Between my hectic work schedule, trip packing and a myriad of other little fires to put out, I’ve been living out the “barely have time to think” cliche. So it’s time to get myself together and take a breather — a real one — over this long holiday weekend.

We’re off to visit Spencer’s family tomorrow and, because I’m nowhere near organized to have scheduled posts ahead this week, write meg! will feature a little radio static until next Thursday. I generally don’t like to disappear on y’all, but I can barely hold my head above water right now. And a huge wave is cresting the horizon.

I’ll be back — with photos and stories and book reviews because, surprisingly, I am getting some reading done! (A little. A bit. But enough.) And I don’t think I’m alone in looking forward to a plane ride for the uninterrupted time with a novel, right? Eh, hopefully Spence has a magazine. I don’t imagine I’m going to be much of a conversationalist.

Happy Memorial Day to my American friends — and may we all take some time this weekend to remember those who gave all for our freedom. I’ll see you next week!

At a photography club meeting last Saturday, a friend showed a dark, unusual image at the end of a presentation. I squinted at the screen, wondering what he could possibly be showing us, as Jeff asked the group if we recognized the photo. A few people did.

It’s Earth, he explained — our home. A “Pale Blue Dot” in the vastness of space. And then he read aloud a passage from astronomer Carl Sagan. It was one of the most powerful pieces I’ve ever heard.

We talk about more than photos at our montly gatherings — though the subject is certainly steeped in photography. Pale Blue Dot is a picture of Earth taken from 3.7 billion miles away. Captured in 1990, you may have heard of it — but I’ll confess I never had. (This upsets my scientist fiance, I’m sure.) In the days since Jeff showed us Pale Blue Dot, it’s been ricocheting around in my mind . . . as has Sagan’s passage from the book of the same name:

“From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it’s different. Consider again that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every ‘superstar,’ every ‘supreme leader,’ every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity — in all this vastness — there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known, so far, to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

Home. Our little sliver of the universe.

Sometimes thoughts are too big to begin to contain them. This is probably one. But as someone always prone to asking too many Big Questions, it’s gotten me thinking — and thinking — and I felt it worth sharing.

Even on the bad days, even on the tragic days, even on the scary days . . . I’m glad we’re all here. Together.

Visiting Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown on Mother’s Day.

For more Wordless Wednesday, visit here or here!

You’ve heard of some, I’m sure. Maybe you’ve read a few. But for the unfamiliar, the stunt memoir’s premise is that, for a certain amount of time, the author will embark on a personal challenge and then write about it — often in the spirit of self-discovery or improvement. Maybe it’s not looking at herself in a mirror for a year. Or trying to follow the Bible to the letter. Or following the advice of a women’s how-to guide from the 1960s.

And you know what? Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s enlightening and interesting and compelling. And sometimes . . . it’s a stretch. It feels contrived. There’s nothing interesting or fresh. Friends, it’s with great sadness that I place the awesome Jen Lancaster’s latest work, The Tao of Martha, into the latter category.

This pains me — it really does. But this book didn’t work for me. I waited for it to get funny or to illuminate something or to shimmer with the wit that has made Lancaster a bookish superstar, but it just never got there. And with only 50 pages to go, I resorted to skimming. Skimming. Skimming in a Lancaster book. That’s just . . . sacrilege.

You’ve probably gleaned Lancaster’s “stunt” from the title but, if not, here goes:

“Jen’s still a little rough around the edges. Suffice it to say, she’s no Martha Stewart. And that is exactly why Jen is going to Martha up and live her life according to the advice of America’s overachieving older sister — the woman who turns lemons into lavender-infused lemonade.

By immersing herself in Martha’s media empire, Jen will embark on a yearlong quest to take herself, her house, her husband (and maybe even her pets) to the next level — from closet organization to craft making, from party planning to kitchen prep.

Maybe Jen can go four days without giving herself food poisoning if she follows Martha’s dictates on proper storage. Maybe she can grow closer to her girlfriends by taking up their boring-ass hobbies like knitting and sewing. Maybe she can finally rid her workout clothes of meatball stains by using Martha’s laundry tips. Maybe she can create a more meaningful anniversary celebration than just getting drunk in the pool with her husband . . . again. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll discover that the key to happiness does, in fact, lie in Martha’s perfectly arranged cupboards and artfully displayed charcuterie platters.

