All.the.things from Jacadi (I bought so many of their cherry-print pieces, including these sneakers!), but especially this sweet strawberry print set — AND P.S. — YOU CAN GET 30% OFF YOUR PURCHASE THROUGH MAY 10 WITH CODE VIPS18! Andale, andale!
P.S. Speaking of microtrends, would you rock this look?
Have you started our book club book? I am deeply impressed. After reading the first short story, I immediately texted one of my sisters to recommend it — I could tell it would be right up her alley, and she often takes me to task (not really) for my beach read addiction; this book is heftier. (Not difficult to read, though — just exceptionally well-crafted, varied, imaginative, and they say something.) I am savoring every story and taking time to properly annotate as I read in anticipation of our first in-person book club meeting, so when I woke in the middle of the night and found myself unable to fall back asleep, I felt like I needed something more mindless — something I wouldn’t mind nodding of to. Basically, I needed a light-hearted sidecar. After crawling through Amazon and GoodReads for a good thirty minutes, I settled on Julia Sonneborn’s By the Book, a modern-day re-telling of Persuasion, which is my absolute favorite Austen book, because I relate so deeply to its heroine, Anne Elliott. (No, really — remember when I identified her as my favorite heroine ever?!) But guess how Sonneborn has reimagined the novel? “An English professor struggling for tenure discovers that her ex-fiancé has just become the president of her college—and her new boss—in this whip-smart modern retelling of Jane Austen’s classic.” YAAAAS.
P.S. – If you’re in NYC and want to join our first in-person book club meeting, please sign up by inputting your email below — and if you’ve already emailed me to ask to be on this list, you’re already on the list! I’ll be sending out a formal invite for our inaugural book club in the next few days, and the first 10 women to respond will secure a spot:
You’re Sooooo Popular: The Mara Hoffman Sale.
The most popular items on Le Blog this week:
+The entire Mara Hoffman sale here. This is currently in my cart, and if I didn’t already have too many bathing suits, so would this.
+My favorite running shoes, though one of you smart readers (also an avid runner) pointed out that these shoes offer minimal support, and you should get your gait examined if you’re in the market for a new pair!
Have you ever had to part ways with a friend? As an adult? It’s a weird concept, really, and it feels borderline infantile — the kind of thing you might expect of seven year olds trading secrets after school while waiting in the carpool pickup covey. “No, Miranda’s not my friend. I’m only friends with Charlotte.”
A friendship isn’t, at least in my experience, the kind of thing that you snap into and snap out of. But over the past few years, I’ve had to part ways with two friends — and I didn’t do it face-to-face, either. In both cases, I came to the realization that the friendship made me feel badly about myself. I would come home after a coffee date or hang up after a phone call and feel less than, depleted — and I’d turn to Mr. Magpie for comfort. His response was always in the posture of protection: “What is she thinking?” and “That is so weird. Yuck. You shouldn’t spend time with her,” and sometimes, at a loss for words, a blanketing “I don’t know, Jennie. I love you.”
With both friendships, after much heartache, I decided that the best thing would be to quietly fade into the distance–not an Irish goodbye, exactly, but a gradual withdrawing. A part of me thinks that I owed them an explanation for the increasingly sporadic responses I would offer, the polite declines to invitations. (Was it cowardly of me to not say something outright? Was it unfair of me not to offer them the opportunity to rebut my claims?) But most of me thinks that I had given them years and years of time, dozens and dozens of instances of “I’ll just shrug that off” or “I’ll just politely move on,” and that I did not have the energy or, frankly, the desire to go toe-to-toe with someone who I was quite sure was simply not a good fit for me and my life.
I remember getting drinks with a now dear friend, W., early into our friendship. She said to me: “I’m only interested in being friends with people who are authentic, honest, and lift other people up.” She said it pat-ly, as though it was something she’d rehearsed a thousand times. I found it endearing; it was as if she was on a first date, and she’d given some thought to what she needed out of any relationship she might enter into. (I trust I passed her screening…ha!) She was onto something there; I think it’s fair and healthy to consider whether the people with whom I surround myself are life-enhancers (to borrow Lee’s excellent turn of phrase). Isn’t life too short to do it any other way?
What do you think? What has your experience been?
#Shopaholic: The Melamine Plate.
+Can we talk about how incredible these melamine plates are?! We’re attending TWO picnics in Central Park this weekend, and I wished I’d ordered these in advance!
+Love these marble-effect mixing bowls. I know they’re meant for food prep, but I’m primarily interested in serving popcorn and chips out of them — and how they’d look styled on our shelves!
My father was traveling on a guys’ golf trip last week, leaving my mom on her own for a couple of days — a rarity for them, as they travel everywhere together, and travel they do, as they’re rarely in one spot for more than a week!) — and I texted her to check in at 7:32 PM:
“How is your solo night going? What movie?”
“Alarm is on…just finished dinner — in the dining room, no less. Having a glass of SB, and thinking of watching one of these: 27 Dresses, Maid of Honor, or Phantom Thread. Thoughts? Recommendations?”
In other words, my mom was in the midst of her own #SBB, and I die over the image of her sitting alone in their cavernous dining room, at their oversized, polished-wood, 12-seat table, beneath their dramatic crystal chandelier, enjoying a dinner for one with a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc (“SB”).
My mother is many things — deeply empathetic, warm, excellent at listening, lighthearted, decorous, attentive to details, genuine, organized, devout. But above all, she is dedicated to and deeply invested in her loved ones. If you were to look at her (pristinely-kept) planner, or her phone log, or her email inbox, you would quickly learn that she keeps time by attending to others: organizing our travel, ordering gifts for us, scheduling time to visit with us, sending snail mail to us, noting our travels and plans, even if she isn’t directly involved in them (“Jen and Landon in the Hamptons!” she’ll scrawl in her perfect, loopy cursive, in pencil). If we are coming home or visiting her in her Florida house, she will invariably email a week or two prior to our arrival asking what we need from the grocery — what kind of milk we take, what flavor of yogurt we like — and mapping out where we’d like to sleep and whether any new baby gear will be needed. I’ve written about this many times, but in the aftermath of giving birth to minimagpie via c-section, my mother attended to my every need, caring for me in the most humbling of ways. She folded down my bedding at night, easing me into it. She gripped my arm as I stiffly, slowly mounted the stairs, in absolute agony. She held my hand while I was weeping for reasons I did not know. She bought me milk of magnesium and pads the size of life preservers without batting an eye. She made me sandwiches and tea and encouraged me to shower and nap while she tended to mini. She sat at the foot of my bed on a patterned x-bench for countless hours, cooing over the two generations of women in front of her. At one point, I asked her if she could pick up my underwear from the ground because I was too sore to pick it up myself. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t take care of such intimate tasks on my own, and I told her so — and thanked her.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “My pleasure. My privilege.”
