic, knowing, understanding as she listened and offered her advice to a heartbroken E., and, before I could do anything about it, I found tears slipping down my cheeks.
Yes — as these two girls engaged in a deep moment of friendship and heartache, I awkwardly, quietly bawled in the corner.
It was only when they were cleaning themselves up to return to the party that they noticed a sniffling me with rivulets of mascara streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh honey,” said E., laughing and hugging me.
We’ve been thick as thieves since. It was a bizarre rite of passage, but I think she must have seen that beneath my occasionally aloof exterior was a highly emotive, deeply loyal soul who could be so moved at the pain of a friend that she would wordlessly sob her heart out in the shadows of a bathroom during a house party. On the flipside, I discovered how much I cared for E. in that moment — and how badly I wanted to key or torch or otherwise destroy the car of the gentleman in question.
I realize now that the fact that Landon had a group of close girlfriends in high school was a harbinger for good things, a signal of his maturity and his ability to appreciate women as more than just potential suitors. I’ve still not ferreted out whether or not he dated any of them, but that’s beside the point anyway — his friendships with these “butterflies” meant that he understood women as friends, and was generally unphased by some of the occasionally nutty things young girls do in relationships, like that time I threw a fit at a wedding and smashed my camera on the ground and then ran through the rain like I was Rachel McGoddamnAdams in The Notebook or something. (Hint hint: it’s not as cute as the movies make you think.) And so –I am grateful to these women and for their friendships with Landon for affording me certain allowances along the way. But I am also grateful in a different sense: I am the fortunate beneficiary of Landon’s friendships with these women — these butterflies whom I originally feared and mistrusted, whom I originally approached with the practiced, knowing cool of Baroness Schraeder when she discovers Captain Von Trapp dancing with Maria in the backyard and smirks knowingly at the duo (does anyone else love “The Sound of Music”?), but whom I gradually came to claim as friends of my own. E. was my bridesmaid, and I will be hers this upcoming October. And how lucky to find that in gaining a boyfriend, I had also gained a clan of friends to call my own. I think they call that kismet.
If I were to go back in time and plan a meeting-the-butterflies outfit all over again, I probably wouldn’t stray far from my original choice (florals are still my thang), but I also like the way this LWD blurs the lines between sweet, sexy, and demure. I’d love to pair it with these slides and this personalizable (!!!) tote.
This floral dress with its cut-outs and ladylike midi length achieves a similar effect.
All that said, Landon’s friends were always on the more casual side, and even though I’ve never minded being the dressiest of the group (would much prefer to be overdressed than underdressed), a statement top (I’m obsessed with this, this, and this) and some white skinnies would have been right on the mark.
Finally, because we’re nearing Father’s Day and I’ve received a couple of emails on the topic and this post is Mr. Magpie-focused, a few ideas for gifts for the dads in your life:
+For a techie: Ring, a wi-fi enabled video doorbell — my dad just got this and it’s pretty nifty — or a set of wireless earpods. I mentioned this recently, but Mr. Magpie is obsessed with his Hue lightbulb system — you can control your lighting from your smartphone and, now, with our Homepod, we can just tell Siri, “Turn out the living room lights.”
+For an outdoorsman: Gardening gloves, a pocket-knife (I once gave a similar style to my brother and he loved it), or Danner hiking boots (I love the styling on these, and they’re supposed to be incredible). I also wrote about this in a recent Magpie Micropost (you can get these delivered to your inbox by signing up here), but these windbreakers are truly the best, and are currently on sale. Every man in my family owns one.
+For a fashion-interested gent: I recently bought Mr. Magpie a pair of navy Tretorns and I love the way he looks in them. A nice alternative to his go-to boat shoes. My brother-in-law showed up at our family reunion in a pair of these Vejas and he looked FUHHH-RESH. Either would be good picks for a well-heeled dad. Polo is also having an incredible sale, with an extra 30% off orders over $150. Mr. Magpie snagged a couple of items, including this textured linen shirt and some polos.
