What I Learned

Last month my son turned eight, which came as a complete shock.

At his wellness visit, the doctor pronounced Zane to be over tall and underweight for his age.

The usual health report.

During the routine vision screen, however, my son could not read the letters on the wall.

He faked it and read them as numbers, a dead giveaway.

My child can't see, I learned, which certainly explained a great deal about his grades.

Off to the pediatric ophthalmologist. we went.

It was all "look over here", "look over there" to the boy, who wanted an eye patch in the worst way.

No eye patch, but a prescription for glasses.

Zane can finally see what he's been missing!

Go visit Kat Bouska and her Writer's Workshop I used two prompts today!
2.) Write a post in just 10 lines.
3.) Tell us about something new you learned last month.

A Childhood Toy Revisited

When you're a kid, there's no thought about tomorrow.  Children are very "now" creatures; what is right in front of them at that particular moment is important and not much else.  Toys are no exception to this rule.  My brother and I played hard with our toys, just like every other kid out there.  Toys needed to be sturdy to make it at our house.  Whatever we imagined, our toys helped us to make it a reality, at least in the time between school and bedtime.  Whenever we moved, my mother would cull the battered and broken pieces of our imagination and haul them off to the dumpster or the thrift shop. 

It would be unfathomable to any child that they leave their toys wrapped in their original packaging to accumulate in value. There was none of that ridiculous "mint-in box" nonsense during my childhood! Toys were meant to be played with, fer cryin' out loud!  Half of the joy was just opening the box and getting the toy ready for adventure.  Children could care less about storing their treasures away--play hard or go home was our motto.  And we did it all without helmets, knee pads, or common sense.

If I would have been more future-oriented, like no child ever, I would never have conducted unsanctioned abdominal surgery on my Mrs. Beasely doll, or overfed my BabyAlive.  Certainly, I would have refrained from using a curling iron to update the hairdo on my Malibu Barbie!  And my brother and I definitely would have treated our comic books better, although we weren't about to stuff them into plastic envelopes.  That would have been silly.

I had a few toys that I kept over the years, ones that I cherished.  One of these toys is a small stuffed St. Bernard.  I received it as a Christmas present from a friend of my parents when I was eight or nine years old.  We were in Germany, a completely different world, and we were all feeling the culture shock as well as the cold.  For some reason, the little gift from someone who was a complete stranger touched my heart.  

He used to sit on my bed or on the table next to it. Whenever we traveled, my pup went with me, safe in my bag. Faithfully, he guarded my dreams and listened to my childhood woes.  If I sang along with the radio, he never cringed when I went flat.  If I read until 3am, he never barked at me to go to sleep.  He really was my best friend.  

 

I never named him, however.  I named all of my other toys, before I destroyed them with vigorous imaginings, but not this guy.  He was different.  I was also never rough with him; I regarded him as fragile, and treated him with kid gloves.  I still do.

Today this rare gem lives in a box at the top of my closet. I don't dare take him out of that box.  Not only would my fragile friend have to deal with Maisy the Destructor attempting to use him for a chew toy, he would have to face the smiling face of my six year old.  One look at those eyes merrily contemplating shenanigans, and my poor toy would disintegrate.  Maybe I'll let Zane look at him when he's the same age as I was.  Sort of a full circle thing. 

Maybe he can have it when he's in college.  Yeah.

4.) A childhood toy you once loved.

8 Books Everyone Should Read

I've mentioned before that I am a voracious reader.  I get that from my mother, who is never far from a book if she can help it.  Most of my childhood memories involving my mother have her reading, and the habit rubbed off on me.  I read just about everything.  I'm a serial reader; if I like a particular author, I will read everything they've ever written.  My point is that I've read a lot of books, and rarely will I read one more than once.

Except that some books grabbed me, got my attention. Made me think about life and my place in the world. Made me visit dusty cattle trails, consider politics as a profession, and avoid clowns in storm drains. This is my list of books that I think everyone should read, and it's a bit different, I know.  I've read most of these books twice, sometimes more. Some of my copies have passages underlined, or have been read so many times that they are falling apart.  They're old friends, in other words.