My privilege. My privilege!
When I was very young — maybe six or seven — I got in trouble for doing something, which was, to be honest, a rarity; I was a quiet, well-behaved girl. My mother scolded me, her voice uncharacteristically forbidding. I was crestfallen to have disappointed her and burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I hate myself!” I cried, theatrically.
“What did you say?!” she cried, her eyes wide, her expression shifting instantly from stern reprimand to concerned disbelief. She walked over to me and took my hands in hers. “Don’t say that about my best friend. Don’t you say that ever again.”
I was astonished — a little afraid even — to have elicited such a dramatic response. I remember turning it over in my mind for many weeks after, scrutinizing both the severity of the phrase “I hate myself,” which had suddenly surpassed “butt” and “poop” on my infantile “bad word list,” and wallowing in the discovery that I was “her best friend.” Me! Six-year-old me! I was my mom’s best friend. The realization gave me a warm sense of confidence, maturity, belonging. And I marvel now, as a mother myself, at the tremendous and delicate care my mother took with me in this and so many other instances — and so naturally, unthinkingly. How did she know just the right thing to say to show me her incredible devotion, to warn me against self-abnegation? And without rehearsal? I worry that I will say the wrong thing in such moments, or know what to say only after mulling it over on my own for a few days. (“Remember when you said that thing about hating yourself? Well, I’ve given it some thought, and…”)
But what I mean to say is this: to me, my mom is the image of the Madonna, her head bent in motherly attention to her infant child, her face arranged in solicitous serenity.
And so — catching her on her own those couple of days last week was a rarity. So bizarre to see her on her own, without a child or husband or grandchild cloying for her attention — to see her indulging in some much-needed self-care.
For those reasons, this mother’s day, I would love to give the moms in my life the gift of self-indulgence. Below, my top picks, as you still have time to order before the big event! — but before that — an idea:
Many years ago, I ordered a pair of “brand new in box” Manolo Blahnik heels from eBay, and they came with a hand-written card from the seller that read: “Go dancing in these!” I loved that — the power of suggestion! I can’t look at those heels without smiling and thinking about dancing. The same goes for any of the gifts below, which might go even further if accompanied with a thoughtful self-care suggestion (i.e., “take an evening to try this mask with a glass of wine” or “light this candle, turn off your phone, and spend an afternoon reading!”. (And if you need some elegant new stationery, I love this set — or these gift enclosure cards.)
Les Best Mother’s Day Gifts.
Click items below, or see details (and notes on each pick, as well as a couple of other items!) below:
A Kindle and a Kindle gift card, possibly with a list of books worth reading. There is absolutely nothing more glorious than the handful of times I have closed my laptop an hour before our nanny leaves, walked to the wine bar around the corner, and sat with my Kindle for a solo hour of escape.
A dramatic sunhat — with a note encouraging her to take a nice long walk or spend time at the pool or beach if they’re accessible to her.
A high-end candle and pretty matches. This might seem impersonal at first blush, but my mother and Mr. Magpie have both gifted me candles for various occasions, and they are such a treat. Who wants to spend $60 on a candle? No one. But when it’s a gift…? Yes pls.
A Kayu mini tote. I have one of these and I adore it — it’s the perfect size for an evening out, as it fits sunglasses, a wallet, lipstick, keys, and a phone. I might add: “Ditch the diaper bag and go out for a drink on me!”
Finally, and these are idiosyncratic to my interests/tastes, but here are the items at the top of my personal lust list:
+New bedding from Hill House Home. Bedding can be super personal, but if you know your mom really well…or maybe just a pair of monogrammed pillowcases? Ugh, love.
A number of you have asked for toddler meal ideas, and I have to say — I’m in your boat. I’m constantly looking for new recipe inspiration for mealtimes. In general, we try to feed her what we’re eating, though that’s not always tenable, as we tend to cook and eat after we put her down for the night, and we don’t always have enough leftovers to stretch a couple of days — and sometimes we eat things we just don’t think we can serve to her, like our go-to homemade beef tacos (too spicy) or my favorite vegetable, broccoli rabe (to bitter). My main philosophy has been to expose her to as many flavors, textures, and tastes as I can, although I struggle to make sure she gets enough animal protein in her diet: it simply requires more forethought and preparation. I’m no expert in toddler nutrition, but I kept track of what I fed mini the other week, and I thought I’d share her meals below in case you find inspiration in them. (When running dry, my mom often has helpful suggestions, too — “peanut butter and banana? grilled cheese?” she offered the other day, and I also find this blogpost helpful.) Please comment with your additional ideas!
Monday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Pancakes and halved blueberries. We’ve tried a bunch of different pancake mixes and frankly none of them hold a candle to scratch batter, which we always have the ingredients for anyway, so I think I’m going to start making them myself from now on. If that won’t do, I think Stonewall Kitchen is the best sub — it’s heavily scented with vanilla. (Re: blueberries — I am still overly cautious about dicing up mini’s food into pieces that are pea-sized or smaller. I have no idea where my choking phobia stems from, but I can’t stop myself.)
Lunch: Avocado toast cut into squares; shredded cheese; half a banana.
Dinner: Rice pilaf; sauteed shrimp, onions, zucchini, and garlic; and grapes. I love stir-fries and simple sautees as a way to easily prepare protein and vegetables without a lot of fuss. Shrimp in particular cook super quickly, so you can have the sautee together in a couple of minutes. Rice pilaf takes 20-30 minutes to cook on stovetop, but it’s inactive cooking so it’s not overwhelming.
