Tag Archives: Breakfast at Tiffany’s

She Wore a White Dress. And She Wore a Hat.

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I’m always surprised (although it’s obvious that I shouldn’t be) that the storylines I’m most attracted to are those with writers as the protagonist. Whether it’s a book, television show or movie… if there’s a writer involved, it holds a certain magic that I can’t find anywhere else.

John-Boy Walton was my first love. The episode “The Achievement” is still an all-time favorite. Richard Thomas, the actor, later portrayed another writer in one of my guilty pleasure films, Stephen King’s IT.

Jo March of Little Women lives my life. An awkward tomboy, dreaming of something beyond her home, she left… only to return to the family she loves and write about them.

Julie Powell wrote about Julia Child who wrote a cookbook. And not just any cookbook. Mastering the Art of French Cooking is still on my Wishlist. For those of you new to Frankly, My Dear… the movie Julie & Julia inspired me to start blogging.

Eat, Pray, Love is another wonderful story about a writer trying to find herself.

But it’s Under the Tuscan Sun that grabbed my attention this weekend.

Although I’ve had the DVD for several years, it’s been quite a while since I last watched it. For Mother’s Day, I did just that. Dot treated me to a Starbuck’s Apple Pie Frappuccino [Note to Self: Get more of this. Often. It's the coffee-law!] and I settled into my Writer’s Corner (chair. It’s a chair.) and was instantly romanticized by the story of Katherine. Oh, you thought the movie was about Frances, the writer? It is. But my story is about Frances and Katherine, her new Italian friend.

During her season of finding herself, Frances confides in Katherine. Katherine takes her under her wing and encourages Frances to lose her fear of, well, everything. Katherine enthralled me, and the characters around her, with her zest for life. She drew Frances out of her shell. She commanded attention wherever she went. And she almost always wore hats. The big brimmed, feminine kind of hats that Audrey Hepburn would have adorned. If Katherine were real and you were lost in a crowd, you’d need only to look above the heads for her hat, and you’d be lost no more.

I don’t want to ruin the movie for you if you’ve not yet seen it. So I’ll skip any spoilers. But I must mention the dress. The white dress. It’s not a wedding dress. It’s simple yet elegant. Cinched with a simple yet elegant black belt. And Frances, after consulting with Katherine, wears it confidently.

I saw that dress. I saw a writer, who on a whim moved to Italy, and bought a white dress. I saw confidence and adventure and romance and life and courage…

I want that dress!

Not because I want the characteristics it portrays. But because I am finding myself already full of those characteristics and I can think of no better way to show it than to wear such a dress.

A year ago I wouldn’t have thought to wear a dress. Unemployed and feeling less than accomplished, a leg riddled with eczema patches… a dress most certainly wasn’t in the cards.

Oh, but it’s so much more than just about wearing a dress. It’s about grasping life with both hands and yet letting go. It’s eating the ice cream cones in the hot sun. Drinking wine in the backyard. It’s celebrating the failures and acknowledging the successes that come with every day of just waking up and being alive.

That dress is about being alive.
I. Want. That. Dress.

It is definitely worth saving my pennies for. If I have any extras, I’ll just toss them into the Fountain when I finally get to Italy.

And believe me. I’m getting there.

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

Order your own copy of Under the Tuscan Sun from Amazon:


[AMAZON AFFILIATE LINK]
You may also enjoy reading:
Mojo Movie Review of the Week: “Eat, Pray, Love”
Mojo Movie Review of the Week: “Julie & Julia”
Building a Better Me: Making (Better) Memories
Where are you, Paul Varjak?
Mojo Movie Review of the Week: “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”
When I Get To New York
If I Could, I Would…
My Personal History of Coffee (and a Keurig Review)

Building a Better Me: Making (Better) Memories

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Lately, I’ve been rediscovering lost memories. I’ve been chatting with old friends on Facebook. Looking through old photo albums. Reading old journal entries and blog posts.