Lonesome Dove  Almost anything by Larry McMurtry is pure gold; that man knows how to spin an epic.  Lonesome Dove is the adventures of two very different men who happen to be the best of friends.  They set out on a cattle drive from Texas, and their story is the stuff of legends.  Don't be turned off by the idea that this is a Western; there is so very much more.  These characters are old friends, and I never get tired of visiting.

True Women  There was a lady in Texas who was researching her family tree, and she decided to write a novel using her family as characters.  It just so happened that her family was in Texas at the very beginning, when Texians(Yes, that's what they called themselves. I know it's lame, but apparently it made sense at the time) fought for independence from Mexico.  But Janice Woods Windall didn't write about the men in her family.  She wrote about the women left behind who kept the farms and ranches going.  This is a book about strong, independent women and their adventures in the founding of a nation/state, and for that, it is worth reading.

Good Omens  Off the beaten path, this book.  Neil Gaiman helped write it, which should give an indication that things will be topsy-turvy.  Some people might become upset after reading this book, which involves an accidental switch at birth.  I expected a horror story, and instead found something else. It definitely made me laugh, but it also made me think.

Mrs. Dalloway  I'm not a big Virginia Woolf fan.  She could be a bit of a downer.  But this book isn't the least bit depressing; it's a bit like a manic phase where everything is impossibly happy.  In fact, when I finished the book I was in a better mood than when I started. Not many books leave you blissful at the end, but this did it for me.  Sort of like Mrs. Dalloway herself.

A Game of Thrones  I hated this book the first time I read it. Hated. It was a completely visceral response; given the story, and I threw the book in a corner and left it there for days while I sulked about it.  Then my husband found it in a box, abandoned, and decided to read it.  And he loved it, and demanded that I read the book again.  So I did. And while I was still extremely angry about the same things that got me riled the first time, it became obvious that George R.R. Martin is a freakin' genius.

Howards End  I wasn't prepared to like this novel as much as I did.  It was a class assignment in college, an afterthought, following weeks of D.H. Lawrence novels.  Yet it struck a chord with me; I found myself a member of a family of eccentrics and intellectuals attempting to interact with their world as Britain was changing from a rural to an industrial nation.  Something was lost in the translation, of course, since we are all still fascinated that time. 

Lord Foul's Bane  Another off the beaten path story, about a modern man diagnosed with leprosy who gets knocked out and finds himself in a strange land where people think that he is a messiah, of sorts.  Thomas Covenant has to remember his humanity somehow, while refusing to believe that anything he sees or hears is real.  Some people insist that the tale is derivative of Tolkien; I have an answer to that. Every fantasy written since Tolkien is derivative of Tolkien. Get over it, and enjoy the story!

It   Stephen King is the master of American horror for a reason.  He knows how to scare the bejesus out of people.  He's responsible for my fear of closets, my fear of women stalkers, my fear of spiders, and my fear of clowns.  It is a tale of childhood, of bravery, of good and evil, and redemption.  The characters are drawn in pencil and the reader fills in the lines and makes them family.  You cringe when they cringe, you scream when they do.  It's impossible not to.  There are a great many people who rabidly insist that The Stand is King's best book, and maybe they are right.  But It is scarier.

What are your favorite books?  Share in the comments!



I borrowed this prompt from Mamakat.  Thank you, Ma'am!
5.) List 8 books you’ve read that you think everyone should read in their lifetime
Go visit Mamakat's website.  There are many other bloggers who wrote about their favorite books, too--lots of new reading ideas!

The Meaning of My Name

What is in a name?  Does your name change who you are?  If you had a different name, would that fundamentally erase who you would have been and created someone new?  I think about these sorts of things once in awhile, usually when I am sitting in an excruciatingly boring staff meeting someplace. 

My mother named me Tina after the actress Tina King of the King family.   I was not named Christina or any other named to be shortened, just Tina.  If looking in a dictionary of baby names, Tina is from the Old English and means river, which I find curious.  My name is also associated with Christianity, and in that aspect is supposed to mean strength. 

So I am a strong river?  Not with my bladder.