Tuesday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Leftover pancakes, half a full-fat Noosa coconut yogurt, and halved blueberries.
Lunch: Leftover pilaf and shrimp sautee; diced strawberries.
Dinner: Homemade pasta with chicken meatballs and tomato-pepper sauce (leftovers from our dinner last night); applesauce; steamed broccoli.
Wednesday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Scrambled egg with everything bagel seasoning on it and some shredded cheese on top (she likes it seasoned!); diced strawberries.
Lunch: Cheese quesadilla; steamed broccoli; half a banana.
Dinner: Dr. Prager’s Fish Sticks; frozen mixed vegetables boiled, buttered, and seasoned with salt and pepper; Fuji apple diced into a tiny size. For dessert: a frozen mango pop. She likes a bite or two, even though she makes a super sour face after each bite owing to its temperature.
Thursday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Whole grain toaster waffle with peanut butter; strawberries and blueberries diced up together.
Lunch: Macaroni and cheese; frozen mixed vegetables from last night; diced kiwi.
Dinner: Leftover steak; roasted asparagus cut into coins; oven fries cut into smaller bite-size pieces. All leftovers from our meal the previous night.
Friday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Liberte brand baja strawberry full-fat yogurt; diced pineapple; half a piece of rye toast.
Lunch: Peanut butter and jelly sandwich (I make an open-face sandwich and then cut into squares); string cheese; strawberries and blueberries.
Dinner: Leftover macaroni and cheese; leftover asparagus; diced kiwi.
Saturday Toddler Menu.
Breakfast: Half a cinnamon-raisin bagel (given to her whole, to gnaw on); diced pineapple; bites of bacon from dad.
Lunch: Sliced havarti and turkey deli meat; bites of a chicken empanada from the street fair; strawberries and blueberries.
Dinner: “Fried rice” — i.e., I sauteed frozen vegetables with onion and garlic and oil, threw in some leftover rice, and cracked an egg into it. Diced apple for dessert.
I love these bibs because I find the hard/molded plastic ones interfere with mini’s high chair tray and that she’s awkwardly trying to maneuver around them. You can also wipe the bibs clean fairly easily and throw them in the wash every other day or so to keep them tidy — and, BONUS: since they fold up flat, they take up no space in our limited cabinet space situation, and can be packed easily without adding bulk.
I’m still very impressed with mini’s high chair. It is super easy to clean, lightweight, and transportable — and I like the design!
I own three ezpz minimats, and they are a god-send. Before I bought these, mini’s food would be EVERYWHERE. She’d smear everything all over the tray, off the tray, in her hair, etc. Something about the shape and the compartments keep her focused on eating and prevent her (most of the time) from making a huge mess. (They have a larger size, but the mini size fits on her highchair tray.)
Occasionally, I’ll give her food out of these whimsically printed sectioned plates, though I find she’s more likely to invert the plate all over the place when using them. (So, so cute though!)
We use these Beaba toddler spoons and forks — most of the time, she’s more coordinated using her own fingers to eat, but every now and then I’ll two-time by spoon-feeding her things like couscous/rice with a spoon as well. And, she loves to feed herself yogurt with a spoon, which is a total cleaning nightmare, but she’s got to learn somehow!
I keep bulk dry snacks (like cheerios, goldfish, veggie straws, and crackers) in these lidded jars.
Everyone says that straw cups are better for oral development than sippy cups with spouts, but we must have tried five or six different brands of cups before something clicked when she started drinking out of the Munchkin 360 Trainer Cup, and at this point, I’d rather have a hydrated baby than an “orally developed” one. She also chugs water out of these Philips Avent ones, which are my preferred cups for on-the-go drinking outside the house, because they come with a protective cap. I think you just have to try a bunch until something connects and stick with what works.
I keep Noodle and Boo Ultimate Cleansing Cloths in a drawer right by where mini eats when I need to deep clean her little hands or face — they’re well saturated in cleanser, smell amazing, and have a nubby side that truly cleans in the nooks and crannies of her tiny hand.
For food storage, I love these tiny tupperware from Beaba (they snap into one another to form a stack), these for on-the-go crunchy snacks, and this as a snack cup (the best!)
I don’t know when I’ll give mini an actual cup to drink out of, but she sure loves drinking out of mine these days, and I’ve been thinking about getting some of these eco-friendly Bobo and Boo cups. I also like their simple snack bowls. I often use these small silver serving bowls similar to this to give her goldfish or diced fruit to eat as a snack because mine is unbreakable, so these would be a nice sub.
Mini loves “feeding” her dolls — she has a disappearing milk bottle she holds up to their mouths, and she also loves to use a spoon to “feed” them. I just added this set to my cart and I think she’ll flip. (I also really want to buy her this and this, but I’ll need to find an appropriate occasion — maybe our upcoming trips?)
P.P.S. Remember that time I had incredible mom guilt around overfeeding mini pouches? I’m past that mental block now, though I’ll admit it was equal parts owing to minimagpie’s evolution into a very good eater (she tries everything and likes most things) and equal parts owing to my rearranging of my schedule to accommodate more cooking time. I now try to finish up my day thirty minutes before the nanny leaves on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday so that I can cook. I’ve gotten into a good rhythm, using pouches as a back-up when needed.
On Wednesday mornings, I woke at six and nimbly crept around the trundle of my roommate to descend the steps from our loft. Feeling my way through the dark, I deftly changed out of my pajamas, brushed my teeth and hair, retrieved my tote from the quiet hollow of my closet, and unlatched the barn door of our ground-level studio apartment. I took in the hush of the courtyard, the high stone edifices lining its sides having the grave but not altogether unkind air of the dignified old proprietor of the watch shop (l’horlogerie) around the corner. “Vous cherchez quelque chose en particulier, mademoiselle?” he had asked me appraisingly, politely, as he held his hands behind his back and looked down his aquiline nose. “Mais, non,” I replied, suddenly too shy to admit I was looking for something affordable to give to my boyfriend of several months. I’d lost my nerve and, switching to English, offered: “I’m just looking.”
