A Different Sort of Blog

I'm in El Salvador right now, and I wanted to update this blog to let anyone reading it know what is going on. I promise to get back to funny-ish posts when I get back, but today was a pretty rough day for us. The orphanage we love and the kids who are our family are facing some big troubles. Read on to learn more, and, if you want to help, please pray. If you want to help monetarily, please give. The link at the end of the blog will take you to the Shelter the Homeless website, and we have link to on-line giving.



We love these kids. We love every single one of them. We’ve seen them grow up over the years, start school, graduate, go to college. We’ve seen them fall in love with those of you who’ve gone to El Salvador. We’ve seen their faces light up when they get their Christmas gifts from those who’ve sent them. We’ve seen the love they show each other and us, and we’ve known that in them we see Christ.

They are a family. They are our family. But, our family is in trouble.

Today we visited the orphanage and learned that the orphanage is in danger of being shut down. The government agency in charge of child welfare (CONNA) thinks there are too many problems with the orphanage. The building needs to be bigger; repairs need to be made; they need more people on staff. We have until October 15 to make that happen.

Even if all repairs are made and staff added, CONNA still believes that the building is only big enough for 15 children. There are 34 children in our family.This means that 19 of our kids will be taken from the only loving home they’ve known and placed in an impersonal, government-run orphanage.

These are children who have known physical and sexual abuse, abandonment, neglect. Many of our children have been through the government system before; some of them still carry the scars of it. We can’t let our children go back to that. We can’t look at the faces in that picture and choose who we could part with.

We need the new orphanage now—sooner than now if possible. We need $130,000 to complete construction. We need your prayers. We need to keep our family together.

http://shipinternational.org/

Summer Days Make Me Feel Fine

Do ever have one of those days where you just want to hang out on your back porch, sitting on a towel next to your box fan and a giant watermelon?

Uh, you don't?

Yeah, me neither.

There are a lot of things about this picture that make me stop and think--a lot of unanswered questions, the first of which being, "Why do fat kids love purple?" I don't have an answer to that one, and believe me I've given it a lot of thought. The thing I can tell you about this picture is that it was taken at some sort of church function at our house. And, because it was a 1980s church function at our house, I can tell you exactly what the rest of the scene is. If you were to pan around the rest of the backyard, you'd see a group of people sitting on metal folding chairs, all placed in a giant circle. My dad had one deeply held conviction about get-togethers:

"A chair for every person, and a person for every chair." Preferably, each person would be seated in his chair.

You see, if you set the chairs up in a circle, then you can see everyone at the party. If it's a large party, it might make conversation a little difficult or produce a lot of shouting over each other, but a least you won't have your back to any of those church people. Which is really the best way to go, because who knows when you might get shanked by someone at your church watermelon party.

Only joking, of course! The only knifing done was to that watermelon, and what a watermelon it was.

The funny thing is, I have no idea the girl on the other side of the watermelon is. She looks sweet though, like the kind of girl who knows how to smile demurely in pictures and point her fork toward the ridiculously over sized watermelon as if to say, "I'm going to take one tiny bite out of this big watermelon."

All that to say that, if I had an exact opposite, that sweet girl would surely be it. There I sit--looking straight at the camera, two forks pointed at a mouth so wide open you can nearly see the back of my throat. This is the only child in her natural state, and what a beautiful state it is.

Athletic Only Child

I've never been what you might call "athletic." I mean, I've played sports. I've tried sports. I've even short bouts where I actually liked running or swimming, but, generally speaking, I've never been someone who regularly seeks physical exertion.

Even as a kid, I didn't really like playing outside, and I never wanted to join any sports teams. In high school, I joined the tennis team, a surprising occurrence considering my rather inauspicious intro to the world of tennis. My first lesson, at the age of thirteen, began with a sprained ankle. I fell. I fell while learning the forehand.

Take a moment to really let that lack of athleticism sink in. It's baffling.

So, why on earth did I join the tennis team? I think it might have been the cute skirts, or it might have been that one of my teachers told me I should. I wasn't any stinkin' good at it, and I never knew when our matches were, which led to forgetting my racket and the aforementioned cute skirt.

Whatever the case, that foray into the sports world was not the only time I attempted to be athletic. No, the one huge (almost incomprehensible) deviation from my normal unathletic being is that for three summers I went to a sports camp.