Or maybe not.” (Goodreads)

So, okay: this book wasn’t bad. Despite my tone, a Jen Lancaster memoir is still often better than a non-Jen Lancaster memoir. Her battles in her garden, attempts to sculpt a magnificent trick-or-treating experience for neighborhood kids, poignant stories of losing a beloved dog? All well-told, and worth the price of admission. (And my three-star rating.) There were moments when The Tao of Martha offered up the Jen we all know and love and I thought, Yes! Here she is. Let’s do this.

But then . . . things just got boring.

The story felt forced. I don’t know how else to explain it. Jen is obviously not Martha Stewart and, haha, none of us are because she’s Martha and she’s perfect and blah blah, we’ve been here before. Haven’t we? It felt like a joke that had gone stale: everyone knows Martha is the shining beacon of all mere mortals can never accomplish. No one can be as lovely, perfect, nonplussed. So I guess I was waiting for . . . something more? Jen does experience some growth and actually finds she enjoys some of hobbies she adopts, but it wasn’t enough.

I just never felt invested in her journey, plain and simple.

If you’re new to Jen Lancaster, you can’t go wrong with Bitter Is the New Black. It remains one of the funniest and most heartfelt stories I’ve read, and follow-ups like Bright Lights, Big Ass and Such A Pretty Fat were also stellar. So while The Tao of Martha didn’t wow me, I can unabashedly recommend her works to anyone new to her humor. And I’ll still be eager to get my paws on whatever she whips up next.

3 out of 5!

ISBN: 0452298059 • Goodreads • LibraryThing • Amazon • Author Website
Review copy provided by Amazon Vine in exchange for my honest review

And since weddings are, for the most part, a shining beacon of tradition, I’ve been going through vintage family photos. I started out curiously, just wanting to see how my mom, grandmothers and great-grandmothers dressed, but then a comment at A Practical Wedding got me thinking about how beautiful a display of our family wedding photos would be at the reception.

I have my maternal great-grandparents’ photos from the 1930s (one set is pictured at right). I have my grandparents’ photos from the 1950s. I have my parents’ portrait from 1980 and, soon, my fiance’s parents’ photo from the 1970s. Seeing our families through the ages, making a pledge so important that we wouldn’t be here without it, has added extra weight to our day. Come November, we’ll be adding another branch on the family tree — and, in due course, welcoming children who will someday peer at our wedding photo.

The women in my family all dressed differently on their wedding days. I mean, check out Great Grandma’s rockin’ hat up there. My other great-grandmother wore a very long veil, while my mom and grandma chose shorter ones. My paternal grandmother looked radiant and sophisticated in a sleek ensemble; my maternal grandmother wore a poofy, lacy gown. Similar eras, different choices.

How do I want to look on my wedding day? I ask myself and daydream, staring at Etsy-generated favorites lists of jewelry and pouring through websites of shoes, hairstyles, makeup tips. With my vintage-inspired dress, I know I want the red lip/red shoe look. I want to look sophisticated, too, but still playful and fun. And I just want to feel . . . like me. Like me on my wedding day.

Can there be a more surreal experience?

Regardless of whether the women in my family chose short or long, lace or taffeta, there is, of course, a theme in each portrait: they’re beaming. Smiling with their lips and their eyes. And in the photo I have of my paternal grandparents, their beautiful tiered cake sits ready to be sliced on a table. Maw Maw is looking right at the camera while my grandfather, a man who sadly passed when I was young, is looking at her.

I could do with a photo like that, too.

Taking a break from my regularly-scheduled Wednesday photo posts to talk Gatsby. Honestly, can one have too much Gatsby in their life?

I doubt it, old sport.

Like so many teens, my first exposure to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic came in high school. The Great Gatsby was assigned reading my sophomore year — and though I’ve always been a reader, it took an introduction to this work to get me excited about literature. Gatsby was a gateway drug. I sprang to Austen and Dickens after this 1925 classic, devouring Shakespeare and Welty in turn. Heck, I even humored Hemingway. I was addicted.

Because Gatsby is accessible, entertaining, absorbing and all-around fantastic, I didn’t spend my time as a student afraid to approach Great Literature. I wasn’t scared off by serious tones and symbolism. The Canon of Fabulous Works didn’t intimidate me. My obsession with reading launched my English studies in college, which sharpened my writing skills, which led to my career as a writer and editor.

Can I thank Gatsby for that?

In a way, yes.

But as a lovesick teen girl, I wasn’t focused on the corruption of the American dream or costs of decadence. At 15, I became enamored with the Jazz Age classic because I considered it a love story. (And maybe it still is.) Gatsby’s pursuit of Daisy seemed unrelentingly optimistic and just . . . sweet. Ignorant to the book’s messages, I read it purely as the story of a man who could never forget his first love. Convinced he need only money and luxury to lure Daisy away from the privileged, “careless” life she shares with Tom Buchanan, Gatsby sets off to make it big. And win Daisy back. Her green light is a beacon of hope — one that declares he can have anything he’s ever wished for . . . if he never eases up.