+For a foodie: a box of Ample Hills ice cream (OMG OMG OMG you must try the peppermint pattie!) or a REALLY good bottle of bourbon and some luxardo cherries (for old-fashioneds). When we were in Aspen, Co a few summers ago, I bought Mr. Magpie a calf-hair beer coozi that I had branded (yes, hot branded!) with his initials at a little boutique and he uses it pretty much daily. This needlepointed one would have a similar heirloomable quality. A new cookbook is also always a good pick, and this is beautiful and well-reviewed — or how about a box of high-end dry pasta? Mr. Magpie loves the brand Rigarosa, but we also get a lot of Afeltra in our house — you can buy both here.
+For an athlete: A Klean Kanteen with a sports nozzle (have written about this extensively, but it is simply the best bottle for an athlete or a mom with only one free hand) and/or an Aquaquest pouch. I know the pouch might seem dubious, but it is probably one of the handiest things I own. It’s waterproof, large enough to stow a cell phone, keys, and some cash/credit cards, and stays in place.
+Splurges: I contemplated buying Mr. Magpie one of these awesome Yeti coolers (I’d have gotten it in the blue or coral) — I love their styling and the reviews are nutso — back when we lived in Chicago because Mr. Magpie loved nothing more than smoking something all day long with a cooler of beer in our backyard. I would have also loved to have bought him one of these classic Craftsman rolling tool chests in cherry red for his mounting tool collection in our garage.
+Miscellaneous: These are kind of cool if you’re planning a move or keep a lot of stuff in boxes in a basement. I wish we had found these before our move!
By: Jen Shoop
My first in-person convening of the Magpie book club is this Wednesday (and there’s an offshoot happening in D.C.!) — are you reading along, too? (I hope?) As a reminder, we’re reading Anjali Sachdeva’s All the Names They Used for God. Meanwhile, scroll down to see our book club pick for next month! But first, I thought I’d share a couple of lines of inquiry I’ve been noodling over as possible starting points for our discussion; please share your thoughts in the comments, and I’ll read them (as I always do, voraciously), and weave them into our convo!
Book Club Discussion Questions.
How does Sachdeva portray the natural world in her stories — and why? I’m thinking specifically about Robert and Terri in “Logging Lake,” when they venture off to hike, or “The World by Night,” where Sadie ventures out of her house and repels into a cave, or the sea in “Robert and the Mermaid.” Is nature a benevolent force? An enemy? Why do the characters seem drawn into the earth, into nature, in so many of the stories?
Similarly — what are we to make of science/technology in these stories? Think about the glass lung, when a supposed discovery leads to an enormous explosion that injures and kills many, and the story about the septuplets as a miracle of science. What are we to make of the relationship between man and science?
Many of Sachdeva’s stories have a touch of the mystical or magical to them — the mermaid, the discovery of treasure in “Glass-Lung,” the supernatural powers the girls exert over their husbands’ minds in “All the Names for God.” How did you interpret those stories? How did they make you feel as a reader? Did you willingly suspend belief, or did you find yourself straining to read them as a fable or allegory? Are they fables?
One Magpie told me that she found these stories “unrelatable.” Do you agree? Why? Do you think that “unrelatability” is strategic on Sachdeva’s part? (I.e., could she have gotten her points across using less fabular/dream-like stories and anchoring them in more true-to-life narratives?)
There are several characters across the stories that suffer physical challenges — the partial blindness of Sadie, the glass lung (and therefore enforced muteness), the individuals who have been “forked,” the physically compromised septuplets. Why do you think she chose to feature so many characters with disablements and ailments? What did their presence establish?
Do you think the stories were ordered in a specific way for a reason?
What did you make of the story titled “All the Names for God”? Why did this story share the title of the collection? How did it make you read the other stories?
Why do you think Sachdeva’s stories span so many different timeframes and so many different cultures? Why would she skip around so much, and what is the effect on you as a reader?
