To learn about New York City’s High Line, visit here.

And more Wordless Wednesday is here!

And speaking of my cupcake obsession, I’ve amassed quite a few decorative cupcake liners over the years. So many that they’re literally spilling out of my kitchen cabinet, their colorful wrappers winding up on the floor. I’ve been thinking about ways to get organized and keep them clean and accessible, and that’s when I saw this:

Perfect.

The lovely Trish issued a challenge for all the Pinterest addicts out there: actually do some of the things you pin in the month of May. Never one to shy away from adventure, I joined up — and completing my cupcake organization was my first task.

After a few weeks of searching for a comparable glass container, I eventually found one I liked from HomeGoods. Though not as lovely or large as this baby at Such Pretty Things, I’m really happy with how it turned out! And by “turned out,” I mean how it looked when I stacked all my cupcake liners inside. It took less than five minutes.

Here’s mine:

Pretty enough to leave out year-round!

For $4, I have a way to store my cupcake liners and, best of all, actually keep track of everything I own. Do you know how many packages of Christmas cupcake cases I have? (Answer: at least four. That I can find.) Though I might eventually invest in either a second or larger jar (this is already full, as you can see!), I’m hoping my organized storage system will encourage me to use up what I already have. And that will save me money. Win-win!

——

Many thanks to Trish for much-needed nudge to get crafty! Join the fun this May by completing a few Pinterest-inspired projects, recipes, etc. For more information, visit Love, Laughter, and a Touch of Insanity.

Lisa Fineberg Cook’s Japan Took The J.A.P. Out of Me is an entertaining look at one Type-A woman’s quest to make the most of a foreign experience. Peter’s new teaching post means Lisa must leave behind her L.A.-based friendships, family and work for the year they’re abroad. As someone addicted to her regular primping sessions, lunch dates and hob-nobbing, Lisa’s introduction to Japanese culture is a little rocky. She doesn’t speak the language, for one, and as a tall, blonde American? Well, let’s just say attracts her fair share of attention. Cook isn’t prepared for the onslaught of changes, but eventually attempts to make the most of her time away outside the U.S.

Despite the skewering it’s taken, I have to tell you: I really liked this book. It was my constant companion in the days until I finished it, and I loved Cook’s glimpses at a culture so entirely different from my American way of life. Broken down into chapters regarding seemingly “simple” tasks, like laundry and eating out, Cook’s battles to master things that came naturally in the U.S. really got me thinking. I’ve traveled a bit in other countries and love peeking at how others live, but to actually move there? It was brave. And bold. And really cool.

Does Lisa occasionally act like a spoiled brat? Sure. Does her pinched-nose annoyance with foreign culture become grating? Sometimes. It’s hard to believe someone so averse to living abroad actually moves abroad, but hey — we all do crazy things for love. And Lisa makes no bones about the way she feels for Peter, even getting into the nitty-gritty of doing “dirty” American things in their Japanese living arrangements. We know they’re in love and they’re going to thrive or fall together. I liked the vulnerable parts of their nacent marriage she let us see, and I loved that she never tried to be perfect — or describe it that way.

And here’s what makes Lisa a likable heroine: she’s aware of her faults and doesn’t take herself too seriously. Though deemed “shallow” by other reviewers, I gently beg to differ: Cook is a self-proclaimed J.A.P. (Jewish American Princess), so her misadventures on public transportation and fending for herself in a world where everything is foreign takes on extra meaning. She admits she’s been spoiled and sheltered. And she’s trying to change that. Maybe it takes a while, but that was all right with me. I was invested — and along for the ride.

If you’re looking for a deep look at life for expatriates doin’ their thing in Nagoya, this probably isn’t for you. Lisa is often more interested in finding a good hairdresser and manicurist than becoming culturally enriched, but that didn’t bother me. She does offer insights into Japanese culture through an American lens, though they were pretty superficial. Still, I found her hilarious and charming, and Japan Took The J.A.P. Out of Me was a delightful read.

