How the Neurotic and Fashion-Impaired Buy a New Handbag {or Is It a Purse?}


No sooner are the gift cards and money I've collected from Christmas {and my ensuing birthday} placed in my wallet then they start to burn a hole in the bottom of my bag, and I cannot wait to get to the store and start shopping. With four kids, two cars, a dog, and diapers, our one income is stretched pretty thin throughout the year, leaving minimal spending money in the wake of an ever bulging list of expenses. And trips to Starbucks. Priorities, you know.

By the time December rolls around, the list of things I want to buy is longer then my receipts used to be when I was an obsessive coupon clipper, although I had substantially more spending money in those days. But we also routinely ate cheap, fake crap, so there's that. The mandatory self-restraint is good in a way, I suppose--I don't have nearly as many impulse-buying hangovers as I did in my previous life before children. And consequently, my house isn't filled with as much stuff that I don't really need, though there still is some, certainly. Mainly in the craft and ill-fitting bargain clothing departments.


Not only is the bottom of my bag singed from the gift cards I put in there, but I notice the straps are also worn and fraying from daily use as I pick it up, fling it over my shoulder and run out the door, no doubt late for something again. Although Vera Bradley fabric is vibrant and colorful with many beautiful and ever-changing options to choose from, it doesn't withstand everyday wear and tear in the long run. Especially when one never washes it, as I'm sure you're supposed to every once a year or so. Apparently, I only wash my bags about as often as I mop my floors, which is not very often. At all.

So I decide that I should probably buy myself a new bag, one that isn't as tattered and worn as my grandmother's quilt, perhaps. Probably one that doesn't look like my grandmothers quilt, too. It's been years since I've carried anything other then a Vera bag, and that sounds like a welcome change. A fresh start to go with the New Year. Eva {my 2 year old} loves to go to Target while Toby is in preschool, so off we went to spend some money.

First, we return a few things that didn't work out at Christmas, and then we head over to Starbucks to get a "nilla miwk" for Eva. The Valentine's Day stuff has arrived at the Dollar Spot, and I can't help myself as I pour over all the new pink and red pretties with hearts for days. Festive burlap banners and washi tape have a special place in my heart, so into the cart they go.

Just past the dollar section are the accessories, and I walk over there next in eager anticipation of a cute, new bag to make me look more grown up and fashionable. Something crafted of supple leather, with gold accents, and maybe grommets or buckles or locks. That sort of thing would go perfectly with the grey sweats and brown Ugg knockoff boots that I left the house in this morning. Eva spied the brightly colored clearance bags at the end of the isle and ran over for a closer look.

I recognize a few from my online perusing right away and am thrilled to see that they have the exact turquoise bag {of course} that I had wanted for my birthday. They have several of them, in fact, giving my obsessive nature an opportunity to examine each of them closely for scratches, knicks, or imperfections in the stitching in order to choose the most perfect and best one. I can compare their symmetry and evenness as they hang on the rack and figure out which straps have the ideal arch, not unlike the one in St. Louis, only on a much smaller scale, of course.


I pick up the first turquoise bag and begin to open the compartments inside. There are three of them, which at first seems like a great idea for organizational purposes. I start to think, okay, I might actually be able to find my stuff for once in this purse. I could put my wallet in this compartment and my phone and chapstick in this one with the little pockets and…… What else? I don't know that I have anything to put in the third one. Besides papers and junk. Do you really need three compartments if you have no use for all of them?

And then I realize, I like the idea of being organized…but I'm not. Not outside the fantasy world in my head. Just ask my husband: we fought about that last night. I'm a consistent and chronic "piler," and I have sifted through stacks of stuff and moved things from this pile to that all of my life. Now this purse seems to be threatening my well-entrenched way of functioning and I begin to feel overwhelmed. I've long been accustomed to the "tote" style bag with one big compartment that I can just throw all my crap into and call it a day.

Furthermore, this nice turquoise bag has something that they like to call a "zipper," which I believe is supposed to keep all your crap from falling out, but I can't remember the last time I had a zipper on a purse. I seem to prefer everything flying out of my purse and onto the floor of the car when I slam on the breaks, and a zipper now seems like too much of a hassle to contend with on a daily basis. So I put the turquoise bag back on the hook and am back to square one.