Did any of the stories scare you, or leave you on edge? Why? Which ones?
Book Review of Anjali Sachdeva’s All the Names They Used for God.
Five stars. This book blew my mind. While it was written as a series of short stories, they all hung together so cohesively, I wondered whether Sachdeva conceived of the series as a whole — does your mind not ache at the expansive scope and imaginative magnitude of such an oeuvre? Each story points us squarely in the face of the inscrutable forces of nature, science, history, and even the mystical/supernatural that shape our lives and leave us wondering, “But why?” The opening story leaves us staring into pitch blackness; we’ve dug deep in search of something (truth? human connection? peace?) alongside Sadie, an ocularly-challenged woman who has been abandoned by her husband in the Ozarks, only to discover that the further we go, the more difficult it is to discern the markers of reality. At some point, Sadie loses track of the little bits of ribbon she used to mark her path, and we, like her, are left groping through the dark, feeling our way, until the enigmatic ending, when we aren’t sure whether Sadie is hearing the sought-after voices of human company or the babbling of a brook. Sachdeva leaves us here, flailing into the darkness. Many of the stories evoke a similar sensation; we join a ragtag group of characters in marveling over, reacting to, and attempting to make sense of the curiosities of life, only to discover that many of those curiosities — whether at the behest of nature or science — are ultimately unpredictable and inscrutable. (What was the mermaid there for? She didn’t return Robert’s affections; rather, she turns her gaze to the shark. What does Robert learn from that? Why is it that the father in the Glass Lung story happened to survive that accident of science — what did it mean? Why was he then able to take that impairment and use it to his benefit, to dig up treasure, only to find that the treasure was ultimately worthless?) There is a sense of predestination in many of the stories — life happens to people, and the forces at play behind the scenes are neither malevolent or compassionate; they’re maddeningly impassive. It’s interesting to see how these characters react in the face of such apathetic sweeps of fate: many of them seem to accept their lots in life, but not without small acts of revenge. Gina, for example, robs her Montana father and escapes with Michael, only to be abandoned somewhere in Florida. But rather than becoming indignant or defeated, Gina seems cool and complacent with her fate, though she does manage to arrest her errant beau at his wedding day. Abike and Promise turn the tables on their captors in The Names They Used for God by learning how to hypnotize the men around them. And even Sadie looks for an escape, a change, after her husband leaves her. But, all in, many of these characters seem to be swiping wildly, groping, flailing after meaning, which proves ultimately unattainable. And so we end the collection just as we started it: watching Del literally disintegrate into nothing: “We will be just a void in the cosmos, a dark place in the sky where there was once starlight.”
All in, a beautifully crafted, eccentric, thought-provoking (if slightly depressing) departure from a lot of the books I’ve read recently. I’ve never read anything quite like it.
Book Review of Gucci Mane’s The Autobiography of Gucci Mane.
Three and a half stars. I’m breaking my “only round numbers” rule for this one because it’s truly better than a three but not strong enough for a four. I think that because Roxane Gay raved about this book, I kept expecting something to blow my mind, and my expectations were soaring. Instead, I found the writing serviceable and the self-reflection poignant but not particularly groundbreaking. That said, I think it was an important addition to my personal canon, in that it was so completely out of the realm of books I’ve read in the past, and about a subgenre and subculture of which I knew little — trap music from Atlanta, Georgia. I was struck by Gucci, who is refreshingly honest in a way that makes you feel that the entire story of his life — as he tells it — must be true. I was inspired by his business-mindedness; he has a natural knack for strategy, for reading people, for reading situations, and I don’t know if I’ve ever read the words of someone with more drive or ambition. And even if I tried to listen to his music at least a dozen times while reading the book, only to decide it wasn’t for me, I respect it — in it, he talks earnestly about the trying, dark lifestyle he led for many years, selling drugs and living life in the fast lane. And some of his lyrics are outlandishly clever, wildly imaginative–poetic, even, in a seriously non-schmaltzy way. But most of all, many of his songs are gut-wrenchingly honest portrayals of his world, their gritty and raw sound and aggressive lyrics seeming to arise organically from his very tough life.