For chick lit lovers and armchair travelers, this is one delicious bento box of fun. (Mmmm, bento.)

4 out of 5!

ISBN: 1439110034 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Personal copy purchased by Meg

But chevron. So classy. So retro and fun. After I began seeing it pop up on blogs and magazines, I am coveting it. I really want a chevron-patterned skirt, but my search has been (almost) fruitless so far. Still, the joy is in the journey . . . and I definitely enjoy paging through endless shopping sites in search of just the right piece. And these are the pieces I’m lusting after right now.

{Chevron stripe lucite table by tillymaison, $80}

{Vintage chevron skirt from coolvintageplus, $18}

{Chevron thank you cards from Snail Mail Designs, set of 8, $10}

{Black chevron long zipper pouch by MadameCupcake, $11}

Now imagine seeing an ex-boyfriend again . . . with all your former lovers. Not in a singular, crystallized moment — and not when you’re looking your best. When you’re on a desert island, left wondering how you could have ended up stranded with every punk you ever dated. The men are lined up before you: the tall ones; the short ones; the ones who couldn’t keep a job. The female friend with whom you were planning to vacation is on the island, too, with her former flames vying for her attention. But yours? Well, they’re as lackluster as ever. Only the one you never really had — the one you desperately wanted, but couldn’t make work — seems interested. And you’re not sure you want to go down that road.

Thus begins Stacy Bierlein’s A Vacation On The Island of Ex-Boyfriends, a collection of unrelated short stories detailing many women’s struggles to find, keep, steal or forget love. There’s romantic love, familial love, the love of a mother for her child. The love between lovers; the love between a daughter and her father. It’s all here in varying shades, catapulted between different cities and countries. Between a bevy of characters who are all searching, desperately searching, for something.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this book. It had a promising start, with the titular story probably being my favorite in the set — I mean, who doesn’t love the idea of an island filled with ex-boyfriends? (Not that that would be so great in real life — but, you know.) Some stories are first-person accounts — and I tended to like those best. Having a theatre background meant I read those like monologues, picturing a single woman speaking against a dark backdrop. With a spotlight. And that worked for me.

On the whole, though, I didn’t feel particularly compelled to keep reading. Some stories were shorter than others, and my attention ping-ponged as I continued. One reviewer notes the tidy lack of a beginning, middle and end to each individual work, and I agree. Overall, I finished feeling rather unsatisfied — like something was missing. I wanted a little closure, I guess. And that didn’t happen.

Though the lighthearted cover only begins to hint at romantic discord, A Vacation on the Island of Ex-Boyfriends is definitely more in the literary fiction camp. Bierlein’s writing is fluid and her descriptions evocative, but the short story format didn’t really work for me. I think I would enjoy reading a full-length book by her — and possibly continue on with some of the characters she introduces, especially the dot artist in Chicago. But as a whole, I wasn’t emotionally involved. It felt incomplete.

3 out of 5!

ISBN: 0615529771 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Twitter
Review copy provided by LibraryThing’s Early Reviewers in exchange for my honest review

Visiting the New York Public Library last Saturday.

For more Wordless Wednesday, visit here!

Broadway.

The name alone inspires wonder and, if you’re a theatre nerd like me, a bit of awe. When my sister and I heard “Newsies” was shifting from a 1992 cult film to a prized New York City stage performance, we gobbled up tickets — and made plans to head up for the weekend. We heard about the show after seeing “King Of New York” performed at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, then finalized our plans in February. And then? Then, I kind of forgot about it. Because life gets crazy. Because I was planning another trip, busy at work and trying to keep all the plates spinning.

Before we knew it, I was tossing some clothes in a suitcase and hopping on a train to Penn Station. Kate and I got to New York at lunchtime Saturday and hit the ground running, getting a sandwich en route to Times Square and scoping out the New York Public Library (more coming soon). For a book nerd like me, the NYPL was the mecca I’d imagined it would be — and posing with the stone lions was a definite highlight. What can I say? I’m a sucker for tourist hotspots. And though I tried not to scream “TOURIST!” for 48 hours, I was a tourist. And it felt good.