As I crossed the courtyard, sensing a similar watchfulness from the inanimate stone walls around me, I hastened my pace.
Crossing Pont Gallieni toward my seven a.m. class, I took in the purple-azure expanse opening itself up to dawn. Cars flew by in their characteristic French haste, but infrequently, startlingly; for the most part, the streets, like the sidewalks, were deserted, the moist from the evening’s rain evaporating in splotches across the pavement. On the precipice of reaching the right bank of the Rhone, streaks of orange appeared on the horizon.
That morning in Lyon, like the stretch of weeks prior to it, had the feel of a prelude. It was as if I could hear the mutedly elegant strings at the very beginning of the prelude to Verdi’s La Traviata, an opera I had adored ever since studying it in high school Aesthetics class, when I had transposed the vibrant inner yearnings of my teenage self onto the opera’s stirring arias. It was only living abroad, lovesick, my heart drifting somewhere between Charlottesville, Virginia and Lyon, France, that I felt that I was living in prelude rather than aria — in the anticipation of crescendo.
After Landon had arrived in Lyon to visit me, we explored the city together, re-discovering one another as we climbed up to Mount Fourviere, traipsed along the quais, wandered Jardin Archeologique Saint Jean. I remember those excursions in little flashes, but I can recall in high relief the afternoon he walked me across Pont de l’Universite to take a final exam for one of my classes. There was a large, potbellied, shirtless man who stood in the median of Quai Claude Bernard, turning every few minutes to stare down the traffic as it would approach him from either north or south, seemingly suspended from all time except the imprecise metronome of bursts of traffic pushing down the boulevard as the lights changed. There was a small wine shop en route, and we stopped in to buy a two-Euro bottle of Cote de Rhone for Landon to enjoy in the small garden behind the university while I took my exam. There was a hazy warmth to the spring air. There were clusters of happy French students streaming out of the university buildings, likely having just finished their final examinations, eager to smoke cigarettes and map out their summers. There was a feeling of the dynamic afoot.
He left me at the entrance to the university, and I watched him walk confidently around the corner, as though on a path he took daily, following the instructions I’d given him. I spent the allotted 60 minutes writing a thoughtful essay in response to a question about the theme of le colere in the poetry of Guillaume Apollinaire. As I walked to the front of the room to deposit my blue book, I noticed with a gasp that the examination instructions had a second side with an additional question on it, and I’d spent the entire hour only answering the one on the first.
I gulped and approached the formidable French professor to plead my case. He must have seen the panic in my overachieving, all-A-student eyes, as he sighed, jerked his head in the direction of the window as if to gesture me to sit down, and said:
“Allez, allez. Vingt minutes. Allez.”
“Merci, professeur,” I whispered gratefully.
I sped through my response, increasingly concerned about Landon sitting alone in the dusk garden, the light of day dwindling, wondering where the hell I was. I worried he might venture back to my apartment, convinced he’d confused our plans, and that we’d miss one another. After turning in my paper and thanking the professor profusely, I rushed out of the building and around the corner and through the arched doorway into the garden, and —- there he was, settled into a stone archway, leaning comfortably against its arc, a plastic cup of wine in one hand and an unopened book in the other.
I approached with apologies, but he looked back at me with unphased happiness.
“You’ve got to taste this wine,” he said. “Two euros? Can you believe that?”
As I explained my exam mishap, I realized he’d been unbothered by the delay. He’d read bits of his book, but had mainly sat in that garden soaking in the warm May air, the lack of his own exams and responsibilities, the buzz of red wine. He’d been observing the students, the architecture, the French way.
Landon has always had a preternatural ability to live in the moment, to turn off anxieties around plans, to just be. His tagline might well be an abbreviated “Laissez le temps rouler”: in other words, let time go by.
We sat on a stone bench in the middle of the garden and he poured me a plastic tumbler of red wine. My exams were done, my semester had ended, and it felt like we had the whole world in front of us. I don’t know whether it was Landon’s open-armed embrace of the adventure of the present — his unreflecting and happy acquiescence of my twenty-minute delay — or the fact that I suddenly had an acute and assured awareness that we would spend the rest of our lives in a pattern of similar departures and reunions, but I realized with a start that I was out of the prelude and into the main act.
Post-Script.
If I could re-cast myself in contemporary clothing in the above recollection, my ideal wardrobe:
Read the rest of the M Series — part memoir, part magic — here.
By: Jen Shoop
A couple years ago, I completed an immersive, weeklong executive program in social entrepreneurship at Stanford’s Graduate School of Business. It was heaven: rooms full of smart, passionate “impact” entrepreneurs from across the globe; hours of stimulating lecture and debate with some of the most renowned business faculty in the world; late nights of socializing and homework (yes, homework!)–and all against the serene backdrop of 70-degree, palm-tree-lined Palo Alto, CA.
During one of the session’s icebreakers, we were paired off and then asked to introduce one another to the group — a clever way to ensure people actually got to know one another.
My companion had this to say:
“This is Jen; she’s an entrepreneur working to build the financial health of low-income teens through technology.”
I writhed against the “entrepreneur” label — it felt inaccurate, unearned: I was, after all, representing a non-profit I’d not founded myself. Though I was the third full-time employee and was playing an influential role in the strategy and operations of the nascent organization as its Chief Innovation Officer, I felt an uncomfortable turn in my stomach: I felt like a fraud, like it was going to be “found out” that I was not actually the CEO and founder of the company, and that my introduction would be discredited. “Oh, she’s just an employee there,” they might say. “What’s she doing here? I thought this was only for founders,” another might have prodded.
During that same session, the professor introduced himself by sharing some of the highlights from his dynamic, prolifically productive career. He concluded with this: “I know, I know — a lot of crazy left hand turns and right hand turns, right? But most successful people travel squiggly paths to success. They take risks. They follow their instincts. They try new things, fail, and try other new things. The point is that it’s your job to build the narrative around them.”