I look around at my other options, and there are indeed a few. But then I start to think, maybe I should choose a purse in a more sensible color like black or brown instead of turquoise. Maybe turquoise is too "loud," and a more neutral color would be a better choice. I call for Eva to come back around the corner where I can see her, and within few seconds she appears, dragging a small, hot pink satchel purse by the strap she'd unbuckled. She likes pink and loud, so it works for her.

There is a tote-style bag that I like a lot, but I still can't decide on a color. I do love turquoise, but as my favorite it tends to be my "default color." Can't decide which color shirt to buy? Go with the turquoise one. Turquoise goes with everything, I tell myself. And repeat ad nauseum until you wake up one day at college on Mismatch Day, only to open your closet and find one solitary red cardigan in a sea of mint green, turquoise, aqua, and robin's egg blue, with the occasional hint of denim, navy and khaki. It's physically impossible to create a mismatched outfit from that palate, and in that moment I discovered my default color issue.

So I feel the need to consider branching out and desperately try to ignore the deeply ingrained pull in the turquoise direction. Should I go with brown or black or the random light tan color that they call "silver mink?" I glance down at my boots and note that the brown purse is the exact same shade of brown, so that would work out nicely as I wear them often. But then I think, I probably shouldn't wear them as often as I do, really. They're basically glorified tall slippers with a medicore sole that's held on in multiple places with generous applications of super glue, and I should probably wear my grown-up leather {or pleather?} brown boots instead most days. So I'm not sure that I should buy a bag to match them, after all.

Sometimes I wear black boots, too, and I begin to wonder if carrying a brown bag with black boots is a fashion no-no. The sad thing is, I really don't know. Black purses are a pretty classic and safe choice, but what happens when I wear my brown slipper-boots with it? Suddenly, I realize the problematic nature of carrying a sensible handbag--the issue of matching. Never once in the last decade or so of carrying a patterned bag have I ever worried about it matching my outfit or coordinating with my boots. Because the answer would be simple: it doesn't. And it doesn't have to. In the event that you wear a purple shirt and it happens to work out for a day, great. If not, it doesn't matter. That's the perk of carrying a patterned bag.

So not only is the new bag trying to mess up my disorganized mojo, but it's trying to make me even more self-conscious about my impaired matching abilities and challenged fashion-sense. Or it's trying to sucker me into buying multiples of itself, which my inner cheapskate would never concede to. I remember the silver mink purse, which is an odd amalgamation of all neutrals, and it begins to look more attractive as it's neither black nor brown. Does that mean it would go with both?

Maybe I should ask someone. I glance around the accessory area and see a woman in the next isle. A quick scan of her cart reveals a black leather alligator skin bag with gold accents. Hmm. Her boots are also black. I watch her bend down and rummage through the pile of clearance wallets on the bottom shelf, wondering what she would think if I just blurted out my brown vs. black dilemma in her direction.

A wave of self-consciousness points out the fact I'm embarrassed I feel the need to ask another person, whom I don't even know, about what bag I should buy, as if there's a right or wrong answer. I suppose there technically is, but then there's the issue of whether I should care or not. And I probably don't, judging by the aforementioned grey sweats/brown boots ensemble that I'm currently rocking in public. Oh, and I haven't brushed my hair, either.

I look back over at the silver mink bag and conclude that not only is it a "safe" color, but it's incredibly bland and boring. It can't decide whether it wants to be black or brown or gray or somewhere in between, and I don't have time for that. Turquoise goes with everything, I remind myself, and I pick up the lone turquoise bag and put it in my cart before I can argue myself out of it again.


A hurried glance at my phone reveals that I've been engaged in a losing debate with purses for about a half hour now, and I'm close to being late for preschool pick-up. Eva starts to cry as I put her hot pink bag back on the clearance rack, but friends don't let friends buy hot pink satchels, even if they are on clearance. In fact, that's probably why they're on clearance. I may not know much about fashion, but I know that much.

The End.


***Update: All the handbags at Target are now 30-50% off {and there's a mobile coupon for $5 off $25}, so you can head there right now and have your very own neurotic shopping experience! My advice: stick with turquoise. It goes with everything. :)

On Making Resolutions: A Life Left on Autopilot will Eventually Crash and Burn

I have a love/hate relationship with New Year's Resolutions. Statistics say that only about 45% of Americans even bother to make New Year's Resolutions. We are quite the motivated bunch, ay?