After sightseeing, changing for the evening and enjoying a delicious dinner at Haru on 43rd Street (like my NYC street knowledge?), we made it to the Nederlander Theatre and joined the queue to enter “Newsies,” the entire crazy reason we’d poured ourselves up to the city. After we got in line, the queue wrapped easily around the block — and the audience energy was palpable. People everywhere were chatting, talking excitedly and snapping photos with the flashy marquee. Though I didn’t remember much about “Newsies” (beyond my sister’s favorite songs), I was pumped, too. A real Broadway show! Serious actors! Staying up late in Manhattan!

It was everything I would have wanted — and my sister loved it. A lifelong “Newsies” fan, she performed tunes like “King Of New York” and “Seize The Day” in an elementary school talent show — and I can still picture her dancing in her newsboy cap, so proud of her moves and lyrics. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe my 23-year-old sister is . . . well, 23. Being older, I’m perpetually unaware of her growth and change. To me, she’s still my 5-year-old sidekick with the long tresses and easy laugh.

I’m so glad we could share the experience. Jeremy Jordan was wonderful as Jack Kelly, the smokin’ hot and charismatic leader of the newsboy crew. When newspaper heavyweight Joseph Pulitzer raises the cost of papers (or “papes,” if you’re cool with Newsie lingo), the army of homeless and hungry newsboys in New York City’s boroughs rebel against the added financial burden. Kelly becomes their mouthpiece, organizing a newsboy union and striking. Against arguably the most powerful man in media. This was in 1899 — and based on a true story.

The Broadway rendition is probably catchier than the real-life struggle of hundreds of kids more than a century ago, but that’s quite all right. I like my history with a side of adorable dancing men, stuck-in-your-head-forever show tunes and intrepid girl reporters. “Seize The Day” should be my new anthem as I struggle to get up for work — and these aren’t the kinds of songs you’ll soon forget. The audience was completely into it, leaning forward and dancing in their seats. Aside from the audience member in front of me who almost got a swift kick to the head (literally — I fantasized about it) for her obnoxious screaming (really?), I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

And then we got egg creams and cheesecake from a diner near our hotel and I really couldn’t have asked for anything more.

If you’re in the NYC area or looking for a fun day trip, “Newsies” is well worth a look. We were told by another show goer that the story enjoys a cult following — and judging by the audience’s pumped-up dance moves and enthusiastic standing ovation, I don’t doubt that for a second.

I was reading chick lit long before I ever knew it was chick lit. In my late teens, authors like Jennifer Weiner accompanied me through the murky waters of starting college, beginning and ending relationships and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life.

Novels like Weiner’s Good In Bed (not quite what it sounds like!) gave me perspective in some messy personal situations, and I’ve closely followed her work since I first stumbled across one of her books in an old Waldenbooks (remember those?). A coworker had recommended her work when I was searching for a “must read” author, and she didn’t steer me wrong.

When I really love an author, nothing excites me more than a new release on the calendar — and Jennifer rarely lets us down. Though recent releases like Best Friends Forever didn’t have quite grab me like earlier favorites, I’m always eager to see what she’s out with next. Her most recent book, Then Came You, will be released in paperback tomorrow — May 8. Also out tomorrow is Swim, a new ebook short story available for free to all you lucky ducks with e-readers. And the schmucks like me, trying to read via the Kindle app on my iPhone. (It’s so tiny.)

Years back, I met Jennifer at a signing in Virginia — and she couldn’t have been funnier or more gracious. Filled mostly with women and the occasional boyfriend (including my own brave guy), Jennifer’s audience was captivated by her anecdotes and stood patiently to have their books signed. I brought along my original copy of Good In Bed to grab her signature, which is now in a place of honor in my bookcase.