One big problem I had with the book was the shuttling between Gucci’s voice and that of his ghost writer / publisher / editor / etc. At certain points in the book, the narrative picks up what I assume to be Gucci’s own patois: he says his uncle “rode truck”; admits: “I really just wanted to get me some money”; and uses expressions like “same sh*%, different toilet.” Then there are jarring departures like this: “Even after the railroads were destroyed during the Civil War, Atlanta’s identity as a mecca of transport lived on. The rails were replaced by a web of interstate highways.” It’s poor editing, and it’s distracting. I can almost see someone at the publishing house urgently arguing that the book needs more foregrounding in Atlanta’s history — and Gucci shrugging it off as inauthentic to his voice — and the resolution becoming an awkward patching in of some third party history written by a copywriter. That kind of messiness drives me crazy. I’d rather have it all be a fairly consistent rendering of Gucci’s voice, or something that more clearly demarcates between his telling of his story and some sort of post-production editing.
Finally, the book enabled me to solve a puzzle that has long been plaguing me: do you know how on a lot of rap tracks, you’ll hear a sound byte saying: “Mike Will music”? I never knew what this was — and now I do: it’s the producer’s tag-line on mix tapes he’s produced, sort of a claiming/tagging of the song as his own. Mhm.
Book Review of Julia Sonnenborn’s By the Book.
Three stars. This book had all the hallmarks of being a private smash hit for me — it’s a retelling of my favorite Austen book, Persuasion, but one in which the protagonist, Anne, is an English professor. DING DING DING. Winner written all over it. My issue, though, is that I found Sonnenborn’s version of Anne insufferable, weak, and even a little dim. Ugh. How could she do such a thing to my Anne?! Still, the book was a super-fast read and not without its intrigue; a solid late-night-bed-wine read. (I also thought some of the repartee rather creative.)
Currently Reading: American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld.
I’m very impressed with the writing in this so far, which is apparently a fictionalization of Laura Bush’s life? It reads like a memoir, and the intricacy of detail and piquancy of emotion in it are startling.
Next on Deck for Magpie Book Club: Florida by Lauren Groff.
I was bowled over by Lauren Groff’s first book, Fate and Furies, so I’m dying to get my hands on a copy of her new new, Florida. (Fate and Furies grew on me with time — I was ambivalent about it at first but have thought back on it dozens of times with appreciation and respect.) This is sure to be a great book club pick if it’s anything like the dense and brilliant work of her first triumph.
Also on My Bookshelf…
+The Alice Network. (Been saying this for weeks, but…I really want to!) I mean, how can I not?: “A female spy recruited to the real-life Alice Network in France during World War I and an unconventional American socialite searching for her cousin in 1947 are brought together in a mesmerizing story of courage and redemption.”
+Something in the Water — supposed to be the next Girl on a Train / Gone Girl / Couple Next Door situation, AND a Reese Witherspoon pick.
What about you? What are you reading? Recommendations?!
P.S. I’m wearing this to book club. It’s so me — bows at the shoulder, floral, midi-length. Yes yes yes yes yes yes.
P.P.P.S. I think I’d feel tres francaise in this saucy-sweet number, which of course reminds me of this. But also…I just ordered this.
By: Jen Shoop
My Latest Score: The Apple Homepod.