Shocking, right? I went, and I loved it. And, let me tell you, this wasn't any old wimpy camp. We're not talking about a day camp where kids play sports and are told that "It doesn't matter if you win or lose" and where nobody keeps score anyways or where everyone gets a ribbon. No, folks, we're talking about an almost month-long stay at a sports camp where we played sports and sang chants spelling out the word "competition." A camp where I learned my most beloved phrase, "Sacrifice your body for the good of the team." A camp where, after a soccer match, I actually had a bruise that showed the cleat marks of my opponent.

But, despite all my "Rah Rah" love of hardcore competition, there were a few areas that my wimpy self showed through. Namely, anything involving a ropes course or rock climbing or rappelling.

First, let me say that I don't even know how these things have grown in popularity. Let's get real, people. A ropes course is basically an obstacle course in the air. Obstacle courses are terrible on the ground, so what on earth inspired people to move it up in the air where there's the added danger of fall to one's death while participating in an obstacle course? Which, please remember, obstacle courses are not fun. They just aren't.

I guess I somewhat understand rock climbing. There's that whole "Man vs. Nature" thing that drives our desire to dominate the indomitable. I read Call of the Wild. I get it. But, rappelling? It occurs under two circumstances:

1. Someone has just climbed up the rock face and rappels to get back down. Fine. This one kind of makes sense. Sometimes, there's just no other way to get back to earth, and, for the love of all that is good, back to earth is exactly where we want to be.

2. Someone hikes to a spot that has a jumping off spot and rappels from there. This makes no sense. You have safely hiked to a lovely spot, and then you think the best thing to do is jump off.

Rappelling as it occurs in the second circumstance is not a sport. It is a cry for help.

However, despite the obvious reasons that a young person with a total lack of athleticism (and poor depth perception) should never be permitted on ropes courses or to go rock climbing or rappelling, I did all three of those things. Unfortunately for our purposes here, there remains only one extant photo. Fortunately, it's a good one. Here it is:

I am looking at the ground because that is where I want to be. I say that just in case you thought I was posing for this shot. No, not at all. It will probably not surprise you to know that I made it no further up that rock. I tried, but I was too wimpy. It probably also will not surprise you to see that I--the least athletic kid at sports camp--thought it was a god idea to go rock climbing while wearing Ralph Lauren deck shoes. Deck shoes.

The one thing you can't see, perhaps the most embarrassing part of the whole thing, is that when I got back down my cabin mates informed me that I had a hole in the back of my shorts.

Great. Deck shoes and and hole in my pants. That was my last rock climbing trip. Maybe the last one for my whole life.

Why Shop When You Can Sew?

Anyone who knows me knows that I like to shop. I'm not a big spender, really. I'm all about the hunt for the best deal, the bargain on a normally pricey piece of clothing. That's my favorite part of shopping, and I come by it naturally.

My dad is an infamous bargain hunter. Widely known around our local garage sale-ing and auctioning community, my dad at one time had an entire barn to house all of the deals he'd found. My mom, though not as prolific a shopper as my dad, makes the TJMaxx rounds regularly. I owe my shopping prowess to the both of them.

My mom and I used to have a little Saturday ritual. We'd go to Swensen's for lunch. I'd get the Cable Car Kids Meal--grilled cheese, shoestring fries, and a free scoop of ice cream for dessert. My mom would get something called a strawberry soda (ick) and a sandwich called the Bleu Max. We'd make our grocery list while having lunch; then we'd go clothes shopping before doing the big grocery run.

Now, when I was very young, our town didn't have many options. Usually "clothes shopping" meant a run by the local Weiner's to see what they had. As I got a little older, we starting getting a little more upscale, as Dillard's and Foley's moved in. We were in the days of dresses with big, lacy collars, long hemlines, dresses that looked like something the cast of Little House on the Prairie might wear.

Simply put, I was in love.

I wanted dresses like that. They were so pretty and sweet. Laura Ashley was pretty much my hero, and I wanted more than anything to look like I was dressed in a floral chintz duvet.

But, Laura Ashley was pricey. Too pricey. Whenever we'd go shopping and I'd spot sompething I liked, I'd always hear the familiar phrase:

"I could make that."

Over and over. And, it was true. My mom, an accomplished seamstress, really could make most anything I wanted. And, a lot of my favorite dresses from when I was young were made by my mom. But, there was this one time...Well, I'll just let you see it for yourself.

I guess we can think of the making of this outfit as the day that "I coul make that" became a threat. What you see before you is a picture of my Aunt Jane and me wearing matching outfits. Matching green corduroy jumpers made from a Laura Ashley pattern, long sleeve blouses, white tights, and black flats. In Miami.