Jennifer will be touring again in support of her next release, The Next Best Thing, out July 3. See if she’s coming to a city near you! (And if you’re in New York City, don’t miss her team-up with Jen Lancaster in June. Jealous.)

This is me toasting you. Because you’re awesome.

At the height of Hanson’s popularity in 1997, I was one of countless 12-year-olds enamored with the flaxen-haired brothers. Since this was also around the time The Internet and web providers like America Online entered the public consciousness, my Hanson glee coincided perfectly with my first online identity: Megan from Megan’s Space of HITZ, a Hanson-based website where I analyzed the lyrics to tunes like “Where’s The Love” and posted my Taylor fan fiction. It was awesome.

Maintaining websites off and on for 15 years (!) means I’ve always been familiar, and comfortable, with having an online presence. An identity, if you will. Though my early sites were fan pages dedicated exclusively to boy bands (Hanson, of course, then ‘NSYNC), I’ve loved establishing friendships with like-minded folks and “putting myself out there.” Even if it’s just on a computer screen. Since it’s what I’ve always done, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s the opposite of weird: it’s normal.

In mid-1998, Megan’s Space of HITZ was my masterpiece. I cultivated friendships with Hanson fans from around the world — including Lara, a buddy who lived in Edinburgh, Scotland. As a 13-year-old, the very idea of “knowing” someone from Scotland was delightfully whimsical. Making friends with folks in other countries still thrills me, honestly — and reminds me that the world really is a small place. I still remember getting parental permission to actually call Lara (extreme long distance!) one Sunday afternoon in 1999 or 2000. I don’t know what ever became of her; we emailed for years before losing touch, and I still think about her. Especially when I was in her city last year.

I’ve always had “online friends.” And I don’t consider my “online friends” any different from my “real” friends. On many days, I talk to my online friends more than anyone I know in “real life” . . . unless you happen to share an office with me. In my mind, there’s no distinction between those I communicate with through Twitter and those I would meet for lunch. When I talk about you guys (and yes, I do — with my family, with my coworkers, with my boyfriend), I don’t call you my “Internet friends,” like you’re little dancing robots I’ve Googled. You’re just my friends. That’s it.

Though I can be an emotional person, I tend to bottle up those feelings — or let them out in dribs and drabs. I don’t like making scenes or bold declarations. I’m not really a hugger. But I’ve been thinking about how fortunate I am to know all of you, and what a lucky girl I am to be able to arrive in any random city — here or abroad — and have a friend in town to call. (Or, you know, email. Or tweet. You know what I mean.)

My sister and I are heading to New York City tomorrow morning, and I’ll be seeing Lu on Sunday. Wish I could see Melissa and scores of other folks, too — will have to snag you all on my next go ’round. Less than 48 hours in New York isn’t enough, needless to say; I’ll be wearing good walking shoes. But I’m really excited.

In 1997, I couldn’t have predicted the way my online identity would change over the years — or how said identity would morph into something bigger than that: a deeper understanding of self. write meg! will celebrate its fourth birthday next month, and I’m intensely grateful to still have this space to call my own. I’ve changed here. Forged new bonds here. Developed new interests here — and become a better person. Whether you know it or not, you’ve helped and inspired me. I’m so grateful.

When I first began posting at 22, I didn’t think about whether I’d still be here at (almost) 27 — but I’m so glad I am.

It sounds like I’m wrapping something up. I’m not. I hope I never wrap anything up; I hope we go on this way forever.

Love to all.

“Before Liz Lemon, before ‘Weekend Update,’ before Sarah Palin, Tina Fey was just a young girl with a dream: a recurring stress dream that she was being chased through a local airport by her middle-school gym teacher. She also had a dream that one day she would be a comedian on TV.

She has seen both these dreams come true.

At last, Tina Fey’s story can be told. From her youthful days as a vicious nerd to her tour of duty on Saturday Night Live; from her passionately halfhearted pursuit of physical beauty to her life as a mother eating things off the floor; from her one-sided college romance to her nearly fatal honeymoon — from the beginning of this paragraph to this final sentence.