The Urban Dictionary defines my name as meaning "little one".  Which is true--I'm only 5'3".  There's more: "Derived from Latin. Competitive - a leader, independent, strength, creative and original. A refined intellectual, a woman who's studious, analytical and very research oriented . . ."  While I am definitely independent, intellectual, and strong, I wouldn't say that that I am very original. I've met tons of strong and independent women.  I'm also not competitive about most things.  (My name also appears to be a reference to meth, oddly; unless they are referring to the drug's volatile and explosive tendencies. I do have a bit of a temper.)

I also looked up my name on a weird website called the Kabalarians.  I guess they are interested in the Kabala?  (Well, either that or it's some cult--if I disappear or start spouting weird stuff and asking for money, you'll know which one.) This site says that I am very strong willed, which is true. But it also says that I desire leadership.  Not so much.  I'd much rather be the second in command,

The consistent theme, across these websites is that I am a strong and independent person.  I think my name does suit me in that regard.  Following the crowd has never been easy for me.  I've always preferred to go my own way.  As for strong, I have always seen myself as a survivor.  I've survived many things that would have put others in therapy, and killed a few.  I'm still here, scars on display. 

I don't think I'd be as adaptable if my father had had his way and I'd been named Bernadette.



5.) The meaning of your name...does it suit you?

Don't Mention It. Ever.

Diplomacy is not my strong suit.  Tact and I are not close companions, either.  I open my mouth with the best of intentions, but there's really no guarantee what is going to come out.   I might say something very complimentary, or I could spew forth some nonsense about how the Giant Malaysian Honey Bee lives in very tall trees.  I was much, much worse when I was in the seventh grade.  I was gawky and gangly and found myself with curves when I was not the least bit ready for them.  I was also extremely black and white about everything; and extremely honest.  It was as if that special lasso that Wonder Woman was always throwing about was perpetually around my shoulders; I could not tell a lie.Worse, I was compelled to reveal information best left unspoken.  I would have made a horrible spy. 

Before classes at Kirby Junior High School, all the students would 'hang out' in the courtyard.  Hanging out involved all the girls taking up strategic spots which allowed for optimal ogling of the "cute" boys.  The boys would just hang out in front of the gym in a huge blob of pre-testosterone, pushing and shoving at one another in order to demonstrate their coolness.

On this particular morning, my friend Cathy and I were hanging around, mooning over a boy named Kenny.  Kenny was a handsome boy whose shoulders had widened , and he looked close enough to manly for us to swoon over.  Cathy and I never actually swooned or said "He's dreamy!"  But he totally was dreamy.  Think young Patrick Dempsey, before Grey's Anatomy made him annoying.  Kenny was throwing a football to his friends, showing off his arm muscles. Cathy and I watched Kenny, just like all the other girls. 

And then I saw something that meant that I had to speak to him. Had to.  It was a compulsion that could not be denied.  I had to speak to Kenny and tell him what I had seen.  Now. 

I left the safety of the sidelines and moved into the courtyard, where Kenny caught a football right in front of me.  I flushed beet red, my face warm in the morning sunlight. All of the other girls were looking at me, some glaring, others encouraged by what they saw as my bravery.  Kenny himself smiled benevolently at me, as one smiles at the village idiot.  Encouraged, I motioned him closer, so that I could whisper quietly in his ear, and Kenny, that handsome boy, put his hand on my shoulder, and leaned ever so close.  My heart was aflutter, my stomach flipflopping all over the place.   I could have kissed his cheek, it was so close. 

"Your pants are unzipped," I said, looking up at him with eyes that screamed "Please don't hate me!"  I quickly looked away while he checked, expecting to hear the standard "thank you".   Then Kenny, the benevolent, turned as red as I was and moved quickly toward the gym.   



Prompt:  A Seventh Grade Memory

Creative Parenting

Once upon a time, I had the bright idea that raising boys would be easier than raising girls.  After all, I said to myself, boys don't have all that extra drama about what they wear and who is their friend and all that.  I won't have to worry about buying the correct hair bows or getting the special sparkly tights. 

I don't know what I was thinking.  Boys aren't more difficult, but they have their own set of trauma-inducing chapters in their lives. I am starting to get a little paranoid about these lessons that I am supposed to impart to my child.  I have realized that I have no idea how to teach many of the finer points of being a boy.  When I was growing up and my brother said or did something completely idiotic, my dad usually just slapped him upside the head.  I'm not sure what sort of lesson a slap upside the head is supposed to impart, nor am I sure that any specific lesson was learned in that instance.  So how do we do this?  How do you raise a boy who doesn't shy away from challenges, but one who isn't a bully?  How do you raise a son who stands up for themselves without knocking anyone else over?  How do you raise a boy who treats others with respect?