What you don't see before you is that my mom also had a matching jumper, along with the whole rest of the outfit. You also don't see (because only my Nana has the picture) that we three had a professional portrait made while wearing those jumpers. And that my dad and my Uncle Bob posed for that portrait with us. They were wearing--you guessed it--nearly matching dark sport coats and green ties.

We gave that portrait to my Nana and Poppy for Christmas. They loved it, and, really, it was totally Christmas-y. Truth be told, I really love that dress. And I even loved that I was matching my mom and my Aunt Jane. Then again, I come from a family that has an annual family sing-along, so I pretty much embrace stuff like this. :)

Washington: A How-To Guide!

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit our nation's capitol. I was very excited to go because I hadn't been there since I was fourteen. For those who don't know, that meant that I hadn't been there in five whole years.

Okay, so that might be a bit of a lie. But, give me a break. I was just in the capitol, and lying is kind of a popular pastime there.

Anyways, in order to get ready for my trip, I decided to consult some pictures of my previous visit to DC. I wanted to get a sense of what I should see, what I should do, and what all the great District of Columbia had to offer. After reviewing the evidence of the last trip, I came up with a few rules that should help make any trip to DC one that will bring you endless joy and countless fond memories. I'll give you the scoop on what to do and, perhaps most importantly, what to wear while you're doing it.

Here we go!

1. When visiting DC, you should make the most of your stay by taking in the wonderful museums.
Here, my dad and I (lower right hand) enjoy an interactive elephant exhibit at the Smithsonian. I know we're letting our party loyalty show in this one, but, even better, I'm letting my fashion sense shine. Note the faded, high waisted designer (Girbaud) jeans and the multicolored belt (hecho in Mexico). Both of these items show that I'm not new to this whole traveling thing. I'm cosmopolitan. I belong here.

However, Mr. Short Shorts to my left is definitely outdoing all of us. He understood that DC springtime can turn awfully hot, so he erred on the side of caution (if not the side of modesty) and went for a lovely pair of white Daisy Dukes. Well played, Short Shorts!

In our next picture, you can tell that I took a lesson the day before and planned for the heat. I had some shorts of my own. Check them out!


Here, my dad and I wait in line at the National Holocaust Memorial Museum. That's me in a pair of jean cut-offs, knock-off Birkenstocks, and a pair of (you guessed it!) white socks. If there was ever any doubt that the kid in this picture would one day pursue graduate studies in English, this outfit pretty well ends those doubts. Honestly, I probably could have skipped handing in a writing sample when applying to grad school and just sent this picture in along with my application. The selection committee would have taken one look at my feet and given me automatic admission. Heck, I might have even been a tenured faculty member by now!

Bringing this back around to the focus of the blog, you must remember, that there's more to visiting DC than just museums. And there's more to do than just be inappropriately dressed for the Holocaust Museum. DC has many monuments to visit as well. Which brings us to rule two.

2. Go visit a monument, and have your picture taken in front of it!

In the picture above, my mom (where has she been this whole time?) and I pose in front of the Washington Monument. Just in case you thought we were tourists, we're both wearing DC t-shirts that we bought from a guy on the street. That way, you know we're totally locals. I mean, how many tourists go around buying t-shirts from guys on the street? Not many, I'm sure. We look like we know where we're headed and have managed, with our jean shorts and DC t-shirts, to pull of the DC look. (As an added bonus, I think my mom's shorts have pleats in the front. Pleats mean "fancy." As another added bonus, my shirt is a DC Polo Club t-shirt. Because I'm a member of the club.)

Okay, all of this site seeing is nice, but DC is also a place where you can rub elbows with well-known (sometimes even well-respected) people. So, rule number three is...

3. Meet someone famous.
Always wanting to be an over achiever, I decided to meet two famous people--George and Barbara Bush. Actually, at this time, George wasn't President anymore, but I liked him heaps better than the guy who was, so I was more than happy to have my picture made with the former first couple. They were super sweet too. Sometimes they even still call me. I think they liked my style. That influenced my number four and final rule:

4. Just be yourself.

In the above photo, you can see that I'm totally comfortable being me. I mean, sure, there's the awkward stance, somewhat reminiscent of my earlier Disney World pictures, and that might make you think that I was as nervously uncomfortable as any fourteen year old could possibly be. But, I'd have to disagree. Listen, anyone who can wear a Far Side t-shirt (tucked in, no less), mom jeans, Birkenstocks, and white socks while parading around the capitol of our great nation is certainly someone who doesn't know the meaning of the word "uncomfortable."