I’m not one to reminisce. I’m either in the moment or living for the future. The past is the past. It can’t be changed. And while I have solid childhood memories, I don’t often allow myself the luxury of recalling those favored moments more than once in a great while. This is also because I have a tendency to relive emotions that come with certain memories.

Because of this, I can write amazing character profiles. I associate more than just memories. I associate music and ambiance and flavor and fragrance and sound and texture and feelings. I incorporate entire experiences.

But sometimes, triggers can bring me back to more than I bargained for.

Over ten years ago I was engaged. I shouldn’t have been. But I was a single mom with a young girl. I was lonely, and felt alone. I met a man who showered me with affections. He was not cruel. He was not mean. We just were not a good match. People told us so. We didn’t listen, and after months of dating he proposed. I eventually broke up with him when it was clear we weren’t going to be able to work out some of our more important conflicts. It was the smart thing: to let go. But it was painful. And once again, I felt alone. But more than that: I felt like I deserved to be alone. I’d ignored those who loved me enough to tell me why this wasn’t good. I’d turned my back on the advice of family and friends. I’d asked them to embrace my choice, proclaiming that I knew best.

But I didn’t.

So I deserved to be alone. And hurt.

Or so I thought.

He’d taken me to see the movie “Autumn in New York”. I can’t begin to list the reasons why I love this movie. It’s by no means a classic. It didn’t win any awards. But it had me from the moment the first leaf fell in Central Park to Diana Krall’s “Let’s Fall in Love”. I had the CD soundtrack that I annoyed people with day after day after day. It was, for me, the perfect experience.

And then we broke up. And because I had not just memories but experiences associated with Autumn in New York, I could no longer listen to the music. I never wanted to see the movie. I could never think about someday going to New York.

I just couldn’t.

It pulled at me like sticky spaghetti strings. With any real force, the draw would be broken. I was thankful to live here in the desolate desert where I didn’t have to smell crisp autumn winds or see colored leaves. I could pretend the movie never existed. Because to admit that not only did it exist, but that I liked it, was to admit that I wasn’t perfect. That I longed for something I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, have. It was to admit that I’d failed with my family and friends. And that was the most painful loss of all.

This is the thinking pattern I held to for most major disappointments. I could no longer watch this, hear that, go here, eat there. All because it brought back bad memories. And pain. And shame.

Until eight years later. I just made a decision to change my way of thinking. This part puzzles me, because for all my experience-association, the only thing I remember about this moment is feeling empowered. I’d decided several things in that moment.

I’d decided I wasn’t going to hold on to bad memories. I would recognize them, but no longer let them hold me hostage.

I’d decided I was going to allow myself to remember without experiencing every moment.

I’d decided I wasn’t going to let the memory of a long-ago man dictate how I continued my life without him.

I’d decided it was time to stop avoiding old memories, and instead replace them with new ones.

I’d decided to order the DVD from Amazon.

The next four days were filled with a new excitement for me. It was almost a combination of meeting an old friend and going on a first date. I was finally allowing myself to be me. And to be happy about it.

When the DVD arrived, I wasn’t disappointed. I worried that I’d built it up in my head to be a wonderful theatrical production. It wasn’t. But I already knew that. It was just what I remembered it to be. And it felt good to remember.

Since that moment, I no longer run from my memories. I change them. I don’t let them haunt me and keep me subdued. I make new memories. This is still my town. This is where I live. Work. Love. And have family and the same friends.

I refuse to let an old memory take that from me.

The movie is no longer associated with that man. It’s associated with my love for New York. The restaurant we used to frequent is no longer associated with him. It’s associated with friends and great conversations and possibilities.

Life isn’t something to keep running away from or locked in a closet. It’s something to be treasured, exhibited, and put on display.

Life is something to be proud of. The weaknesses that let others be strong for us. Even the parts that make us stronger for ourselves.

And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!

You may also enjoy:
Writing Prompt: Songs
Why I Don’t Go To Carnivals in October
Bunco at Tiffany’s
When I Get to New York
Mojo Movie Review of the Week: Breakfast at Tiffany’s