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.