Tina Fey reveals all, and proves what we’ve all suspected: you’re no one until someone calls you bossy.” (Goodreads)

It’s hard not to love Tina Fey, and Bossypants was exactly what I expected: an entertaining, mostly light-hearted look at Fey’s childhood, formative years and ascension to the superstar-level popularity she enjoys today. The title should have been a giveaway, I suppose, but I wasn’t expecting quite as much on how what it’s like to be a woman in power. The media peppers her with questions like, “Is it hard to be the boss?” — and Fey, with her trademark wit, speaks honestly. I liked her answers, but it was just . . . different.

Though I was completely immersed in the memoir, parts were more interesting to me than others. Not going to hate on my girl, but I didn’t find her details surrounding her stint on “Saturday Night Live” to be nearly as compelling as her tales of a fateful childhood with a bad-ass father and teacher mother. I might be alone in that, but I was hoping for more anecdotal over-shares from her youth. A “late in life” baby, Fey had a short-lived rebellious streak as a kid — and her teen years played out as an exercise in geekiness. I totally got that — as well as her uncanny ability to fall in love with unavailable (read: gay) young men. All right up my alley.

Part of me wishes we’d just stayed in childhood, though. I laughed the hardest as she described her dad’s charisma and cool factor, and as she detailed her nerdy exploits as a teen. That’s not to say I wasn’t still thick in the narrative as we got into adulthood, but for me? Much of Fey’s appeal is her bumbly championing of the Everywoman. She’s funny without really trying to be funny, and that’s my kind of humor. (And maybe yours, too.) Those stories shine best as she describes her awkward years, though I rooted for her as she entered the “SNL” fray and delivered her iconic Sarah Palin impression.

Bossypants will be especially intriguing to those who enjoy behind-the-scenes peeks at life in show business — and Fey delivers. Here’s the thing: if you like Fey, you’ve probably already read this book or have serious plans to obtain it. I listened to it on audio, a genius move on my part — because really. Tina Fey. Telling you hilarious stories while you drive to Target. Doesn’t get much better than that. And if you don’t like/care about Tina Fey, I’m probably not going to convince you Bossypants is up your alley . . . because it may not be. If you think Fey is hilarious, read it (it’s quick). If not, you may want to pass.

4 out of 5!

ISBN: 0316056871 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon
Audio copy borrowed from my local library

For more Wordless Wednesday, visit here!

Spencer and I had only been dating a few months when he broke out this recipe: a dessert passed down by his grandmother and mom, and one that has quickly become a favorite of mine. Wickedly obsessed with all things almond, I can’t get enough of these — and it doesn’t hurt that they’re very simple to make. And delicious.

Turning to Spencer now, I asked, “Is Grandma Pat well known for this recipe?”

“Amongst . . . me,” he replied.

And now me. And maybe you, too.

Almond Bars

2 eggs
1 cup sugar
1 stick melted butter
1 scant cup flour
1 1/2 teaspoons almond extract
Confectioners’ (powdered) sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9×9 pan and set aside. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, then add sugar and melted butter; mix well. Add flour; stir until smooth and combined. Mix in almond extract. Bake for 20 minutes, or until toothpick inserted in center comes out clean and edges are lightly browned. Cool. Sift confectioners’ sugar over top, cut and enjoy.

Successful writer Alyssa Shelasky’s New York is a glittery, shiny place — and one she never planned to leave. She’s very close to her family, has an excellent group of friends — and it’s her gig at People magazine that introduces her to celebrities and other influential people, including a “Top Chef” contestant who catches her eye.

After microwaving her meals for most of her life, Alyssa’s new beau — referred to only as “Chef” — pulls her into the wild and rollicking culinary world. As their tornado of a romance progresses, Alyssa upends her life and follows Chef to Washington, D.C., where he’s opening his own restaurant. Inspired by his profession and hoping to not look so obtuse to his kitchen-god friends and contacts, Alyssa uses her sudden influx of downtime to get serious about cooking. And the results are different than she anticipated.