In 2014, the top ten resolutions were:

1
Lose Weight
2
Getting Organized
3
Spend Less, Save More
4
Enjoy Life to the Fullest
5
Staying Fit and Healthy
6
Learn Something Exciting
7
Quit Smoking
8
Help Others in Their Dreams
9
Fall in Love
10
Spend More Time with Family

Of those 45%, only 8% actually succeed in achieving their resolution. Clearly, the deck is stacked against me, so the "hate" side says why even bother. I'm not likely to be among the few, the proud, and the brave who actually achieve it anyways. They must be cut from a different cloth--a sturdier, more resilient cloth. Something like canvas or leather. I'm more like the cloth you find on the clearance rack--the funky, bright colored one no one else wanted that's kinda thin, uneven, and frays easily.

The number of people who never succeed and fail at their resolution every year is 24%. Much better odds there.

But the "love" side has one vital piece of data to volley back for the win:

People who explicitly make resolutions are 10 times more likely to attain their goals than people who don’t explicitly make resolutions.

Bam. Take that sturdy fabric. Everyone likes the clearance rack better, anyways.

So basically, more then half of America is screwed before they even get started this new year.

Are you among them?

I'm kinda tempted to be. Take the easy way out, or what seems like the easy way, at least. But it's like what I've learned about food over the last year or so: what's easiest isn't always what's best. What's convenient isn't always what's good for you. In fact, it's usually the opposite.

You see, setting goals is the easy part. Anybody can do that:

lose weight

Pencil + paper + two words. Done.

The hard part comes afterwards. The follow-through. The finishing. The keep on keepin' on when that's the last thing you want to do. Because you're tired and have had enough and see an easy way out. When you don't feel like working so hard anymore with all the planning and preparing and stuff. The dying to self nonsense. Sometimes you just want to do what you want to do without thinking about the consequences. 


But there are consequences. Because a life left to its own devices, on autopilot, will eventually crash and burn just like anything else. It's inevitable. Ever drive down a street in the city and see the majority of the houses boarded up, paint peeling, roofs sagging, wood rotting with the decay of neglect? Or the child who was never given boundaries or the appropriate discipline or direction while he was young, only to have his freedom locked up behind steel bars because the will could no longer be controlled? 

In order to succeed, there needs to be a plan. Goals. Boundaries and effort to live within and thrive in those boundaries. Hard work and sacrifice. Upkeep and maintenance on a house, parenting skills and love to shepherd a child, and intentional goals and a strategic plan in life. 

And not just any plan, a detailed plan. How will you lose weight? What will you do, each day, to get there? What is the number you're working towards? Write it down. And then tell a friend or two or five, because Lord knows you will need the encouragement and accountability in the valleys. You also need to be prepared to accept the accountability when it smacks you in the face and tells you to keep moving. The valleys will most certainly come, because by June only 46% of the people who made resolutions to begin with will still be working on maintaining them. And to me, that number seems kinda high...

It's not enough to write down lose weight and expect it to miraculously happen on it's own. It won't. That's how I operate most of the time, though, unfortunately. I just sort of "wing it" in life and settle for good enough. Kinda nailing it. Sorta. Because anything above and beyond mediocre requires hard work and discipline, and in my selfish nature, I don't often want to do that.

And more often then not I don't want to strive towards improvement because I miss the value and the worth there. I miss MY value and worth. I don't see it. Because if I could truly grasp my potential or who the Lord has created me to be,  I would never stop running towards that goal. I'd be unstoppable. 

If I don't give life my all, if I settle for just winging it and hoping it all works out okay, I've bought a lie. I've succumbed to the false belief that ultimately I'm not important. That my time is of no value, that I have nothing to offer this world. My friends, there could be nothing farther from the truth, but the Enemy would love for you to buy into those lies. And stay there all year among the other 55%.

Let me be the first one to tell you this year:

You are worth it. You are more then a cheap clearance rack fabric with fraying edges--you are a beautiful, strong tapestry, meticulously and artfully woven together by the designer and Creator Himself. You are valuable, and what your unique, beautiful life has to offer this hurting world is important. YOU are important. You are worth fighting for.