Okay, if I'm being honest, I'm sure I wasn't all that comfortable with me. Face it, that outfit is a wreck, and what is going on with my bangs? Seriously, people. But, we can be sure that I was comfortable with something, and that something was my feet. Yep. You can be sure that, outfitted with a pair of socks and some Birkenstocks, my feet were the very definition of comfort.

Mullet: Revisited, Sort Of

Well, it's sure been a little while since I last posted. Unfortunately, today's picture requires a little bit of context, and I'm afraid that by now you might have forgotten that around the age of eleven I had a mullet.

Oh, wait. You hadn't forgotten that? Yeah, me neither. There's still a mullet-shaped scar on my heart. Or, um, something like that.

Anyways, back to our regularly scheduled post. So, I had a mullet. I knew it was bad; you've all seen that it was bad; the world in general knew that I was walking around with the worst haircut ever invented. I wanted and needed to do something about it.

That's when I hatched my brilliant plan. I would have the party-in-back removed. That is, I would get the back of my hair (the very essence of its mullet-ness) removed. I came up with this plan while at Methodist summer camp and shared it with my cabin mate, Barbie. You might remember her from the camp photo. She's the girl wearing blue shorts, folding her arms across her chest, and looking like she wouldn't think twice about ripping your fingers off one by one if you so much as thought about taking the last serving of fruit crumble in the camp cafeteria.

In truth, Barbie was a real peach of a girl. When I told her about the plan for mullet removal, she gave me a pained look and told me that, really, cutting it off would just make it worse.

Despite Barbie's wise yet somehow dubious-sounding advice, I'd made up my mind that I was due for a haircut as soon as I made it back from Methodist summer camp. So I did it. Here it is:



Now, at about this moment, you might be thinking that Barbie had a point. Let's be honest, most girls look to the moms for fashion advice, and, if they could choose to look like one parent, most girls would probably want to look like their moms. You'd think I'd be the same way. After all, I've got a super cute mom. That is, I've got a super cute mom, if every guy I've ever dated is to be believed. If every therapist I've ever seen is to be believed, knowing that might have had a negative impact on my psyche. Only joking, folks. I'm just fine. :)

But, the thing is, I think trying to look like my mom might have been aiming just a little too high for me at that moment. After all, I was an eleven year old sporting a mullet and occasionally wearing white plastic shorts with light yellow LL Bean sweaters. Maybe it was healthiest for me to just look at my dad and think, "Hey. He's got decent hair. That's the kind of thing I could actually do."

So that's what I did. The haircut was followed by months of being asked whether I was a boy or a girl, but those are the kind of childhood memories that build characters. And, more importantly, they're the kind of childhood memories that have allowed several therapists to take extended Caribbean cruises. In the end, everyone wins.

From the vault...

The back of the picture proudly displays the date, written in my little kid scrawl:

March 30, 1985

That's right, you're looking at a picture of a seven-year-old Sara, posing in a College Station, Texas, Dillard's department store. That little Sara is clutching a basket (which most assuredly was "Hecho en Mexico" and contains Sara's first-born Cabbage Patch Kid, Mary).

Sara, dressed in her finest going to the mall pastel Easter colors, looks straight ahead at the camera, smiling. Surely, Sara's little face serves only to mask the raging torrent of fear coursing through her veins--fear brought on by the fact that at that moment on March 30, 1985, sweet Sara sat next to "The Scariest Easter Bunny Ever."

We can almost overlook the terrifying faceless mannequins posing behind Sara and "The Scariest Easter Bunny Ever." We almost fail to realize that those mannequins are even there, what with the masked bunny sitting right next to Sara, a furry bunny paw clutching her little shoulder, the other paw holding a pink balloon.

But, even if we cannot fathom all the creepiness of this picture, we must ask ourselves, with all the beauty of this season, why did the good people of Dillard's department store decide that this was the proper way to capture the spirit of Easter?

One of these things is different from the others...

Another year at summer camp, I decided to focus on volleyball. Quite honestly, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to get into the sport that required the least amount of conditioning. I was always after the ever elusive "leather" class in which you could spend time hanging out making leather crafts like bookmarks, but to no avail. I could never get into it.

