My friend wants to know

Let's say a person is looking all over the internet for a very specific article of clothing.  Scouring, is what the person is doing.  The person is scouring the internet for an item of clothing which displays certain distinct and precise characteristics.

Let's say after all the scouring, the person is unable to locate said item.

Should said scourer take said failure as a sign that said item of clothing is terribly out of style, unfashionable, and maybe even dorky?

Keep in mind that said scourer has an unfortunate tendency to dress like dear, sweet Barbara Bush.

This one:

Not this one:

The end.

Crutches and Maybes

I can't quite remember how I came across The Working Closet, but I was hooked on the blog after reading this post about how to properly clean out your closet.  Sophisticated folks call it "editing your wardrobe", but I'm a girl who would bathe in cheese dip if given half a chance and a couple of chips, so we'll go with the former.

I was intrigued by the author's "take no prisoners" approach.  I've done some cleaning out before, usually as seasons change from one to the next.  But this lady was basically like, 'grit your teeth, growl if you must, and GET RID OF THE JUNK.'  I've noticed lately that a sizable portion of my wardrobe consists of items we'll call "crutches."  These are items that, truth be told, I hate.  I don't feel good when I wear them, they are ill fitting, or stained, or they have a small hole on the right shoulder where a moth ate through it a few years back, but it's totally wearable if you put a jacket over it and pretend all day that you're just a little chilly even when it's 80* in the afternoon.  Hypothetically.  While I might not care for how these clothes look, I've kept them around because they're easy.  They take little-to-no effort to throw on in the morning and hey, at least I'm appropriately covered.

These "crutches" are the clothes that make me go *meh*.  I look *meh* (if not questionably pregnant) when I wear them, and I feel *meh* (if not *blah*) as well.

Enter the blog article.  The author suggests several steps.  In summary, they are:
1). Empty your entire closet.  All of it.  Every single scrap.

Done, except for the shoes, which I tackled after nap time.  

I found that throwing everything on the bed helped delay nap time.

2). Try everything on.  All of it.  Every single scrap. (can I get a "yikes!" from the crowd?)
3). Have a glass of wine.  (Not really, but that probably would've helped.)  Repeat.
4). Step 4 is where the grit comes in.  Check out this excerpt from The Working Closet:

"Anything that’s too small goes; anything that’s too big and can’t be tailored goes. If you know you won’t bother taking things to the tailor, the too-big things go, too. Anything that is worn out — stained, pilled, just plain ratty looking — goes. Pieces that are in good condition but don’t fit can be donated or passed on to friends; pieces that are beyond the pale of what’s ok to wear in public should be tossed."

Can I get a double "yikes" from the crowd?  Step 4 is where I normally falter.  I'm a big sucker for "but it almost fits!  If I keep up this gym routine for another 17 years, it could fit again!"  or "but this is a really nice garment.  It was expensive (relatively speaking, of course) and I might wear it again some day, even though I can't IMAGINE the day that I'll ever go to a black tie affair again."  I ere on the side of "maybe" and so my closet is cluttered with crutches and maybes.

But not anymore.  Behold:

I don't think the pictures justice to the results.  Gone are the black capris (and the khaki capris) that I hate but that are so easy to throw on.  The black t-shirts that are almost green from over-washing?  Gone.  The adorable blouse with the hole in the right arm pit and the unraveling hem?  Gone (that was a tough one).  Tank tops from 6 summers ago?  Gone.  How about this one:  the bikini I wore in 2004, during my summer/fall obsession with Weight Watchers and the gym?  Gone.  Get a grip, right?

I took lots of stuff to Goodwill, I took several items to the consignment store (no, I didn't buy anything while I was there you can't prove anything), and the rest - the really ratty, threadbare stuff - will be introduced to the garbage man on Tuesday.  If he (or she, but in my neighborhood, it's a crew of he's) has an affinity for ratty camisoles, it'll be Jackpot Tuesday for him.

I do plan to replace some of the stuff that I pitched.  A new white dress shirt.  A pair of jeans.  A knee-length, full, black skirt for work - maybe with box pleats?  How cute would that be?

I hope getting rid of the crutches and maybes will force me to wear things I feel good about.  I also hope I can overcome the panic that will ensue on Sunday morning as I open my closet to get dressed for work for the first time since my purge.

If you hear screams from the Charleston area, don't be alarmed.  It's just me, filling my cheese bath.  

Diary of a bookworm

Someone who lives in this house is a techie-head.  Someone loves to have the latest and greatest in all things which have a battery and can be updated with new updates and require a password which is longer than 8 characters, shorter than 17 characters, and must include an uppercase letter, at least one number, and your highest SAT score divided by the number of times per year you clip your toe nails.  

That person isn't me (says the girl who still uses a Rolodex).  And I can guaran-darn-tee you that "person" isn't Elsie-the-dog.  

That person's name starts with a "J" and ends with a "eremy".  

That person recently cast aside his Kindle in favor for an identical looking, but evidently far superior version of the exact same thing made by a different company.  On a whim, I casually said, 'I'd like to try the Kindle.', at which his eyes popped out of his head and he did the hula on the coffee table.  Sort of.  

After a quick and only marginally condescending tutorial, I set about using the far-fangled device.  

I like it pretty well (good? Too lazy to Google it).  

The thing I miss about a real book?  When I'm reading a book, I cheat.  Here's how:  I read the first chapter to get a sense of the plot, characters, setting, fashion sense of the main character, and then I flip to the last page of the last chapter.  

And I cheat.

I read the last sentence of the book.  