It’s interesting now, examining the story as an adult. I’ve read the book three times and am halfway through a fourth. We went to see Baz Luhrmann’s latest film adaptation on Sunday . . . and I became obsessed with the story anew. No matter how many times I hold Gatsby up for inspection, analyzing his motives and means and parts, I can still uncover more layers. Almost a century after it landed in the hands of its first readers, we still have so much to talk about.

That is the magic of Gatsby. Of Fitzgerald’s writing. Of that particular era of history, the 1920s: so rich and vivid and compelling. Despite some lukewarm to derisive reviews of “The Great Gatsby,”
I loved the film. I loved it so hard. Leonardo DiCaprio was a charismatic, convincing Gatsby, and I viewed his pursuit of wealth and the so-called American Dream with fresh eyes. Daisy’s portrayal by Carey Mulligan was the perfect mix of disaffected ingenue and fragile mess, which I adored, and I despised her all over again.

And can we talk about the music? I know people are all over the place with this one. Executive produced by Jay-Z, the film’s soundtrack features eclectic music — hip-hop, alternative rock — and modern tunes punctuate some of the movie’s most pivotal scenes. As Gatsby and Nick fly in that iconic car and the New York skyline comes into view, a haunting bar of Alicia Key’s “Empire State of Mind” caught me off-guard. But I liked it. It took what could have been a staid  interpretation of an iconic story and turned it around. I downloaded Lana Del Rey’s “Young and Beautiful” from bed the next morning. I just . . . couldn’t get it out of my head. It’s so haunting.

The whole film is haunting.

The modern feel isn’t for everyone, I know. And that’s okay. But even the departures from Fitzgerald’s text — notably a framework where Nick is telling Gatsby’s story from a sanitarium, where he’s being treated for alcoholism and depression, among other ailments — just added to the narrative; for me, it didn’t take anything away. I like that Gatsby is still provoking us to imagine things differently, to ask questions and draw the text into the current world.

Did I think the movie was flawless? No. Nothing ever is. But I didn’t go into “The Great Gatsby” wearing my critical glasses. I wanted to be transported, entertained and dazzled — exactly what I’d expect from a Luhrmann film. And I was. As the credits rolled and the lights came up, I blinked in the dim light. I felt disoriented. Even knowing precisely what was going to happen didn’t save me from feeling breathless throughout the movie, and somehow still shocked by its close. I wanted things to be different.

When I got home on Sunday, I dug through my bookshelves until I found my tattered old copy of Gatsby. It’s underlined and highlighted, dog-eared on pages where a passage or two struck me, and worn around the edges from getting stuffed into book bags and purses. I’m 100 pages into my latest reading. Despite being such a relentless lover of literature, I never re-read books. Ever. Seriously, Gatsby is the only book I’ve ever read more than once — and being on a fourth reading is sort of ludicrous. But seeing the film provoked so many new questions . . . and I wanted to be able to compare the film and book after a fresh reading of the text.

But I can’t really do that. Not really. It’s not fair to intricately compare a book to its cinematic counterpart; they’re two different ways of storytelling. Overall, would I declare the film “faithful” to the beloved text? Yes, I would. And if I agree with some of the quibbles about Nick’s role, for instance, that doesn’t dampen my overall enthusiasm. Gatsby moves me like no other story, and “Gatsby” on the big screen was an incredible experience.

I loved it. And if you love the story, too, I trust you’ve got your tickets.

Maryanne O’Hara’s Cascade has been on my radar since I caught a glimpse of its gorgeous cover last summer, and Audra’s review tipped this into “book lust” category. Why it took me another nine months to read it? Honestly, I don’t know.

But since finishing Cascade early Sunday morning, it’s been lingering behind my eyelids. I read the last 100 pages in a sitting, almost breathless to discover what would become of star-crossed Desdemona, but felt something akin to grief upon finishing O’Hara’s captivating story.

I didn’t want to say goodbye.

Sometimes books speak to us — uniquely, exclusively. The elements of a particular story combine to seem formed just for you . . . and so it was with Cascade. I should preface my review by acknowledging my deep, overwhelming fear of water. Of drowning. Of being pulled under. The idea of an entire town being purposely dismantled and flooded to form a reservoir — of a place that once existed but has since been razed, morphed into a lake — is both fascinating and horrifying.