Anyways, the year I ended up in the volleyball specialty was the year that I was supposed to be doing tennis. However, rumor had it that tennis had become the toughest sport at camp. I quickly got out of that. Volleyball was no walk in the park either, though there was plenty of running through the campgrounds, tackling Cardiac Hill, and learning what would become my favorite motto--"Sacrifice your body for the good of the team." I still use that phrase to this day.

At the end of the summer, our parents came to watch what all we had learned. The wonderful people who had shelled out their money to send us to camp were treated to an afternoon of watching their (now somewhat bruised and sore) little angels yell, serve, bump, spike, and hit the ground to get a wayward ball. Remember: "Sacrifice your body for the good of the team."

The dress for the day was shorts with our matching volleyball shirts. I didn't have a volleyball shirt, so I improvised. I guess I could have worn something that, well, blended in, but we only children like to stand out from the crowd. And I sure did that.

Sum-Sum-Summertime

Ah, summer. It's my favorite time of year. And, because I'm currently sleeping under electric blankets, relying on a space heater to keep from freezing to death, and risking life and limb walking on icy sidewalks, I've been thinking a lot about summer.

However, I keep it in perspective. I've got to. I know all too well the dangers of trying to force summer before its time. Here's the proof:



See the perplexed, almost distraught look on that face? That's the look of a girl who has learned that Sun-In is not to be trusted, particularly not the dangerous combination of Sun-In, hairdryer, and dark hair. You see, believe it or not, my hair isn't really orange. Never has been, as far back as I can remember. For one thing, I just don't think this particular shade of orange even exists in nature. It exists in Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, as the color of an Oompa Loompa.

So, no forcing summer. I'll let it get here in its own sweet time. But, if you hear me mention wanting to try something "fun" with my hair, please throw a stinkin' net over me and save me from myself!

Dancing Queen

There's something I'd like to share with you all. I am not typically one to brag, so not many people know what I am about to tell you. I have been given the gift of the dance.

It was apparent from a young age, as I expressed interest in taking dance lessons, specifically tap and ballet. I took to the dance like a natural and loved to express my gift during dance lessons, my chubby little thighs testing the structural integrity of my Danskin tights. My performances as Glow Worm, Blueberry Muffin, and Chickadee received great praise, and I would go on to take the role of Early Rising Red Robin, a veritable tour de force.

After reading Noel Streatfeild's Dancing Shoes I became convinced that, like the novel's main character, I too was destined to attend the Royal Academy of Dance in London. During prayer request time at school I entreated my classmates to pray toward that end, and each night I twirled around the carpeted floors of my home.

Well, in truth, I was never to be a ballerina, but hope springs eternal. Though I'd quit my ballet lessons a few years prior, I decided to take up dance as my major at a summer sports camp I attended. And, at the end of the summer camp, we performed a dance for our parents. That's me on the far left of the front row.



It's not a great picture, and it's nearly impossible to see me. Just know that I was there, dancing my little fourteen-year-old heart out. The great excitement of this day was that, in addition to performing for an audience, we also had a chance of winning awards. Truth be told, I really didn't think I had a shot. After all, there were girls in our group who were on their school dance teams, girls who still took lessons, girls who could remember to do the right moves at the right times and seemed to possess the gift of the rhythm. I really expected to just sit and watch my friends win awards.

And, that's exactly what I did, until I heard my name called. I heard my name called. Really, the whole memory becomes a bit of a blur at that moment, but I distinctly remember hearing my name and the word "Best."

"Best." The word hung there like a promise. A promise that something amazing would follow that descriptor. Some word that would, indeed, testify to the fact that I had the gift of the dance.

And then I heard it, the whole award title. Sara H: "Best Effort."

"Best Effort." For years, I somehow remembered it as "Most Improved," and I believed that's what I'd won up until I came across a box of my old awards. There it was, plain as day. "Best Effort." No wonder I'd decided on "Most Improved." Even that is better than "Best Effort."

And yet, I've lived beyond that day. Most artists aren't appreciated in their own day. And, in my heart, I know that I have the gift of the dance.

business in front, party in back

Methodist Church Camp. Tucked away in the forests of East Texas is little camp where Methodist kids go to spend the week singing songs, attending vespers, and putting on skits of dubious quality.

During my childhood stint as a Methodist, I was one such happy camper. And, fortunately for us all, I can provide photographic proof.



In case you can't tell, I'm the lil' darling on the far right. Now, looking at this picture, a couple of thoughts come to mind.

Surely there was a camp dress code.
Surely that dress code was enforced.

