In Need of Fashion Filter

One of the greatest dangers for the only child is an immense lack of self awareness.  Oh sure, only children are quite aware of themselves as the brilliant, capable centers of the universe that they are, but they lack that all important filter that lets them know when they're doing something that should embarrass the living daylights out of them.

For non-only-children, that filter is provided (readily, free of charge, and with no lack of glee) by siblings.  Only children obviously don't have that outer filter, so they must rely on a non-existent inner filter.  This is where things get messy.

You might be asking where conscience fits in all of this.  Well, just like everyone else, only children do have conscience to rely on, but that still, small voice of conscience, while helpful in discerning good from evil, usually provides little help in discerning really important questions, such as, "Will this outfit project an image of sanity or just the opposite?"

You also might ask about the presence of parental units.  I can speak only to my own experience, but, parents don't provide the same quality of soul-crushing honesty that siblings do.  No, quite the opposite.  Parents think that their kids are wonderful "just as they are" and that they "look great whatever they wear" and that "what's on the inside is what counts."

And, let's be honest, it's those kind of half truths that lead to disastrous consequences.  Case in point, the following photo:

The woman in blue is my mom.  Notice how knock-out gorgeous she is.  The two on either side of her are my uncle and aunt, her siblings.  Notice how great they both look, as if they had the type of constructive, sibling-based criticism that allowed them to dress and look like respectable people.

The kid in front is me.  Notice that I appear to be wearing a grocery sack.  A grocery sack with a belt, but, a grocery sack nonetheless.  I've paired it with white knee socks and tennis shoes.  To be fair, I'm not sure what the appropriate footwear is when one is wearing a belted grocery sack. 

I don't think that even Emily Post could've imagined this wardrobe scenario, so there's really no precedent.  But, I do think that, if I'd had a sister or a bratty brother, there is no stinking way I could have left the house wearing a grocery sack and tennis shoes.  That's the kind of outfit put together by a child who knows she's "perfect just as she is."  My obvious lack of embarrassment is plain to see, as I stand there, proud as anything, knowing that I am awesome.  

And, lest you question where my father was in all of this and why I couldn't consult him in matters of fashion, here you go:

This photo was taken a few years later, but, I think you can see that I was better off not taking fashion cues from my dad, who (though a very handsome man) apparently thought that mustache was a good idea.

What's cooler than being cool? Not me.

When I was starting my freshman year of high school, there was pretty much nothing I wanted more than to look cool. However, try as I might, that intangible element of "cool" continually eluded me.

That's not a new story. That's everyone's story.

But, I did try. This was the early 90s, so the definition of "cool" was vastly different than it is today. "Cool" included high-waisted jeans back then. High-waisted jeans are now referred to as "mom jeans," and everyone knows that moms aren't cool.

Sorry, folks. They're just not. Moms drive minivans. Moms go to soccer games. Moms drive minivans to soccer games. None of these activities fall under our collective understanding of cool.

Anyways, my efforts to look cool started off with trying to reach the pinnacle of cool. I tried to look preppy. This plan seemed good because:

1. Preppy kids were always the most popular.

2. I desperately wanted to be popular.

3. I had a sneaking suspicion that friendships were based solely on the number of identifiable brand names one was wearing.

There was only one obstacle in my way. Well, there were two, if you count my parents individually. There was no way that my parents would either spend ridiculous amounts of money on clothes or allow me to. My mom and I shopped at a store called "Hit-or-Miss."

You read that right. We shopped at Hit-or-Miss. What brilliant advertising mind came up with that one, we may never know. My guess is he's either been exiled by his former company to an unnamed and unpleasant location or he's living in a sort of self-imposed exile. You know, living right among us but pretending his former life in advertising never existed? That's what I'd do if I were him.

As you can guess, the local Hit-or-Miss wasn't going to carry any outfits that would make me popular or even make me the kind of girl who'd be invited to sit within a quarter mile of the "cool table" in the cafeteria. I actually ate at the convenience store across the street and only because the owner felt sorry for me.

If I was ever going to make it out of my Slurpee-soaked lunchtimes and into the realms of popularity, I was going to have to work at it.

Here's one example of what I came up with:



What you can't see is that I'm wearing Girbauds. Hit-or-Miss got an unexpected shipment containing maybe four pair of them. These were cutoffs. The satin-trim tee was the height of fashion, and I found a place that had them for cheap. Of course, it's all tied together with a Mexican belt. That shows that I'm worldly and maybe even go on mission trips. That was totally not the case, but nobody asked. And the giant bangs? Well, those were all me. I didn't know a single person who was rockin' the bangs back then, but they were my thing. Who knows.

As it turned out, I was never destined to be popular. Over the next few weeks, I'll be showing you some examples of why. :)

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.