We recently bought an Apple Homepod for our kitchen, and we are OBSESSED. We had an incredible Sonos sound system installed throughout our old house (speakers in the ceiling of nearly every room, as well as in our backyard and our roof!), and have been missing the omnipresence of music in our new apartment. We listen to music through our TV, as Mr. Magpie bought a bunch of fancy Kef speakers to outfit the TV, but you can’t hear it well from our galley kitchen. When Apple released its latest operating system, it suddenly became possible to play music simultaneously through your Apple TV and any other devices — so BOOM! We were sold on the Homepod, as it meant we could project whatever was playing in the living area in the kitchen. I’m in love. While I’m cooking in the kitchen, I can say: “Hey Siri, play Kacey Musgraves,” or “Hey Siri, turn down the music,” or “Hey Siri, what time is it?” — totally hands-free. The quality of sound is incredible, too. The Homepod is something of a gateway drug, though, because it led Mr. Magpie to upgrade our lighting system with the new Hue bridge (we had an older one that didn’t play well with the new Apple operating systems) and to finish installing Hue bulbs in all of the lamps of our house, so we can now tell the Homepod: “Hey Siri, turn out the bedroom lights,” or “Hey Siri, dim the living room lights,” or — BEST OF ALL — as I’m leaving the apartment — “Hey Siri, turn off all the lights.”
One of my sisters always has incredible conversation-starters at the ready when we’re sitting around in the living room, some of us on the floor and others of us on the couches, or lingering over plates of dessert and glasses of wine at the dining room table. Most recently, on night four of our family reunion, as our conversation about the virtues of Taylor Swift’s “Delicate” dwindled, without missing a beat, she straightened up and asked: “What thing are you rebelling against right now in your life?” We all sat there, puzzling over the inquiry, for a few minutes. I said something about my self-imposed rules, as I’ve been thinking about them a lot since my musings on “keeping curfew” the other day. But I’m not sure that’s it, on reflection; it takes effort, mindfulness for me to break out of my routines and rules because I generally prefer order and schedule to the willy nilly. So, I suppose I do rebel against them when I have the mental space to do so, or when I feel like I need it, but I’m not in active rebellion against my habits and rituals in any consistent way.
Rebellion is a strong word, but I am absolutely engaged in a weird tango with some of the personas I find myself occupying as a new mom. Let me explain: I can talk about strollers and high chairs until the cows come home (and I have), but — have you ever been sitting at a table or in a playgroup with four or five other mothers and you realize that the only thing you’ve spoken about for the last hour plus is baby gear, or sleep schedules, or what you’re feeding your child and why? And this little rogue part of you recoils? And you suddenly cordon yourself off, mentally, from that conversation, insistent that there are other things to talk about and that you aren’t going to be that mom who talks about her kids all the time? That’s me. And I’m aware that my internal flinching is an unattractive look, because it suggests that I’m in some way above those conversations, which I’m absolutely not, as I spend enormous swathes of time researching baby gear, obsessing over my daughter, and documenting both here. Plus, all moms spend so much time preening and caring after their children, and they need an outlet to share their observations and anxieties — so who am I to suddenly withdraw, feeling as though the conversation has gone on for too long? It’s untoward.
And yet.
There’s that impish alter-ego that pops out around minute 49 of baby talk, and I find myself thinking: “Who am I?! How am I sitting here talking about the merits of my travel carseat? QUICK! CHANGE THE SUBJECT! Talk about something pertinent to world affairs or the book you’re reading or…well, anything you might have spoken about pre-baby!”
In other words, if I’m honest, I think I find myself rebelling inwardly against some of the motherly personas I inhabit.
What about you? What are you rebelling against?
#Shopaholic: The Perfume.
+I wore Coco Chanel Mademoiselle through most of college and my grad school years. I’d forgotten about it until I turned a page in Bazaar and sniffed the little flap enclosed in its advertisement. I was taken back — and in a happy way. I think I’ll by myself a new bottle.
+This is absolutely adorable. It looks sort of like DVF or Draper James — but without the pricetag.
+Janie + Jack just launched a limited selection of Liberty London pieces, and I’m loving this!
+Currently reading this and am actually very impressed with the writing. Someone had said that Sittenfeld is just OK but some of the observations that emanate from her protagonist are deeply true to life and well-put. The beginning is a bit slow-going, but I’m pot-committed now.
