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.