My foodie background and love of all things dessert — plus, you know, those aforementioned that blogger-turned-author connection — inspired me to pick up Apron Anxiety, and Shelasky’s open writing style drew me in immediately. Regardless of how I felt about her decisions, Alyssa always seemed open about her motives. The stickier parts of the narrative came as her relationship with Chef progresses, and Apron Anxiety is one of those juicy books that felt like peeking into someone’s journal. Or, since this is 2012 and all, someone’s blog.

And that’s because it is. Shelasky detailed her adventures learning to cook on her website of the same name, and many of her stories had the feel of a woman hunkering down to tap out anecdotes over a 3 a.m. bottle of wine. Look, I’m not hating; I have a day job as a writer (albeit not for People magazine — holy crap) and blog in my “off hours,” too. It’s not always an easy thing, keeping up with both. But I guess many of the stories just came across as so emotionally distant I couldn’t relate to what Shelasky was going through. She’s so matter-of-fact about everything — even nasty break-ups — that I struggled to figure out how I was supposed to feel.

There were points in Apron Anxiety I thought, “I want to be her.” And then chapters would pass and I would think, “Wow, I could never do what she does.” And then my jealousy would nudge me again with an (ample) hip, and I would be back to envying Shelasky’s life. She seems to have it made: fantastic job; living in an incredible city; excellent support system; new hot guy who is obsessed with her and whisks her off to Greece just because.

And that’s what made it so hard to understand her actions.

I’ve written and re-written this review a few times, mostly because I’m going to try not to seem like a shrew. And Shelasky’s life? It’s hers, obviously. She wrote a book about it and I’m talking about the book, but the tricky thing with memoirs? Sometimes it’s hard to remember I’m not discussing characters, but actual people. People who really did these things. And what Shelasky does? Well, it was tough to fathom.

With the world in her metaphorical, New York-shaped oyster, Shelasky leaves it all — her career, her friends, her family — to move to Washington with Chef, a man with whom she’s crazy in love . . . but not completely compatible. When she gets to Capitol Hill, she has nothing to do. And then Apron Anxiety derailed for me, detailing how Chef is just too busy to spend much time with her and she has little to occupy herself aside from redecorating their apartment. That is when she learns to cook: out of necessity. Because she’s bored and lonely and embarrassed to know so little about the world in which her boyfriend is so entrenched. Because she’s far from home and needs something to fill her days until he comes home.

To which I say: why did that happen? Why did you throw everything away for a man?

On a heart level, I get it: she took a chance. She was in love and doing whatever she could to make her relationship work. I wouldn’t have done what she did, but that doesn’t matter . . . except it sort of does. It colored my perception of the narrative. It made me frustrated, and I couldn’t understand why we were supposed to sympathize with her and not Chef. She doesn’t make the guy out to be evil or anything — just, you know, overworked. Unresponsive. Unavailable.

And I’m from the Washington area. I’ve never lived anywhere else. Alyssa’s nose-in-the-air attitude about D.C. and its “scene” grated on me as badly as if you’d shredded my fingers on a mandolin. The word that popped up over and over, blinding me to anything else, was elitist. She seems so spoiled that any empathy I’d once felt for her evaporated. So Chef’s working all the time . . . and yeah, that sucks. But the man is starting a business. It’s hard work. He has a life — and Shelasky desperately needed to get one, too.

And she does. She most definitely does, but it was too little for me — and too late. As a reader, I’d become so disenchanted with her entitlement. For me, the book became a scramble of strange decisions and eye-rolling behavior. Apron Anxiety seemed less about the process by which Shelasky gained confidence as a home cook and more about celebrity name-dropping and promiscuous adventures. And it got a little tiresome.