I have so much to say about these couple of minutes in that state-of-the-art classroom in tranquil Palo Alto, and the following email from one of you smart Magpies led me to plumb them the other day:
“Your recent post about the complexity of the words we choose (when you were describing your area of study) was great…yes, it is appropriate to choose your language based on your audience, but I typically don’t think there is a need to “dumb it down”. I don’t even do that for my young kids: I actually try to use more complex language and words with them, as I want them to hear it, question it, and learn it. I want to do the same, and do all that I can to be around people more intelligent than me, professionally and personally: I want to learn all about what they are doing and absorb all they have to offer. Those who do not want to learn from others – e.g. about an area of study of which they were not previously aware – make that decision to their own detriment. I got great advice from a colleague once: you never want to be the smartest one in the room.”
You never want to be the smartest one in the room. The words lingered over my head like a thought bubble in a cartoon for the next couple of hours. I realized that I rarely feel myself to be the smartest person in the room. This is not practiced humility, either: I know myself to be intelligent — but, in the past many years, I have pole-vaulted from one uncomfortable experience to the next, always nudging myself out of my comfort zone, routinely finding myself in rooms with people who are far more literate and skilled and sophisticated with the topic at hand than I. In graduate school, I cowed at the intellectual prowess of the faculty in front of me, and at the bold and well-read observations of my classmates. In my tenure as an executive at two different non-profits, I fidgeted and tripped over myself when pitching our concepts to well-established funders and partners in the space. At Stanford, I bumbled through my introductions to the rest of the serious, ambitious social entrepreneurs around me. When presenting the tech business I built with Mr. Magpie, I flustered inwardly — I had finally learned how to keep a game face, though there were occasional gaffes — while in the presence of slick investors, one of whom stood up in the middle of my empassioned pitch to stretch and throw his apple core into the wastebasket, pausing to linger idly at the window.
I am a perennial fish out of water.
In the aftermath of closing our business, Mr. Magpie and I often talked about the fact that both of us are generalists. We wondered whether things would have been different if either or both of us were specialists, say–one of us a developer and the other a career HR executive. Would we have elicited more trust from investors? Would we have known more about the landscape and been able to more easily sell our software? Would we have been able to build our minimum viable product more quickly, more leanly? I remember telling Mr. Magpie that sometimes I envied my friends who had picked a path in high school or college and pursued it with focus, thinking of the lawyers, the financial analysts, the doctors in my network. Not only were their career ambitions much clearer to them, but they had the comfort of expertise, the earned peace and confidence of knowing that they knew something more intimately and with greater sophistication than the vast majority of the universe.
Such musings are futile and possibly injurious intellectual exercises, as they’re willfully ignorant of the truth–which is that both of us are generalists. Smart, thoughtful, and ambitious generalists — but generalists all the same. Mr. Magpie quipped: “We’re Jack and Jill of all trades, but masters of none.”
Or is it that I’ve made a career out of being a student? That I am somehow, despite my better senses and occasional envy of others, drawn to the position of the novitiate? Maybe I’ve not afforded myself an opportunity to become a master of any one thing; I’m too busy moving onto the next.
Putting a more positive spin on things: am I, to parrot the formulation of that Stanford professor, a successful-person-in-the-making, twenty-two turns into my squiggly path, but not yet able to tell my narrative in a cogent and evocative way?
But success narrative be-damned, the truth is this: there’s been a sort of over-romanticization of failure, at least in the start-up space. I used to sing its gospel, too: “Oh, everyone fails — the secret is how quickly you can pivot” and “It’s not failing; it’s learning” and “Don’t think about it as success or failure; think about it as experiments.” I actually once gave a public talk to two hundred people at a design conference on this exact topic, and I started with this: It took Thomas Edison 10,000 different attempts at combining gas and filament to successfully create the lightbulb. Would we characterize those attempts as failures? Or necessary permutations and experiments that led him to the right answer?
But herein lies the problem: the old failure narrative only works when you wind up successful at the end. No one wants to hear about a pet food subscription service that lasted three years before its founders gave up and crawled back to their jobs in finance. And when you’re in the throes of closing down a business, there is absolutely no romance about it: it is heart-breaking, soul-crushing stuff, and I don’t wish it on my worst enemy.
In short, I find it difficult to characterize the kind of career I’ve had to date. I’m too much of a realist to call it a squiggly path to success — but I’m also proud of my varied accomplishments, even if they don’t all “hang together” in a straight-forward way. And regardless of whether my jagged career decision-making is owing to some underlying personal preference for risk, or the serendipities and bermuda triangles of life, one constant has been this: I have rarely been the smartest person in the room, and I much smarter for it.
Is it very embarrassing to admit that I am dying to try this broom? It has a foam end that picks up hair and dust and then you just wipe it off with a damp paper towel — seems like a much better solution than picking it out of the bristles of my usual broom. #Housewifeproblems
This dress is so chic! I’d wear it with pointed toe flats for work or my Hermes sandals for play.
I am officially, finally, kicking off a formal Magpie book club! For those of you who live in New York and would like to be included in the in-person meetings, please email me at jennifer@thefashionmagpie.com. (If you’ve already emailed me, I have your details on file!). I will be sending out an email invitation with details on location, date, and time at the end of next week, but will be capping the first meeting to 10 ladies so that we can have a genuine conversation — so RSVP ASAP if you can come to reserve your spot! (First come, first served!)
For those unable to attend in person, please join us digitally or in spirit: our first book will be Anjali Sachdeva’s All the Names They Used for God, a collection of “alluringly strange” short stories that my hero Roxane Gay described as “one of the best collections I’ve ever read. Every single story is a stand out…The writer wields so much confidence and control in her prose and my goodness, what imagination, what passion there is in this work.”
I’m drawn to this collection for a few reasons:
a) Roxane Gay’s endorsement;
b) short fiction is great starter fare for a book club, as — if you’re unable to read the entire thing, you can at least comment on the specifics of the select stories you did read;
c) it’s a book by a woman who writes about a wild and unwieldy spectrum of subject matters that cut across nationalities and time (John Milton writing Paradise Lost? Check. The kidnapping of Nigerian schoolgirls by Boko Haram? Check.) The boldness and bravado are already stirring to me.
d) I’ve already read and discussed Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere, which, in my opinion, would be an ideal book club book. Lots to unpack!