Cascade, Massachusetts is the kind of quintessential New England town you’d imagine Norman Rockwell’s subjects to inhabit. It’s idyllic and quaint, filled with friends and gossips — a place where everyone truly knows your name. Desdemona “Dez” Hart Spaulding grew up here, buried her mother and brother here, and shelved her dreams of art and New York to provide for her father in the last months of his life. Broke and facing homelessness, Dez agrees to marry Asa Spaulding, a goodhearted pharmacist, so William Hart will be safe in his final days. She’s so absurdly grateful for a roof over her head that she never hesitates to bind her life to Asa’s.

It’s the 1930s. The Great Depression. After the Roaring Twenties, after the Great War changed everything. As news of dust storms blotting out the sun clutter newsreels and bread lines curve around buildings, Dez knows she should be content — grateful — for the relatively comfortable life she shares with Asa. But after her father’s death, a feeling like claustrophobia pushes the air from her lungs.

And things are heating up in town. Long rumored but never made official, word is spreading that the state is finally ready to build a new reservoir for Boston. With its proximity to water and the city, Cascade seems the ideal choice. When Massachusetts sends out Stan Smith, a portly worker for the Water Authority, gossip and worry seep into the town’s very pores. Dez befriends Stan after he stops into her husband’s pharmacy, trying to glean information or a shred of hope for Cascade’s future, but the flood waters already seem to inch around the town. If chosen, Cascade faces imminent ruin. Complete demolition. To be filled until nothing remains.

In that atmosphere of uncertainty, a friendship between Desdemona and Jacob Solomon begins to blossom. A Jewish peddler carrying on his father’s traditions, Jacob also has artistic ambitions — and finds a kindred spirit in Dez, the savvy and creative daughter of a play master. With an appreciation for Shakespeare thanks to her father, Dez is worldly and interesting and nothing like most of the folks in Cascade: a group typically content to drink their root bear floats at Asa’s soda fountain and malign Jacob’s good name because he’s “one of them.”

With tensions brewing in Europe and in New England, Dez is faced with an earth rapidly shifting beneath her feet. And it’s time to make a move.

Reading Cascade was such a lush, complicated experience. My description doesn’t do justice to half the threads weaving O’Hara’s moving novel together — but a girl has to try. Of the many elements happening in one 350-page book, the connection brewing between Dez and Jacob captivated me completely. My heart literally ached reading about their friendship, however brief, and the story’s progression found me desperately hoping for something I knew could never be. Without giving anything way, I felt splintered by the novel’s close. Just splintered. Gut-punched.

And that’s the mark of a great story.

And this was a great story . . . the first 5-star book I’ve read in almost a year. A wholly unique tale. One with which I sympathized, and empathized, and became completely swept inside. Between its mirroring of Shakespearean classics and historical tidbits of life just before Pearl Harbor, O’Hara does a masterful job of portraying a town facing imminent destruction just as millions face a gruesome end in Europe. The distrust of the Jewish population — and of Jacob — was devastating, and made me thankful for the intervening years since World War II.

Just as interesting was the art scene — a vivid world portrayed through Dez’s work and connections. New York seemed a wholly familiar and unfamiliar place through O’Hara’s pen: a world I know but do not know. I loved the descriptions of Dez’s paintings and plans, and the light-filled studio rooms in which she would recreate safe spaces. It was romantic and lovely. And the overarching theme — “nothing gold can stay,” if you will, or nothing and no one lasts forever — made me sad and reflective but ultimately . . . hopeful? Yes. Hopeful.

There’s so much I want to talk about, but so much I cannot talk about. This is a story you need to experience and devour yourself. Though it took me 80 pages or so to become fully invested in Cascade’s future, I feel changed as a reader for having read this book. It was magnificent. There aren’t too many novels I’d herald as “a triumph,” the hyperbole of that making me squint, but seriously: Cascade is phenomenal. It touched me. It made me cry. It broke my heart. It raised so many questions.

I absolutely loved it, and it’s time to discover it for yourself.

5 out of 5!

ISBN: 0143123513 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Review copy provided by Historical Fiction Virtual Book Tours
in exchange for my honest review

Who knew losing 10 percent of something could feel so good?

Losing 10 percent of your paycheck? No.

But losing 10 percent of your weight? Something to be celebrated. And after 17 weeks, I hit that milestone Wednesday.

In January, the idea of losing 17 lbs. was daunting. Though I didn’t doubt my commitment to getting healthy, I had a hard time actually visualizing the weight coming off. The scale going down. My energy increasing. It was all too abstract . . . in the beginning, at least. But then I did start slimming down and eating better. Losing dress sizes. Investing in new clothes. Changing my thinking.