So fight.

Make a detailed plan. Start small. Climbing a mountain and changing the world {or your life} are achieved the same way: one step at a time. One choice at a time. One day at a time. Let's fling our inadequacies behind us and look ahead. To possibility. Let's focus on the goal and keep pushing forward. Let's do this. And I'm starting to sound like a Home Depot commercial. Hey, if a voice-over by Josh Lucas would help a sister out, just insert that here and read on.

But the times when you can't do it, when you simply can't go on another step, remember that He can. And He will always give you the strength you need to keep going. Because what He wants more then anything is for you to look more like Him each day. As long as you're seeking Him, nothing in heaven or on earth can stand in you way. 

Yes, it will be hard. Hard work is by very definition HARD. You know, just incase that slipped by you unnoticed. But it will be worth it, because you're worth it, remember? And this world desperately needs people who care enough about something to work for it even when it sucks. Especially when it sucks. Because the world and the people in it are worth fighting for, too. 

Here's to the New Year and the New You, whatever that happens to be. I'm rooting for ya. Kindly return the favor? 

xo


The unexamined life is not worth living. ~Socrates

For When You Wanted Christmas to be Perfect and It's Really Just a Mess


It had a been a busy week at our house, trying to fit birthday party planning in with the normal holiday craziness and schoolwork and life. When the days are full and I literally run from one thing to the next, I get this tightness in my chest that I can't seem to shake. The apprehension of things to come, the anxiety of fitting it all in, the worrying that it won't. It's like the busyness weighs on me and makes it hard to breathe. Hard to think. Impossible to write.


I don't do well with weeks like that. I get impatient and cranky. I hurry, rush and stress. Or at least I feel like I am all the time. And you know those days when you're so cranky you can't even stand being around your own self? Yeah.

Come Wednesday I'd had enough of myself and all the running. I wanted to breathe again and not be so frustrated with the kids all the time.


As I turned right off of our street and drove down the road to pick up the kids from school, I whispered a brief, quiet prayer to God…

I can't do this anymore. I'm sick of the hurrying and the hurting and the crankiness. I don't want to have another night like the ones we've had this week, and I know I can't do it myself. But you can. Please help me to somehow love my kids well, be slow to anger, and find joy in the mess.

We arrived at the school, and the kids ran up and piled into the van, relieved to be out of the cold. We went home and had snacks and worked on homework and I got dinner ready and on the table in record time, which never usually happens around here. My husband got home from work a little early and we all sat around the table and talked about our highs and lows.

After the table was cleared, my son sat down with my husband to do his nightly reading. I was across the room loading the dishwasher and listening to him give the characters in the story different voices and sound effects. Smiling and chuckling to myself, I put another fork and knife into the silverware basket.

Then it hit me.

I haven't yelled. I haven't been frustrated by things that would normally drive me nuts. I've smiled at my kids and even found joy in the chaos that is our after-school-homework-completing-sit-down-and-keep-your-hands-to-yourself-family-dinner craziness that is our weekday life.

I stood quietly and marveled at that small miracle, gratitude filling my heart. All it took was an invitation, and God showed up and did His thing. So seamlessly that I hadn't even noticed until it was already in motion.

Isn't it funny that all around you life can be a mess, yourself included, and all it takes is an invitation, a simple surrender, to usher in the presence of a Holy God. 
Nothing, you see, is impossible with God.
And Mary said,
Yes, I see it all now:
I’m the Lord’s maid, ready to serve.
Let it be with me
just as you say.
Then the angel left her.
Luke 1:37-38 {MSG}
Jesus wasn't haphazardly born into a messy stable surrounded by stinky farm animals and dirty shepherds--He chose that very place on purpose and for His glory. Nothing about that very first Christmas, that Holy Night, would strike us as perfect. In fact, we would probably say it was far from ideal. An unplanned trip about 70 miles to Bethleham on the back of a donkey, nine months pregnant and exhausted? Finally arriving after dark to find that there is absolutely nowhere to stay, not one room?

Perfect situation? Ideal circumstances? Not so much.


The one and only perfect thing about that very first Christmas was Jesus Himself. And that's still true today. Jesus thrives in the mess. He can be glorified in the mess. All it takes is an invitation.