Let’s aim to read it by June 1st — I will share the book club discussion talking points and provocations I’ll use at the in-person meeting in a future post in case you’d like to host your own little satellite Magpie book club or would just like to mull them over yourself and share your perspectives here, in the comments. I’ll also share some of the observations we make in our in-person book club after the fact!
I’m deeply excited about this book club for so many reasons. For starters, I so look forward to your comments/reactions/recommendations when it comes to books, and I like the idea of elevating that strand of this community. I also look forward to meeting many of you in-person after knowing you virtually for years. And, finally, I have an auspicious feeling that everything is coming full circle in my life with its launch: for many years, I wanted nothing more than to be a professor, talking about books with a roomful of avid, insightful readers, and this book club community gives me that opportunity, albeit informally and with the roles a bit muddied (in that I’m just as much a student as anyone else in the book club).
If this book isn’t your cup of tea, my two oddball runner-ups (don’t judge): Gucci Mane’s autobiography, which has received rave reviews but just didn’t feel like the right start to my book club, and Sunburn by Laura Lippman, a book of “psychological suspense.”
Now, onto what I just finished…
Book Review: Nemesis by Peter Evans
Four stars. I found this book about Jackie Kennedy’s relationship with Aristotle Onassis endlessly riveting, shocking, and provocative. It certainly advances a different, less flattering vision of Jackie — one in which she appears money-driven, insecure, stubborn, status-obsessed, and self-involved. However, unfavorable portraits of Jackie are not uncommon these days as we collectively rewrite “the Camelot years” for what they were — and Evans’ primary achievement in the book is instead a bold claim: he opines that Onassis was involved in the assassination of RFK (!!!). However, this conspiracy theory wasn’t the most mesmerizingly outlandish part of the book, which, to me, was Onassis himself. He is a Bad Dude, embroiled in many shady business and political dealings in his time — and yet. He is fascinating. I couldn’t stop reading about him, puzzling over him, closing my eyes and attempting to imagine what Jackie and Onassis’ cadre of other beautiful jetset mistresses saw in him. Here is a true self-made billionaire (yes, billionaire) who spared no expense (every evening started with Taittinger and Beluga caviar) and lived a glamorous, flashy life with some of the most stunning women of his time, but one who was also garish and impolite and something of a persona non grata in some of the higher social circles to which he aspired. He was a man who was both mercilessly cruel and outrageously extravagant to those he loved. He was drawn to dark attractions — political coups, drug trafficking, shipping scandals, money laundering, wire tapping (true mafia stuff!) — and yet there are moments in the book where he seems a sad, lonely, bitter, broken-down soul. A human who had been through some tough stuff.
The stories in this book are unbelievable. And I mean unbelievable both in the sense that they are astonishing and that they are difficult to accept as truth, especially since Evans often asserts them as fact when they are instead recollections from the fast and loose jetset with whom he cavorted, and — well, are they the most credible sources?
I also took issue with the book’s prurience — everything is about sex, or at least in Evans’ opinion it is. At certain points, his writing borders on the voyeuristic in a way that feels deeply implicating for its author. I remember some of our friends were over while I was midway through it, and I commented: “This book pretends that everything is motivated by sex.” One of our friends (a man) replied: “Well, it is. Not sex exactly, but I would argue that most things happen because of intimate relationships between men and women.” Wow! That threw me for a loop and left me thinking for some time.
Even still. The disproportionate amount of time the author spends excavating the intimate details of the relationships between the crowd of celebrities that populate this book felt overly salacious and even at times exploitative and libelous — and for what? Often, his commentaries on this topic felt neither here nor there, and I found myself rolling my eyes or shrugging: what is this adding to anything?
All that said, I must marvel at the caliber of Evan’s investigative journalism: the book is heavily researched and he has the footnotes to show for it. What’s even more appealing about it is that the majority of the book’s details come “straight from the horse’s mouth” — that is, straight from those people involved, which affords a sense of reality TV-viewing vs. stagey re-enactments in a made-for-TV documentary.
Strongly recommend this for any fellow Jackie enthusiasts, especially coming off the heels of the podcast about her, which I absolutely adored, and which painted her in a decidedly different light.
Three stars. From one salacious read to the next — this book is a borderline explicit adult novel. I was initially drawn in by the improbable plot set-up, which had the look and feel of one of my absolute favorite romantic comedies: the under-the-radar Picture Perfect, starring a young Jen Aniston and an awkward Jay Mohr. (I still watch this movie yearly.) The main character feels relatable, realistic in her anxieties over her budding romance, and the detailed interior monologue rang true to me (“what did he think about this?” “but he said this…”) I further appreciate that we have a main character who is smart, well-educated, driven, and dedicated to her job, as I feel that so many of the books I’ve read in the chick lit category portray women working in vaguely glamorous publishing/magazine jobs, or with jobs that are curiously absent from the narrative. This book (at times forcibly) attends to her career, making it a part of the narrative itself, even though it does feel a bit “tacked on” at times (i.e., Why are we spending so much time talking about this when it’s clear that this is just a foil or convenience to the main plot?) All-in, lightweight, lascivious fare.
P.S. I have had my eye on one of the beautiful yellow floral print Self-Portrait dresses for the past few weeks (love this one and this one), and then Rebecca Taylor came out with this similar, stunning style. Get the look for less with this beaut from Banjanan, or this style from BBDakota.
P.P.S. Speaking of dresses, this is the most popular dress I’ve ever featured on my blog, and this is the most popular item I’ve ever featured on my blog!
P.P.P.S. Ordering a set of these for our family summer stationery.
P.P.P.P.S. Still enjoying the comments that occasionally roll in responding to this post!