In the last month, I’d hovered around the same weight — even gaining for the first time since starting — and was starting to think I’d hit a plateau. Though I wasn’t exactly goofing around with my eating, I have been slooooowly introducing little treats back into my diet. That’s not a problem because, you know, this is real life. If I want to eat a baby Snickers bar, that’s going to happen. No, the real problem was feeling myself backsliding into a “just a little taste” mentality.

Just a little slice of cake.
Just a little bowl of ice cream.
Just a few M&Ms.
Just a handful of chips.

And I would eat them. And I would enjoy them. And life would go on as usual because this isn’t some sort of war against snack foods, you know? But all of those “little tastes” add up — big time. And if I dance around enjoying “just a little” of this or that, I waste the calories I could have used to eat, say, a chicken breast.

Chicken keeps fills you up better than potato chips, y’all. An indisputable fact.

So I reigned myself in. Got myself back in a healthy mentality. Returned to politely demurring in the face of a mountain of sweets and reminded myself that an occasional indulgence is A-OK, but I can’t slip back into a “eat whatever you want when you want it” mindset.

After 17 weeks of Weight Watchers, I’ve officially lost 18.4 lbs. and hit that 10 percent weight loss goal! I remember sitting in our first January meeting, right after I’d been handed my personal goals, and wondering what in the world I would look like with 17 lbs. shed from my short frame. And now I know. And though I’m still going strong, just having hit that magic number feels awesome.

Sorry if I talk about weight loss too much. I swear I’m not becoming That Girl who goes on and on about her eating habits (er, am I?), but this was too exciting not to share.

I’m holding my 10 percent keychain in the second shot, complete with my 16-week charm for sticking with it for four consecutive months. It’s a tangible representation of what makes me feel so good: not the weight loss persay (though losing two dress sizes is fantastic), but the joy I feel at having kept a commitment to myself.

Even when it was challenging.
Even when I didn’t feel like it.
Even when it made me angry.

I did it. And I’m doing it. And I’ll keep doing it.

My personal pride? The real icing on the (low-fat) cake.

It’s one of my favorite pastimes, in fact. The people, the architecture, the desserts . . . all tantalizing. Intoxicating. Absorbing. If I had the funds and vacation time (both quite elusive these days), I’d be on a transcontinental flight faster than you can say macaron.

But alas. Until I can sip wine beneath the Eiffel Tower in person, I’ll have to settle for delightful stories like Eloisa James’ memoir Paris In Love.

After surviving cancer shortly after her mother recently died of the disease, Eloisa James convinces her husband, son and daughter to move abroad for a year to discover what the Parisian life is all about. With Anna and Luca settled in a new school and Alessandro learning the local ropes, Eloisa settles in to absorb the city and work on several books.

A popular and prolific romance novelist, Eloisa makes no bones about her French journey: though she may wish she and her family came away from the experience with amazing “life lessons” or a greater appreciation for family or the passage of time, what their year abroad really taught her was to try and be in the moment. Life is just life. Told as a series of vignettes, Paris In Love is a compilation of her skillfully-crafted Facebook and Twitter updates from their time in the City of Light — occasionally expanded into short essays about subjects as diverse as Anna’s burgeoning friendships, French food, a nearby dance school and more.

It was a different reading experience — and a quick one. James’ thoughts are shared in paragraph-long snippets that, while chronological, don’t necessarily connect from one page to the next. The results felt like reading someone’s travel journal: little glimpses of day-to-day life for a stranger in a strange land, trying to blend with the locals while getting some work done. The most charming passages focused on Luca and Anna, Alessandro and Eloisa’s children, and I looked forward to hearing about their ex-pat adventures in school.

Francophiles and armchair travelers will find Paris In Love to be a fast, delightful read — and James’ fans will welcome an opportunity to know the author better through her memoir. If Paris lacks sparkle for you, you’ll likely find the descriptions hum-drum — but if you’re looking to escape to the other side of the Atlantic for a few hours, James’ invitation to come along is a fun one.

4 out of 5!

ISBN: 0812981901 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Review copy provided by publisher in exchange for my honest review

“I love to cry at weddings! Oh, how I love to cry at weddings . . .”

As a high school theater nerd, I remember our production of “Sweet Charity” and one of its iconic songs. I played a “dancer” (dance hall dancer, that is . . .) in the show, and “I Love To Cry At Weddings” was a big final number. I remember liking the catchy tune, but the lyrics didn’t really connect with me. At 17, I hadn’t been to many weddings — but I couldn’t fathom why anyone would actually shed tears at one. I mean, aren’t those happy times?