That being said, I can’t act like I didn’t still enjoy Apron Anxiety. Snide remarks about D.C. aside, Shelasky’s memoir is very entertaining — and foodie fans who love hearing about delicious eats, great wine and the process by which it’s all created will find plenty upon which to feast their eyes. Shelasky’s demeanor was often a turn-off, but passages like this could reel me back in:

After all, everyone cooks for matters of the heart. We’re all in the kitchen because it fulfills a longing inside, whether it’s for inner grace, pure survival, a renewed sense of self, or just the thrill of it — these are the stories that get us there, keep us there, or sometimes take us away. But without the people who have moved us, pushed us, left us, maybe even hurt us, then really, it’s only food. (page 249, advanced reading copy)

And like everyone I’ve ever met who comes from or has lived there, New York City itself holds limitless appeal. Shelasky’s descriptions read like a love letter to the Big Apple and drew me in, too:

But that’s New York. The streets are filled with neon-lit restaurants that taste like nostalgia, glamour, guilt, and goosebumps. If you’ve lived here long enough, every corner booth, deli counter, dive bar, coffee shop, and critic’s darling becomes a Polaroid of your life. (page 30, advanced reading copy)

Nice, right?

So here I am: stuck in the middle. Part of me aggravated by a quick read that had me white-hot with annoyance but also still thinking about it after finishing. It inspired some real emotions, you know what I’m saying? I definitely felt something while reading. Shelasky isn’t always a likeable heroine, but she is a real person. Someone I could see sharing a beer and a chat. (Though I’m not sure she’d be up for either with me after this review? Eek.)

If foodie memoirs, bloggers-turned-authors, relationship voyeurism and the plights of 30-somethings finding their way hold appeal, Apron Anxiety is a fast-paced story that had me Googling the principal characters to see what became of them. Reading about real people is a pretty unique experience, and I couldn’t help but wonder how Shelasky’s paramours — especially Chef — feel about their starring roles in her narrative. Guess she owes them a delicious dessert as compensation — and she now has the skills to deliver.

Also: there are recipes. With chocolate.

3 out of 5!

ISBN: 0307952142 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Review copy provided by Amazon Vine in exchange for my honest review

Black is my go-to. Wearing “dress-up” clothes to work eight hours a day, five days a week, my biggest priorities are looking professional while feeling comfortable. In those early post-college days, I had a handful of dress tops, one pair of (black) slacks and two pairs of heels. When I earned my first paycheck, I started flipping that dough into other pieces . . . and other pieces . . . and still more pieces. Building a wardrobe.

Needless to say, I have a little more clothing now. And, um, a few more pairs of shoes.

But one thing has remained constant: all that black. On any given day, I’m wearing at least one — if not two — black articles of clothing. Black boots, black heels, black flats. Black pants or a black cami under a black sweater. Black earrings with a black belt. Black.

I’m not sure where my late-blooming obsession with dark hues came from, but it’s sort of my signature now. Black and red are incorporated into almost every outfit, and I’m mostly okay with it. Lately I’ve been waking up early only to stand in front of my closet with the familiar, baffled look of a woman who squeaks about having “nothing to wear,” though. I’m just so sick of everything I own.

I went shopping on my lunch break Wednesday, tearing through a local department store until my arms ached under the weight of dresses, shirts and capri-length pants. In 30 minutes, I’d racked up a hefty bill (but had a 30 percent off coupon so, you know. Less guilt). Where once I’d have wandered around the mall with friends and my sister for hours, I rarely get out anymore — so it’s easier to justify my shopping sprees by remembering I don’t piece-meal purchase things throughout the week.

My goal for the outing was clear: buy cute, casual clothes I can wear on upcoming trips to New York City and California, and no black. When I do shop, it’s usually for work-appropriate garb . . . which makes sense, of course. I spend most of my time in work-appropriate garb. But that means I wind up reaching for the same two shirts on Saturdays and Sundays. And even those have black.