By: Jen Shoop
I’ve written a series of posts about my recent skincare acquisitions (also here) and I must reiterate the entrance of two ultra-powerful newcomers in my skincare routine: Ole Henriksen’s Truth Serum and Tata Harper’s Regenerating Cleanser. I love these two products so much that I purchased them for several loved ones and spent Friday morning updating my entire Best of Everything: Beauty Post to include them. (FYI — while editing the post, I took time to go back through every section to update/edit/add new reviews wherever needed. I’m happy to say that the vast majority of picks have stayed the same, but there were a handful of newcomers and new products that I threw into the mix. For example, I’d never featured a blowdry primer or hair mask or serum, but now I can’t live without any of them.)
Les Details:
Ole Henriksen’s Truth Serum: Guys. This stuff is legitimate black magic. Go to your local Sephora, ask for a sample, scurry home, and watch true alchemy take place before your eyes. I start every day by cleaning my face (scrubbing it for 1-2 minutes!) and then applying this serum. I swear to God, my skin transforms before my eyes: it looks plumper, brighter, more hydrated within seconds. It’s like having my teenage skin back! I also find that when I apply this followed by moisturizer and truly take the time to massage it into my skin, my makeup looks better — everything looks smoother, more radiant, more natural. I feature a lot of beauty products on this blog, but this, along with my m61 power peel pads, are must-have, game-changing power players.
Tata Harper Regenerating Skin Cleanser: For years, I tried to “break up” with Proactiv because I found it to be overly drying and overly harsh and was dubious of its ingredients — I’m pretty sure it has bleach in it, because it has stained many pajamas in my time. But I found that every cleanser I tried was just too mild — I’d wind up breaking out or feeling as though my skin wasn’t truly cleansed. Then I found Tata Harper’s cleanser, which contains microbeads that exfoliate your skin, but are gentle enough to use every day — in other words, it feels like your cleanser is actually doing something when you’re applying it. I take 1-2 minutes to exfoliate with this every single morning and my skin feels clean but not tight. Pores look smaller, imperfections are smoother, and my skin looks overall brighter, more balanced. I’m a convert. Never going back.
I am also very impressed with these facial radiance pads, which I have been using for the last few weeks when reapplying my makeup before going out in the evening, or cleaning up after a run through the park. I swear that if you use these pads or Tata Harper’s cleanser, then apply the serum, you’ll look like a changed woman.
Post-Script.
+If you loved those Tory Burch pearled mules I bought last season, they finally went on sale in a different colorway here!
+Do you use a scent booster for your laundry? I’m thinking about buying this for when we wash our towels/sheets. I don’t know that I’d care to use it for clothing, but to keep linens smelling fresh for longer?
+We’re taking mini on a fairly long car trip in May and I may give in to the idea of loading my iPad with a game or movie just in case we get into a desperate situation. I’m going to buy this for the occasion.
+I’m intrigued by the design of this beach romper. It looks SO comfortable, and I love the bows on the shoulders…but would I look frumpy in it?
I am dying over the amazing steals to be had for minimagpie in Ralph Lauren’s Extra 30% off promotion (use code TAKE30 on any purchase over $150) — I have been prowling the kids’ sale section in search of incredible gems (how can you not take advantage of the additional discount ON TOP OF sale prices?!) and thought I’d share my top picks:
*I love dolling mini up in dresses and two-piece sets, but when we’re at home, and she’s crawling around everywhere — I love to put her in comfortable cotton leggings and sweaters. I love that these add a little interest to the basic colors I tend towards. I’d pair them with an oversized white sweater!
By: Jen Shoop
My Latest Score: The Duster.
I saw the snap above on Pinterest and stopped in my tracks, knowing I needed to replicate her all-neutral-everything look, and STAT. We’re finally steering towards warmer weather, and I like the idea of pairing white skinnies with an ivory/cream duster sweater — specifically, this one (on sale for $50!), with it’s lightly blousoned sleeves.
#Turbothot: Facebook, Dark Advertising, + the Parliamentary Inquisition.
Have you been watching the British Parliament’s interrogation of Facebook and Cambridge Analytica executives with regards to Facebook’s possible role in affecting the outcome of the Brexit referendum? We watch the news every morning and, several days this past week, CBS has interrupted its normal reporting to broadcast the examinations. I’ve been sucked in, in large part owing to the eccentric and theatrical inquiries from members of Parliament. There is showmanship and drama in their questioning: at one point, one member of the interrogation committee commented that in preparing his notes for the day, he kept returning to a quote from Rolling Stone‘s 2009 harangue of Goldman Sachs, which described the bank as “a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells like money.” The Parliament member looked directly at the Facebook executive and asked whether it “bothered him” that Facebook seemed to be the 2018 version of such villainy.
WOW!
The tenor of the conversation, the charge and theatrics of it, shocked me, and while I share Parliament’s disgust and distress over the fact that political outcomes may have been tampered with owing to “dark advertising” and data manipulation made possible by Facebook — I can also see that there are some complicated nuances to the issues at hand. How does one draw the line between freedom of speech and divisive political marketing? How does a corporation enforce such lines operationally — how do they identify, isolate, and punish bad actors, especially in the context of a platform that sees millions and millions of ads circulated every day? How does one define what’s ethical vs. non-ethical in the use of ad targeting, which can (plausibly) be used for good, too — Cambridge Analytica cited the fact that charitable causes were able to raise more money for disaster relief when they could more carefully target likely donors. At one point in the examination, in response to a disturbing example of the impact “dark advertising” has had on recent political events, the Facebook executive commented that the social media platform has also enabled good, citing the example of a close friend who had been diagnosed with a rare disease and was able to connect with and find solace in other patients through a Facebook group centered around it. The member of Parliament shrugged that off quickly, eager to return to his diatribe.
I suppose my feeling is this: there are clearly ethical problems at hand in the use of Facebook for political means, but the Parliament committee’s oversimplification and ad hominem attacks felt a bit blunt, a bit like trying to hammer a nail with a six by six foot piece of plywood: in the end, it probably gets the job done, but there’s a lot of awkward bludgeoning involved. I’m certain that there is an intent here, though: the commission wants to make a statement, wants to position itself as completely, pristinely ethically opposed to what’s transpired, and they will resort to drama to underscore that position.
Have any of you tuned in? What were your reactions?