But, you know, I get it now. It’s an ending; it’s a beginning. It’s a promise and a confirmation wrapped into one emotional package. When our friends Michael and Bethany tied the knot last weekend, I was sniffing and stifling my happy sobs in the sunshine. After nine years together, the high school sweethearts made the big leap — and their happiness was absolutely contagious. They were literally beaming.

It was such a happy day. In addition to being over-the-moon excited for them, it was so nice to have so many friends gathered in one place. That’s the part I’m most looking forward to about our own big day: having our nearest and dearest in the same room, perhaps for the first and only time. There has to be something magical about looking out at a space filled with so many people you care about.

Plus, it’s funny to imagine my coworkers dancing with my friends dancing with Spencer’s family dancing with my grandparents. Just: worlds colliding.

The details of the day are what I most love to capture — and there were plenty to document. As they were married on May 4 and are “Star Wars” fans, “May the Fourth Be With You” was a recurring theme. We even enjoyed some Darth Vader-shaped cookies as appetizers before it was time for barbeque . . .

The whole day was warm and sun-drenched and beautiful, and I just felt so lighthearted. It’s a great change from the mire and muck of the winter. The wedding felt like the official kick-off to spring — and “wedding season,” if others’ Instagram photos are any indication. We definitely have enough celebrations on the docket. I’m thrilled.

I really do love to cry at weddings. In our whacky, unpredictable world, I don’t think I could tire of celebrating happiness.

Buying paint is such a grown-up thing to do.

And six months from being a married woman, I’m starting to feel like one.

I don’t know why it’s taken so long for us to slap some color on the walls. Spencer became a homeowner almost two years ago, and we were both pumped to decorate his space. It was a blank canvas — literally. White walls, beige carpet. Nothing but empty space to fill, fill, fill.

But the options were overwhelming. Since we could do anything with the kitchen and living room and hallways, the options were too much. And I have no real clue about interior design. For years I was actually afraid to really make any bold moves in the house, nervous about stepping on Spence’s toes as The Girlfriend who didn’t, you know, live there. How could I decide what he should have to look at when I was only there half the time? It didn’t seem fair.

That being said, that was all firmly in my head. Spencer never gave me anything but free reign to help design and decorate his home into a very “us” space — even before we were engaged. But now that we’re six months out from the wedding, I feel the earth shifting. I’m moving in soon. And we’re trying to get things organized before that happens.

In addition to redesigning the master closet to accommodate my avalanche of clothes and shoes and bags (that should be nice and scary), we’re finally sprucing things up. Hanging prints and photos. Dusting. Vacuuming the nooks and crannies. Going through old boxes. We went through the bedroom and closet on Sunday, getting rid of the detritus that tends to accumulate, and it felt so nice and productive. We opened the windows, got a trash bag and began sorting and throwing out and organizing.

I do like to be organized.

So that’s one little corner down. After procuring the Borders bookcases two years ago, our work around the living room came to a stop. We did quite a bit of reorganization after Christmas, moving decorations and ornaments to a hall closet, but haven’t done much of a purge since then.

Spence jokes I’m moving in one garbage bag at a time, and that’s not entirely untrue. I bring something with me every time I come over. Lately I’ve been sorting through my clothes at home, donating older items to charity and bagging up the out-of-season clothes to bring to Spencer’s. I’ve already moved several trash bags full of sweaters and hoodies, plus all of my work-out clothes (Lord knows I barely use them). I’ve also dragged all of my winter coats and jackets over and hung them with Spence’s in the hall closet.

Moving is weird. I still live at home. I never moved out, not even for college, and as a 27-year-old woman with a lifetime of memories in one childhood bedroom? Well, it’s strange. It’s hard. I’ve moved beyond fear at the idea of leaving to excitement at the prospect of sharing a home with my guy, but it’s still going to be odd to live full-time in another town.

Hmm.

But not going to dwell on that. Let’s talk about paint! After years of staring at white walls, Spence and I finally made a plunge last weekend. We decided the living room was in need of an accent wall — and since we were juuuuust getting started with this whole color thing, it seemed like the logical place to begin.

We motored over to check out paint at a home improvement store, the first time I’ve ever been excited to hang out in one, and grabbed swatches in varying hues. We finally narrowed our choices down to three and bought samples, which came in cute little containers. Our living room is mostly green, brown and taupe, so we were looking for something earthy but bold to complement the palette we have going on right now.