Foto Friday, My Week in Review: December 5-11

Foto Friday is the collection of photo collages from my week. What used to be seperate daily posts are now conveniently bundled together by the week. Enjoy!


December 5: Happy Birthday, Kiki!!
What better way to celebrate turning the big 2-9 then going to Chuck E Cheese? A shout out to my lovely sister--this party was for her but was not about her… at all. She basically had a party for the kids and called it her birthday. She has such a generous, servant heart and is a blessing. She's also the "fun" aunt, and for good reason. :) We love you, aunt Kiki, and we wish you many more wonderful birthdays!!!


December 6


December 7


December 8


December 9
Okay, so I walked past some tight sweatpants in the women's section and sort of shrugged my shoulders. Then I saw them in the boys clothing section, and I began to get worried. Then I saw a woman WEARING THEM in the cosmetics isle.

People… TIGHT SWEATPANTS?? Please tell me this isn't going to become a thing. I will not be caught dead in them.

Some things were never meant to have adjectives placed in front of them, you know? Just let the sweatpants be sweatpants, for the love… 

And besides, the tightness defeats the entire purpose of sweatpants:

Sweatpants [swet-pants]
noun, ( used with a plural verb)
1. loose-fitting pants of soft, absorbent fabric, as cotton jersey, usuallywith a drawstring at the waist and close-fitting or elastic cuffs at theankles, commonly worn during athletic activity for warmth or to induce sweating.

Furthermore, if any of you subscribe to this latest fashion faux pas, I reserve the right to point and laugh at pictures of you in about ten years when you finally realize this was a bad idea… 


December 10


December 11

This Christmas Will Only Come Once in a Lifetime


I was talking to a friend recently who had received a rather tragic diagnosis about a year ago. It was just a few weeks before Christmas, and life as she knew it had been turned upside down. The tablecloth pulled out from under her, and she was left shaken but still standing. I remember looking at her from across the room at our Christmas Eve open house, with her oxygen in tow but otherwise looking completely normal and healthy, and coming to the realization that this may be her last Christmas.

Has she thought about that? I wondered to myself, pondering in my own heart the gravity and sadness of such a prospect.

The Lord's hand has been upon her this past year, and things have come full circle. She now has a clean bill of health and the hope of many, many more Christmas' to come. To Him be the glory.

Although we're trimming the same tree and hanging the same stockings by the chimney with care, it's a very different Christmas this year. For some, the cancer is gone. For others, the heartbreaking news that the cancer is back. 

I was watching my youngest daughter walk around the house tonight in just her diaper, and I realized that this would be the last Christmas that she would be in those diapers. Come this time next year, and Lord willing long before that, we will officially be a diaper-free household for the first time in eight years.


This will be the last Christmas that the light will reflect off her squishy baby cheeks as she hangs up ornaments on the bottom two feet of the tree, saying, decoratin', momma? Me, helping! and proudly patting her chest. This will be the last year she will walk down the stairs in her fuzzy pink snowman jammies, eyes aglow with the magic of Christmas morning. 

This will be the last Christmas that she insists on shaking her "booty" after sitting on the potty and mispronounces six as "chicken" when counting to ten. The last Christmas that her blond hair ties back in a spiky ponytail just right. 


This may be the last Christmas that my oldest still believes in Santa or that my daughter cries herself to sleep when it's time for the Elf to fly back to the North Pole for good.

This will be the last Christmas that my kids will ever be 8, 6, 4 and 2. 

Knowing it may be the last Christmas, would that change how you lived it? Experienced it? 


Because it is. 

It's the last one of its kind. 

This Christmas will only come once in a lifetime. Next year, things will be a little different. Maybe a lot different. They will be a little older, maybe a little wiser. 

Take notice this year, momma. Make sure you see this season for the rare opportunity that it is. Watch their little faces. Study their little fingers as they open their presents. Don't miss the wonder in their eyes or the magic in their soft whispers. Experience all the joys and memories this month offers and treasure all the precious moments with the littles that you love and hide them in your heart.

This Christmas is one-of-a-kind, much like the snowflakes we hope to see falling outside on that chilly and holy morn. Savor every last drop this month before it melts away, momma. You'll never regret it.