+Reese Witherspoon just raved about this book, so I’m sure it’s going to be a smash hit.
As a third year, I took an excellent seminar at the University of Virginia called “Gothic Spaces.” In it, we interrogated the representation of physical space — the ruined castles, the hidden passageways, the enclosed attics — as a projection of cultural anxieties. It was an awakening. Every Monday and Wednesday afternoon, I took a Central Grounds bus from my apartment at the intersection of Rugby Road and Grady past squat fraternity houses and the rolling expanse of Mad Bowl, down the backside of The Lawn, and then made my way around the perimeter of an outdoor amphitheatre to reclaim my spot towards the front of a small, cavernous classroom on the third floor of Bryan Hall. It was always dark in that room; there were no windows at the front, so light filtered in poorly from the rear — and I liked it that way. Cocoon-like, quiet, and at insane odds with the explosive intellectual work going on in my mind. The course changed the way I thought and read in a profound way, inviting me to ask, “But how else could they have presented this? Why did they choose to have this damsel in a castle attic versus a dungeon versus an isolated shack?”
Even these many years later, I find its mode of inquiry at the ready, a quick draw. When I discovered recently, for example, that some Native American tribes placed their dead in above-ground mounds versus subterraneous coffins, I thought: “Now that would be an interesting line of thinking to study in that class — the architecture of death.”
And recently, too, when I returned to D.C. for our family vacation, I was struck — suddenly — by the consonance between the physical cityscape of D.C. and its “feel” in my memory. D.C. has always seemed, to me, small and slack — like a mildly overgrown thicket or a tumbler of water that’s been sitting, sweating, in the heat, a ring of water pooled around its basin. There is a languor to it — especially in the summer — underscored by the heavy shade of trees you’ll find most anywhere in Northwest D.C. in particular, and the torpid buzz of cicadas, and the canopy of humidity. The lush green spaces are unmanicured; street signs are often partially obscured by vines or branches; medians will occasionally boast knee-high grass. There is a thickness, a drawl to things, that has always made me think of the city as part wild — but not wild in the awe-inspiring sense of the Rocky Mountains; wild in the sense of the wood playhouse my father built with birch planks from Hechingers and installed at the top of a small hill in our backyard, beneath a shady pine tree. We played in it for the better part of two weeks and then found spider webs and raccoon droppings in its interior, and purple splotches of bird poop on its roof. From then on, the playhouse was the answer to many rounds of truth or dare that typically ended with one of us screaming as we’d jet down the hill, swiping phantom creepy crawlies off our shoulders. “There was a rabid squirrel in there!” my sister once told me, eyes wide. Like this playhouse, D.C. felt wild in a parochial sense, in a backyard animal sense.
Mr. Magpie and I prefer to cross Chain Bridge versus Key Bridge when entering D.C. from Virginia because it feels, as Mr. Magpie put it the other day, “like a back road.” That, too, is how I feel about much of the D.C. I know — full of “back roads” and “shortcuts” and the odd zig zaggy routes of a native D.C. driver: “take a left off Mass Ave at Observatory Circle and cut up Tunlaw,” my Dad will say to visiting guests, insisting that they avoid the bulk of Mass Ave and Wisconsin Ave to the best of their abilities.
As I write this, I’m aware that D.C. feels “small” because it is my hometown, many of its streets and trees as familiar to me as the arrangement of furniture in the living room of my childhood home: the diagonal line of the small settee in relation to the large upholstered couch, the arrangement of Herend baby shoes (one for each child) on my mother’s coffee table, the lines of the vacuum cleaner across the carpet. But that’s not all the way true. There is something about D.C. that affords a feel of the small-town whether you were born there or not. The skyline is by and large flat, with nary a skyscraper. The Washington Monument and the Air Force Memorial alone puncture the sky — the rest of the city is close to the ground, hushed, squat. The streets, at least in my childhood neighborhood, are narrow and often one-way. The city is hilly in a way that reminds you that the earth was here first. In New York, I have to strain to imagine what things might have looked like when the colonists first disembarked there. In D.C., it’s an easy exercise. The slope of the hills, especially in Georgetown, can occasionally make buildings and streets look out of place or precarious, dug into the side of a hill or perched perilously or winding in an awkward way. The heavy shade of trees conspire in this effort: “The houses are accidental, or, if I’m being generous, apposite, to my roots here,” they say. It’s as if the trees, the grass, the hills, are caught in the act of reclaiming their space. All of this gives off the aura of an overgrown backyard, that parochial wild of my childhood playhouse.