Then how do we explain what I am wearing? My only answer is this. Even the strictest dress code could not have prevented the outfit you see before you because nobody could have predicted that a child would show up wearing a light yellow Land's End sweater with a white plastic diaper cover. I mean, nobody. Nor would anyone guess that the child would choose to pair said outfit with a pair of teal socks with polar bears on them. Polar bears wearing red vests. Because what polar bear doesn't wear a red vest? It's stinkin' cold where polar bears live!

However, I guess it's not so much the clothing choice that bothers me as it is the hair. The hair, people. It's a mullet. A business in front, party in back mullet. The hairdresser (who ran a lovely shop out of her garage) so kindly referred to it as a "pixie cut." I was assured that it was adorable, but I knew the truth. Perhaps it's that haircut that led to my poor fashion choice that day. It's like I just said, "Okay, world, I'm 11 years old, and I've just given up. I'm gonna put on a diaper cover and a sweater just in case you think I don't mean it. I've truly given up."

Only Child on the Road

Sometimes the life of an only child can get pretty rough. What, with having the undivided attention of her parents and unlimited amounts of positive reinforcement, the stress level of an only child can build up to the point that she's just got to say, "Hey! I need some space!"

At times like that, it's a good excuse for the only child to book it as fast as possible, go visit her aunt in Miami, and road trip to the magical world of Disney. That's right, only child, you're going to get some much needed rest and relaxation in the Happiest Place on Earth!

In order to have the Happiest Time Possible at the Happiest Place on Earth, it's best to follow a few simple guidelines. First, you'll need to dress the part of the Happiest Traveler on Earth.



Our only child, pictured above, has got it just right. Choose an outfit in appropriately muted pastels, hike those shorts up to around your armpits, and be sure that your shirt is just short enough to be completely awkward. This outfit says, "It's party time. Now, where's that giant Mouse?"

However, vacations aren't just about looking for enormous rodents, they're also about enjoying the scenery. Our only child does just that in this next shot.



You see, people have the wrong idea about only children. Only children are seen as needing to be the center of attention at all times. Our only child knows that she is but one part of a larger whole; in this case the larger whole is the background display of poinsettias. In order to show that understanding, she's chosen not to look directly at the camera as might be expected, and her body language (arms slightly flailing to the side, one leg awkwardly twisted) suggests that she wants us to admire the flora surrounding her. Well done, only child.

When all of this self reflection and picture posing gets to be a bit much, it's important to take a little downtime. Stop for a snack.



It might surprise you to know that, like other children, only children love ice cream. Some only children love ice cream a little. Some only children love ice cream a lot. And some only children use ice cream to compensate for the younger siblings they sometimes wish they had. I'll leave it up to the reader to decide which type of only child our only child is.

Finally, it's also necessary to note that, even on vacation, children can sometimes act up. Though usually the picture of behavioral perfection, only children are not immune to the occasional bad day. Because of the only child's natural stubbornness, the adult in charge of the only child's care must be firm.



While it might look as though the only child pictured above is being punished for behavioral problems, I assure you that is not the case. Sadly, our only child has been put in the stocks for "Crimes against Fashion," with an additional citation for "Failure to Brush Hair." Who even knew those were punishable offenses in the Happiest Place on Earth? Apparently they are, and Disney employs a veritable platoon of furry costumed ambassadors of good taste.

So, when going to the Happiest Place on Earth, remember to pack a brush. Following these simple rules should provide any only child with the vacation of a lifetime. Enjoy!

[Editor's Note: I was a stubborn, brush-and-hair-product hating child. My dear Aunt Jane is not responsible for my imprisonment at Disney. I take full responsibility for that. She couldn't have gotten a barrette in my hair without use of excessive force. And I still think I could have taken her. ;)]

[Editor's Note, the second: All sarcasm and joking aside, this was one of the awesomest trips I've ever gone on in my life. I slept on a turnpike and in the parking lot of a Radisson. Most people can't say that. And, according to my Aunt Jane, I am not supposed to say that either. Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag.]

You were perfect, so we just stopped at one.

Hi, my name is Sara, and I'm an only child. While going through some photos this evening, I realized that there was just too much good stuff to keep to myself. So, I'm sharing.

If you enjoy tales of awkwardness and social ineptness, you have come to the right place. For most of my life, I've been blessed with more than my share of both. I hope you enjoy my blog.



Above you can see my whole entire family. The 1980s were nice in that they gave us a whole decade to really enjoy pastels. My mom and I lived that up. Apparently, our generous use of Final Net startled dad a bit.