So we chose red, naturally!

It sounds weird, I know, but stick with me. Though Spence and I may not have identical tastes in decor, we’re both suckers for red (our primary wedding color, in fact). We brought home samples in deep purple, an olive-toned brown and this unusual, bold red hue . . . and after Spence painted swatches on the wall, we agreed immediately that red was it.

Plus, as an added bonus? The red will totally complement our postcard pillows. Visiting Spence’s family in New York last summer, I stumbled upon fabric featuring vintage postcards in a quilting shop. I fell in love instantly, of course, but had no clue what I would do with said fabric. My lovely soon-to-be mother-in-law is a talented quilter and certainly no slouch with a sewing machine, so she kindly made pillows out of the fabric when she came to visit at Thanksgiving. I am in love with them. And they’re beige, green . . . and red!

Are we strange enough to match an accent wall to a collection of pillows? Maybe. But in all honesty, I just think the red looks really cool. We’ll officially convert the wall to red later this week, and I’m enjoying the little splash of color in the meantime.

You know, I was terrified when Spence first dipped his brush into the paint — afraid of the enormity of bright red on a white wall. It was so permanent. And scary. But once it was done, decided and begun, it was invigorating. It’s the second life of his home — our home. We’re ushering in a new chapter, scrawling the rest of the story . . . the one we’re writing together.

Or painting together.

Walking out of work last night, I looked up at that more-vivid-than-life tree and thought: I feel so happy.

The low-lying fog wrapped around my brain seems to have dissipated. I’m thinking it’s thanks to the real-deal explosion of spring: everything is so bright and fresh and colorful, it seems I’ve left the sepia-toned world and stepped straight into Technicolor. The world feels good again. It felt rough for so long.

Spencer is home again! He was out west for almost two weeks for work, and I don’t believe we’ve ever been separated that long. I missed his smile and very presence, for sure — but more than anything, I missed the little emails we exchange throughout the day. I didn’t realize how important it is for me to share the tedious details of my afternoons — random stuff only a fiance would care about, like what Weight Watchers-approved item I had for lunch. And for me to know all the random, silly stuff he’s up to. Our life is an ongoing, run-on sentence. Not hearing from him too often was . . . strange. He’s my biggest fan, supporter, confidante. Sometimes I still get that “pinch me” feeling . . . you know, pinch me and I’ll wake up, still wandering aimlessly in my own life.

Thank goodness I’m not.

My sister got a job! Oh, my sweet sister: the hardest-working twenty-something I know. She’s now working for a production company in Washington, D.C., which means she gets to go downtown every day . . . and I get to bug her for the haps on what’s going on in the city. She’s still working in her field, which seemed up in the air — and on just her second day of work (!), she attended a press conference at the White House . . . where she totally saw the president. Wow. As her own wedding day approaches, this job has brought such relief, I can’t even tell you. I hadn’t discussed that situation here or elsewhere because it wasn’t my story to share, but it weighed heavily on all of us. Thank God.

Wedding planning is coming along! Most of the major items are in place, and Spence and I are working on the details of flowers, tuxes, etc. I’m getting ready to order our invitations, which is so exciting and scary . . . I am a stationery freak, so making a final decision is hard for me. I guess I was waiting for a “This is The One” moment with my invites? I don’t know. Like, this is The Man. And this is The Dress. And this is The Venue. But I’m so undecided about paper, of all things, but I think it’s time to just make a decision. I’m sure they’ll be lovely. (And yep, ordering from Wedding Paper Divas. Everything else I’ve looked at has been EX-PEN-SIVE. Like all things bridal.)

Hanson is coming in concert! After they released information on their world tour, a D.C. area concert was conspicuously absent from the schedule. Thankfully we got word that a local show on June 15 had been added, so I’ll be nabbing tickets for Kate and me. This will be our tenth or eleventh show? I don’t know. I lost track long ago. But if Hanson’s comin’, we’ll be attendin’. Laws of physics and such.

Our friends are getting married tomorrow! I haven’t attended a wedding in years, and the weather here in Maryland is supposed to be perfect this weekend. We’ll be outdoors at a restored barn, and I am just so ridiculously happy for Bethany and Mike. They’re such a sweet couple, and it’s so exciting for the first of our three weddings to arrive! Bethany got engaged two months before Katie and me, and we’ve been doing lots of planning together. Time to find a fun dress and get out there!

I’m back on a reading kick! After working through a slump in the winter, I managed to read six books in April (and all good ones). I’m halfway through Jen Lancaster’s The Tao of Martha right now, and Jen is just my hero. I doubt it’ll be on par with Such a Pretty Fat or Bitter is the New Black, but it’s definitely a fun read.