And so, whereas New York can make me feel anonymous, in D.C., it feels as though I am always a grocery aisle or car-length away from someone I once crossed paths with — and not just because I grew up here, I don’t think…or is that precisely why?, I wonder. Have I mentally shaped the D.C. cityscape to reflect my experience of growing up there? After all, my life in D.C. was rather insular: I attended a Montessori school with about 10 classmates, then a small Catholic school with about 20 classmates, then a high school with 100 classmates, and there was crossover between the schools — kids that had graduated before I did had matriculated to my high school before me. And because I have so many siblings (4) and cousins (18), there was a feeling that I already knew many of my classmates before I knew them — Justin was the little brother of my brother’s friend Jessica; Peggy was cousins with those kids my sister went to camp with; Katie had dated my brother’s best friend; Mia was my cousin’s best childhood friend. And because my brother attended my high school’s “brother high school,” there were even more connections. And because we belonged to two country clubs that counted many of my classmates’ families as members, there were those connections, too.
So I wonder — have I fashioned D.C. into a small town, claimed the low skyline and the lush green spaces as colluders in my casting of the city in a certain way — as small and insular and slack? Was my English classroom truly dark and cocoon-like, or did I fashion it that way in retrospect? (Would someone else have described it as claustrophobic?) How do we experience space? Do we force it into a coherent narrative? Do we project our experiences onto it? Or does it shape us and how we feel about the world?
A little of this, a little of that, I’m sure — a fluid give and take.
I’m curious, though: take a minute to think about your hometown, or your current town, or any old town in which you’ve taken umbrage. How do you think of the physical space there? What are the words you’d use? For my fellow Washingtonians — does my experience of the city resonate? Or am I floating off into a narrow memory in its recollection?
Post-Script.
One final Nordstrom sale discovery: how chic is this top (under $60!)?! Love the detailing on the sleeve.
I’m dying over this map-print skirt (under $100). Would be the perfect vacation companion — thrown over a white bathing suit or paired with a simple white tank?
I never thought I’d want to own a frayed denim skirt again (flashback to high school), but this Everlane find has me reconsidering….imagine it with this.
This is so so so so so cute. I want to throw it on after a day at the beach, with my hair piled on top of my head — and these slides.
Wouldn’t my scarf look adorbs with these (finally on sale!?)
Very exciting (no, really): I’m buying this and two of these to organize the clutter on top of our washing machine — we stow detergent, an iron, etc up there.
By: Jen Shoop
I think I’m super late to the game on this one, but I just recently discovered Cece DuPraz, an eboutique chock full of darling monogrammed gifts and goodies. I’m especially in love with these monogrammed baby robes (mini MUST have one!), these fleece hoodies (mini owned one this past winter and I loved it because it has a velcro to affix it in place, meaning you don’t need to mess with zippers or buttons), and these personalized hats. I’m also contemplating this weekender for myself with a splashy monogram.
P.S. Just returned from D.C. a few days ago, and had to share a couple of CLUTCH travel finds. (Full rundown of the best gear for traveling with babies here.) First — you must buy one of these inflatable Munchkin tubs. They are super hard to inflate (a task for any men around), but it provided hours of entertainment for mini and her four cousins (all under 3!) We set it in the middle of the playroom and they spent large chunks of the day playing in it. It’s also flawless as a bath tub — for some reason, mini is much less likely to try to climb out when she’s nestled in it. She LOVES it. For $15, a genius solution for on-the-go bathing (and entertaining). I also liked this magnet set for the car — it kept her busy for a long while and the pieces are less likely to get lost thanks to the magnetic aspect.