Like a frizzy-haired tornado, I wound up with three short-sleeved cardigans (gray, white, fuschia); a knee-length floral dress to wear to “The Newsies” in New York next weekend (ye-ah!); two brightly-colored tops; khaki and blue cotton crop pants; and a pair of fuschia-jeweled earrings. Basically? Everything I would never wear in my “normal” life.

So, for the first time in a year or so (or more?), I recently went to work in a floral, pastel-colored top, brown capris, brown heels and a bright pink pin — as evidenced above. Not a stitch of black to be found.

And I have to say: it felt good. My initial awkwardness over the no-black rule faded by lunchtime, especially as coworkers complimented my ensemble. As we’re thick in the middle of the warm weather months, I’m going to make it a personal goal to have a no-black-clothes day weekly. And if I’m feeling crazy brave? Maybe twice a week.

I’m sure the Angel of Darkness will be glad I’m out of his closet.

——

Is your wardrobe dominated by any particular color? Are you as into black as I am? What’s your favorite color to wear?

Newly appointed as features editor at Gloss, Cate knows she has her work cut out for her — and realizes purely deserving a position isn’t enough to keep the office gossips’ tongues silent. Her roommate Renee, a talented writer, has her own troubles at Gloss . . . and with her weight. At a (gasp!) size 12, her curves spark hateful comments when she’s up for a promotion. Throw in Abby, the damaged sister of star writer Trey Watkins, and you have a perfect storm of turmoil in one Manhattan apartment.

When each woman’s family troubles begin to take precedence over their day-to-day dramas, Cate struggles to bolster her divorced mother’s spirits; Renee deals with the sudden appearance of a half-sibling; and Abby must come to terms which what prompted her to flee Maryland. Through it all, the women learn it’s their bond — to each other — that will help them through life’s pressures.

In a relatively short time, Sarah Pekkanen has developed quite a reputation for her smart, sassy and realistic examinations of women’s friendships. Though this is my first experience with her work, I can tell she’s earned it: These Girls is equal parts heartbreaking, surprising and moving. Just as I felt the story was veering into comfortable, well-worn territory, Pekkanen’s plot curved in a new direction. I loved not knowing what I was going to get — and that the obvious tropes didn’t apply.

Not to, you know, beat a dead horse, but I really related to Renee in her pursuit to slim down. It’s funny the way weight can manifest itself in various parts of your life, and I thought her struggles — and what she ultimately sees as a “solution” — were well-drawn. The constant pushing of sweets in a workplace is something I can certainly understand . . . even when I’m the cupcake-pusher. I can’t imagine the tremendous pressure on those expected to look, think and dress a certain way just to maintain a certain “reputation” in their industry.

What really worked in These Girls was the scope of the interwoven plots. We’re not dealing with a trio of single girls taking on Manhattan; these women are smart, challenged and struggling to maintain their professional and personal roles. Cate, Renee and Abby’s individual family problems were detailed enough to invest me in the story, but not complicated enough to get frustrating. Though there were no easy solutions, this isn’t one over-the-top drama after another. Abby’s personal issues with her former job left me feeling a little cold towards her, especially as I felt she’d brought them on herself, but Pekkanen did a great job of creating sympathetic heroines I couldn’t actively dislike.

And Trey? He’s yummy. He’s savvy and paternal and suave and a total Chris Pine in my mind. I think Pekkanen’s overall moral — chicks over, um . . . guys — is a sound one, and I liked that we didn’t have a trio of otherwise intelligent women scratching each other’s eyes out over a man. I mean, really. We’re a little more evolved than that, right? I like my books to not be completely stereotypical and demeaning.

For fans of women’s fiction, novels centering on friendship and those looking for a good hook (each character’s back story is revealed over time, wrapping up only at the end), Pekkanen definitely knows what she’s doing. These Girls is a strong, well-paced book that dropped me off far from where I’d started. And I dug it.

4 out of 5!

ISBN: 1451612540 ♥ Goodreads ♥ LibraryThing ♥ Amazon ♥ Author Website
Review copy provided by publisher in exchange for my honest review