#Shopaholic: The Versatile Shirtdress.
+Love this versatile shirt dress, especially in the khaki. Wear to work with pointed toe flats and pearls; wear on the weekend with simple slides or Supergas; wear in transitional weather layered over a striped long-sleeved tee!
+Swoon: this would make such a lovely mother-of-the-bride dress, or drop-dead gorgeous wedding guest dress for a garden wedding.
+Contemplating buying these and some non-toxic paint for mini — the big question being whether she’ll just try to eat it the whole time…
P.S. I LOVED reading your comments on this post, which served as fodder for many conversations in our household this week. Mr. Magpie texted me to say: “You have some really smart readers.” Um, YAH. (He reads every single comment on the blog, too.)
Cheers to the freaking weekend! Our nanny was out all last week and my entire little family has been sick all this week, so I am ready to put April to bed and emerge in May.
In the meantime, 10 picks…!
Pick No. 1: The Paper Bag/Bow-Front Waist.
I have always been drawn to a bow-front/paper bag waist (worn with panache above and below) — I find it flattering to emphasize my waist, and you can pair a bodysuit or snug-fit top with it without feeling too too.
I’d love to splurge on this denim pair, but this pair in the strawberry pink are calling my name, and these (under $50) are a great way to get the look for less.
Pick No. 2: The Mommy-and-Me Swimwear.
I shared some of my favorite mommy-and-me looks recently, but for those of you less inclined towards the matchy-matchy and more in favor of coordination, how about this lemon-print two-piece for you, and this strawberry print one for her? They’re not even the same color, but the scale of the print and the fact that they’re both fruity make them just coordinated enough to look intentional.
Pick No. 3: The Watermelon Clutch.
And speaking of fruit-inspired fashion, please tell me you share my obsession with this watermelon clutch (lined in grosgrain!) I was actually surprised by the price — I was anticipating something far more expensive, I suppose because Edie Parker has a watermelon style that costs nearly $1500! P.S. – Your mini can coordinate with her own little watermelon bag, too!
Pick No. 4: The Vintage Turkish Rug.
I’m obsessed with the selection of brightly-colored, vintage Turkish rugs here. I cannot stop drooling over them! (I also love the selection at this Etsy store. I have in my mind that I will change up the color scheme for mini’s room once she gets into her teenage years, and I love the vivid pinks involved below and in this store, too! How amazing is this one?!)
Pick No. 5: The Salad Secret.
My absolute favorite salad to make in the summer is Molly Wizenberg’s Cherry-Goat-Cheese-Bread Salad, which actually has very little in the way of greens in it: it’s more about the tang of the balsamic against the sweet of the cherry against the garlic-butteriness of the croutons. But still — the pictures of the beautiful composed salads below make my mouth water and leave me longing for warm summer nights with endless glasses of rose and heaping salads — or, ya know, my next night of #SBB. But you know the secret to a good salad? Well-washed and dried leaves. Is there anything worse than wet lettuce? The vinaigrette never clings properly, and it always feels unpleasant on the tongue. (And given the recent food-borne illnesses stemming from unclean romaine…you’ve got to be washing your lettuce thoroughly!) I use this OXO Salad Spinner nearly daily — to wash herbs, lettuces, etc. I think it says a lot that we make space for this large contraption in our small kitchen, especially given that you *could* get by with a strainer you’d use for other purposes, but — no. We need our salad spinner. Our process is to let the lettuce/herbs soak in water for five minutes, then drain it, then re-fill it and re-soak, and then, after multiple vigorous shakes and spins, leave to air dry. It’s a must.
I have absolutely nowhere to wear this dress to, but I am deeply in love with it. I am praying that it goes on sale during one of their seasonal sales and I can snap it up then, when it’s a bit more practical in terms of buying-for-a-rainy-day. This is far less formal, but — in a similar floral frothy vein — I’m eyeing this less expensive style for an evening date.
Pick No. 8: The Aerin Lauder Scent Collection.
I had drinks with Mackenzie and Amy at Flora Bar the other night, and they were both raving about Aerin Lauder’s perfume collection. I’m so intrigued, I am planning on taking myself on a little date to Neiman’s to smell them all. I’m pretty sure, though, that I’ll be in love with Tuberose le Jour. I am currently wearing Carven, a heady floral scent that I love — but it feels a bit more appropriate for evening wear for some reason? I also love Byredo’s Gypsy Water — I have a rollerball I keep in my handbag at all times.
Pick No. 9: The New Cocktail Napkin.
I always have Caspari cocktail napkins on hand for entertaining, and I love switching up the prints at the dawn of a new season. I just ordered a pack of these stunning peony-print ones.
If there’s any secret to a well-dressed babe, it’s a well-organized mama. I find myself planning so far ahead, buying clothes out of season so that they’ll arrive on time or buying items at the end of the season for the following year in order to stay on top of festivities and holidays. I already purchased this $18 bow-shouldered dress for her for the Fourth, and she’ll wear it with a big navy bow and her water-friendly Salt Water sandals.
For the days around the fourth, I took hearty advantage of Jacadi’s red collection this season; I was especially drawn to cherry print goodies like this pair of sneakers, which I can’t wait for her to grow into. (I have it on good authority from a longtime Magpie reader that Jacadi’s sneakers are the absolute best-made ones you can find for a new walker — they hold up in the wash, come in great colors, and apparently sell out quickly. I like these in gray and these in either color.)
If you’re looking for something subtler for the occasion (not over-the-top red-white-and-blue), I love this or this.
And if you want to go all out in traditional smocked glory, look no further than this for your baby girl — I’ve purchased from this store before and have been extremely impressed with the quality — and this for your baby boy.
More Fourth of July Baby Outfit Picks.
Click on individual items below to access product details, or see links at bottom:
P.S. This towel is also precious for the occasion, and every family needs one of these and these for Fourth of July parades!
P.P.S. I’m dying to buy mini one of these. She loves to load up her v-tech walker with toys and dolls, but they always fall off, which ends in tears. Problem solved.
P.P.P.S. Traveling for the fourth? You need to read this.