P.P.S. For future trips, I think I need one of these to stow all her little toys and trinkets, especially her baby Corolle feeding set, which is easily her favorite toy set. It boggles my mind we’ve not yet lost any of the parts…
Holy cow — the number of sales raging right now is out of bounds, and my head is spinning! Decision overload!
I’m normally a big fan of the Nordstrom Semi-Annual sale but — I was simultaneously overwhelmed and underwhelmed this year. (Too much stuff, not enough stuff that appealed to me.) The only things I have in my cart is my favorite bra — I wait every year for the N sale so I can scoop a new one or two up — and this Free People blouse. I did, however, want to pass along that they have some Golden Goose sneaks on sale (I love mine!) and THESE FLATS ARE EPIC.
I’ve been more interested in the sale scores at Neiman’s, Moda Operandi, and Net-A-Porter. I already covered Net-A-Porter’s sale, but below, a few of my new favorite finds:
I also managed to track down a couple of styles on sale — check out this, this, and this! I am *thisclose* to buying one of these beauties on sale. You can also get the look for less with this $70 steal, shown below!!!
Hi-Lo 2: The Pam Munson Straw Hat vs. Nordie’s Style.
Hi-Lo 3: The Rhode Resort Ella Dress vs. The Wayf Steal.
I wrote about the Rhode Resort Ella dress a few months back, and I’m still smitten with it. I ordered one and found that it was a little too voluminous on my frame — I looked like I was drowning in yards of fabric (#smallgirlproblems). I was therefore delighted to find this $120 Wayf steal — which nails a similar aesthetic with its ruffled hem, but feels a bit more appropriately scaled for me.
Hi-Lo 4: The Alice McCall Jumpsuit vs. the Re-Named.
Hi-Lo 5: The Lisa Marie Fernandez Ric Rac Dress vs. The Wayf.
I have been lusting after the label LMF for awhile now — and this ric rac trimmed dress (on sale, but still close to $500!) has my eye. Luckily, this under-$100 Wayf dress enables you to get the look for far less.
P.S. Both of the ric rac dresses above remind me of these sandals — which just went on sale! I love these slides, too — and they’re also on sale!
White boots were A Thing this past season, and while I couldn’t bring myself to invest in that particular trend (too practical — as a New Yorker, I felt like I was always traipsing through muddy slush!), I am in love with white shoes for summer. These smart, pointed-toe slingbacks are PERFECTION. They look like they might be Celine or Jil Sander, but they’re $228!
Pick No. 4: Dr. Barbara Sturm Glow Drops.
I referenced this in passing in a recent post, but has anyone used the line Dr. Sturm before? I’m especially intrigued by these glow drops, which purport to “transform and revitalize tired, dull skin and restore its radiance.” The very-in-the-know blogger Bradley Agather uses a bunch of Sturm’s products, so I’m officially intrigued.
Pick No. 5: Apiece Apart Sweater.
How funky-perfect is this Apiece Apart sweater, now on sale in Goop’s incredible sale section?! (This and this are also hanging out in my cart.)
Oh, bad puns. Happy Memorial Day! Hope you are sleeping in late, hanging out on a beach, grilling out hot dogs, and doing all things American. While you are reading this, I am probably stuck in gridlock traffic somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike…so we’ll turn to happy things: eyelet dresses. (Also, this perfume, which I received a sample of and have decided to buy — it smells like heaven — and my latest beauty buys.)
I have a problem with eyelet, broderie anglaise, and embroidery — I am drawn to it in spite of the fact that I most own close to a dozen dresses in this vein. And yet — there’s always space for one more…