Though the sentence never makes any sense, nor does it ruin the story or enhance my enjoyment of reading the book, I do it anyway and I really feel like I'm getting away with something.  It is my favorite part of starting a new book.  

Only, on a Kindle, all that flipping is harder.  Yes, I can go to the table of contents and find the last chapter, then scroll to the last page.  But by then, things hardly seem "impulse" anymore.  It kind of takes the fun out of ALL THAT REBELLION.  

I did, however, feel pretty smug about the ease at which I packed six books and a dictionary in my carry on during a recent plane ride.  

Wheeeeeeeeee!  Somebody needs a hobby!

You'll use some leaves, and you'll like it

Once upon a time, when my brother and I were in high school, my parents agreed to host the church youth group's Super Bowl party at our house.  Later, my parents' names were permanently removed from the chaperone list.  What follows is the story of how that happened.

There was much excitement.  I believe I even made my bed, even though I was expressly forbidden to entertain friends in my bedroom.  Especially male friends.  A good life lesson for sure.

ANYWAY.

At this Super Bowl party, someone had the idea that we should go down the street and toilet paper (or "roll" as we called it back in the day, in the south) the yard of a neighborhood family.  This neighborhood family included a boy and girl that most of us went to school with.  (Never end a sentence in a preposition.)  Though I've always remembered it as the kind of spontaneous idea that crops up whenever teenagers gather en masse, in retrospect, there must have been some pre-planning, because I believe we had all the necessary supplies at the ready to ensure a successful outing.  Specifically, we had an abundance of toilet paper, many plastic forks (for "forking" the yard), and someone had even gone to the trouble to shred a bunch of magazines so we could spread magazine clippings all over the front yard.  Rumor had it that magazine clippings, when dampened with dew, were very difficult to clean up.  (Never end a sentence in a preposition.)

So the party rolls around, and somehow, my mom got wind of our plans to visit the neighborhood family with our wares.  Did we ask her permission to go?  Probably so.  I am a rule follower after all.  At first, my  mom discouraged us.  We (as teenagers are wont to do) persisted.  She discouraged.  We persisted.  She discouraged.  We persisted.  Then finally, she threw up her hands and said, "when a group of teenagers makes up their mind to do something, there's nothing I can do to stop them."

That was good enough for us, so off we scampered to the neighborhood family's house.

Long story short, we did a semi-descent job of temporarily vandalizing said neighborhood family's front yard.  And then the next day, on Monday, the youth director of our church got a call from said neighborhood family's mom.

We were stone cold busted.

Turns out, when you go the "magazine shred" route, it is imperative that, before shredding, you remove any subscription offer cards that may or may not feature the subscriber's name and address.  It's kind of hard to deny that sort of proof.  Life lesson #2.

So on Tuesday, the rag-tag band of vandalizers gathered once again, this time after school and in the presence of our youth director, and we took the walk of shame back to the neighborhood family's house.  This time, we were forced to knock on the door and apologize.

Shame.

My parents were thusly removed from the approved chaperone list.  I always imagined my youth director at his desk with furrowed brow, a Sharpie in one hand and a list entitled "Approved Chaperones" in the other.

Now that I'm a youth director myself, I cringe at this story and have vowed that no Super Bowl party will ever take place in a facility which features toilet paper.  Life lesson #3.

BBQ, bluegrass, and trash burnin'

Imagine the sharp pang of disappointment I felt upon learning that Charleston's annual Labor Day "Bar-b-que and Bluegrass" festival would not be happening this year.  It's a tradition that Jeremy and I have come to enjoy.  For one day each year, I put aside my hatred of crowds, port-o-potties, and parking at public events in the name of meat and banjos.  I really know how to party.

The event is held at one of the area's historic plantations, meaning that all us meat-lovers politely avert our eyes from the old slave quarters (awkward!) as we haul our lawn chairs and sun hats (Jeremy's is fabulous) to strategically get the best view of the stage.

But this year, it was not meant to be.  The website said simply (and with much exclamation) that "The Festival will return in 2013!!!!!"  Sigh.

But us Connells would not be deterred.  No festival to go to this year?  Why, then we'll just bring the festival to us.

Enter the newest member of our family:

No, it is not a rocket ship.  But that would be really fun, wouldn't it?  It's a meat smoker.  Best I can tell, here's how it works.  You get some special wood.  You light the wood on fire.  You get a big hunk of raw meat (or two).  You stick the raw meat in the space ship.  You wake up two times in the middle of the night to rush outside to check the meat, waking up your loving wife in the process.  She is her normal supportive, charmed self when this happens.

It really does take a lot of planning, gathering of spices and various vinegars, timing, temperature taking, and meat checking.

Please notice Elsie-the-dog's head in the foreground of this picture.  No one was more excited by the meat smoking than the canine.  She also liked the space ship because she could see her reflection.  "Look guys!  There's a dog in your space ship!" 

The result, 10-hours after the fire in the space ship was first lit, was nothing short of divine.  Seriously.  It tasted G-OO-D.

Pork AND beef.  Boo-yah.  

This story of my husband's determination that our Labor Day weekend would be filled with BBQ of course comes with a punchline.

After purchasing the space ship, the hickory wood, the meat (pork AND beef), the spices, and after researching methods and techniques, he took the leap and lit the fire.  About an hour later, my parents arrived for a weekend visit.  It was around 10pm, and we went out in the driveway to greet my mom and dad.  The air was filled with the scent of burning hickory, the fire ready to assault the meat.  As we were helping them unload their bags, our neighbor stepped out of her garage, took a deep breath and said,

"Ohhhhh.  Smells like somebody's burning trash."