I’m still losing weight! Down 16.6 lbs and going strong. Another .4 lbs. and I’m officially at my 10 percent weight loss goal for Weight Watchers. I want to lose another 7 lbs. to be at my personal goal, and then I’m going to start maintaining before the wedding. Feels so great.

Hope everyone has a very pleasant weekend!

But life has changed. After an incident in a New York kitchen, Queenie finds herself unemployed and homeless in one fell swoop. Crawling back to Merry Carole, her older sister, is the only sensible option — at least until she gets on her feet. Soon she accepts a unique position: cooking death row inmates’ last meals at a nearby prison.

The job is hard. And weird. And she has fellow prisoners for sous chefs, but they diligently — and quietly — work on anything Queenie asks. Between the struggle to create the “perfect” last meal for these doomed souls, dealing with Everett’s reappearance in her life and trying to balance the judgment of her community with her own dreams, Queenie is in a bind. And there’s just one question on everyone’s minds: will she finally stay, or will she go?

Liza Palmer’s Nowhere But Home is an entertaining story I couldn’t put down, even when I eventually wanted to smack Queenie in the head for being such a numbskull. (I have that reaction pretty often.) As much about the roles and expectations of family as it is about accepting love, Palmer’s novel is layered and compelling.

As our star of North Star (sorry, that was cheesy), Queenie is the youngest child of a notorious town harlot who met an untimely end years before. Long shadowed by her mother’s seedy life and dramatic death, Queenie wants to avoid her legacy when possible — except in the kitchen. A famed cook just like her mama, Queenie still fields requests for the Number One: her mom’s signature dish. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this elusive mother, a woman who named her daughter “Queen Elizabeth” so no one could turn their nose up at her. She obviously had issues, poor parenting among them, but had to have done something right to have such kindhearted girls.

Because make no mistake: Queenie is kindhearted. She doesn’t want you to think so, and she’d die before you told her such a thing, but this woman — a narrator who has tried so hard to escape the past, to harden her heart, to avoid pain and confrontation — is really just a broken shell. It takes coming home to North Star, her sister and her star quarterback nephew to begin to put the pieces together again.

“Friday Night Lights” and the Texas football atmosphere are mentioned on the back cover . . . and that scared me a bit. Far from a sports fanatic, the idea of an entire town flipping out over football is foreign to me. But I understand that, you know, Sports Are Great and all; I’m just a book nerd. But Palmer doesn’t go overboard. Queenie’s nephew, Cal, has finally brought honor to the Wake family name — and no one in North Star is psyched about it. But I thought the town dynamics were well-played and interesting, and I wanted to slug the busybodies trophy wives who couldn’t stand to see Merry Carole and Cal happy. What a bunch of jerks.

Overall, this novel is very . . . balanced. Equal parts family dynamics, romance, friendship and dealing with an unsettling past, none of the many plot threads overwhelmed the others. Just as I was getting a little irked with the back-and-forth between Everett and Queenie, we flip over to Queenie dealing with her tumultuous past. Or dealing with the rude parents of her nephew’s teammates. Or pondering her next move. It was easy to read, fast-paced but introspective, and that’s just not something I see too often.

You know, honestly? I’d originally slapped a 3-star rating on this one and called it a day. Though I liked the book, I didn’t think it really resonated with me. But I finished it more than a week before penning this review, and so many details — and emotions — came flooding back just now. It’s rare that a seemingly lighthearted story gives me so much to chew on . . . and that bumped this one up for me. You know, I really liked it. It was really good.

Fans of women’s fiction, small-town dynamics, Texas-set novels and stories that ponder what it means to let go will find much to mull over with Nowhere But Home. Queenie is a heroine as unique as her name, and I wouldn’t hesitate to add this one to your burgeoning to-be-read stack. It’s worth it.

4 out of 5!

ISBN: 0062007475 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Review copy provided by publisher in exchange for my honest review

So this place was awesome.

En route to Yosemite National Park last year, we made a stop at Mono Lake: a large, shallow lake formed at least 760,000 years ago with no ocean outlet. Without a route to the sea, high levels of salt accumulate in the lake — and the water becomes alkaline. Brine shrimp and flies thrive in this unique environment.

It’s a lake, y’all. In a desert.

Though we didn’t have much time to explore, I would love to go back and see Mono Lake’s famed tufa towers. And then we can, um, “detour” over to Yosemite . . . because seriously, you can’t have too much Yosemite in your life.

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