How do you teach a five year old boy to be a gentleman?

Yesterday, I was getting my son ready for bed.  He was putting on his Very Special Skylanders jammies(I don't know why they're so special, that is just what he calls them), and I was walking around the room, picking up socks, shirts, and pants, so they could be washed and taken to Goodwill. I occasionally had to bend over to get my fingers on some items.  It was as I was bending over that my son laughed at me.

"Mama, you've got a big butt!"  Zane giggled.  I was horrified.  Where did he get that?  Did he hear that from one of his friends?  Should I make a big deal about it?

Where he got the sentence doesn't really matter, I decided. I do have what is colloquially known as "Junk in the trunk"; I generally like my extra cushioning.  However, I thought that Zane should understand that what he said wasn't a nice thing to say to other people.

"Son, when you say that someone has a big butt, it's mean and you hurt their feelings," I began.

But Zane had moved on to a new topic: the extremely voracious Army Ant. My words were not getting through. I needed to make an impact, because I needed Zane to know beyond a shadow that it was not okay to tell someone they have a big butt. Even if it is true. So I had to get a little creative.

"Zane," I made my eyes as wide as I could. "When you tell someone who is not your mama they have a big butt, do you know what happens?"

"No, Mama. What happens?"

"They will SIT on you!" I lowered my voice, trying to make it as scary as I could. "And sometimes...they pass gas!"

"EEEWWWWWW!" Zane looked horrified, but thoughtful. I considered my job complete, at least until the teen years.

Later, as I was relating this tale to Larry, I noticed that he was just staring at me.

"Stop looking at me like that." I said.  "You have no idea how hard it is to come up with this stuff."

Prompt:  Incorporate the phrase "stop looking at me like that" into your post.

The Evolution of Naming Babies

Once upon a time, back before electricity and the internet rotted our brains, little girls gathered together in stereotypical gender specific groups  to play gender specific games. In this case, the game was House; we imitated what we saw at home each day.  The little girls would gather, their little 'babies' cuddled close, while the imaginary husbands were off working at imaginary jobs, and all would share similar aspirations for the future, such as living in a castle and being a princess and having babies.   Later, the not so little girls would gather in a corner of the play ground at recess.  The games no longer involved carrying actual baby dolls, or chattering on about imaginary husbands, but it was House, nevertheless.  We were more sophisticated, and by that age, we all knew what the future was supposed to hold for us: Marriage and children. Since our own mothers were stay at homes, we had no reason to expect that  our own lives would end up differently.  So we boasted of marrying doctors and lawyers, and our children would all be smart.

In junior high, the girls who-were-not-quite women would doodle in the classroom, pretending to be married to some famous heartthrob.  Mr. and Mrs. Leif Garrett, or Mrs. Bobby Sherman. We would still get married, we would still have babies. We were still playing House.  The baby names, however, had become a bit more unusual, with different spellings the norm. such as Cyndi. Because Cyndi was a fun name for a fun girl; Cynthia might be smart, but Cyndi would be the one invited to the dances. I stuck with the name Michael, too timid to throw random vowels in the mix.  I was mocked a bit for my timidity, but even then I felt that there needed to be some thought placed in naming babies.    Everyone would expect a Cyndi to be perky and bubbly with that 'y' in her name.  That's a lot of pressure on poor Cyndi--what if she was an introvert or a tomboy?

The girls at my high school were independent, intelligent, and too busy dreaming about having it all to think about family.  These were girls who did not for one moment believe that they needed a man to pursue their dreams.  They were going to do it all and have it all.  Nobody asked about children's names there.  Then I went to college, where my roommate had a book of baby names.  She had a boyfriend, and she was on a schedule to be married the second she graduated, so she wanted to have a handy list ready to refer to while she was in labor.  If Cathy's future kids couldn't have riches galore, at least their names would be interesting.   She sat for hours, pairing up first and middle names, copying them all down in her meticulous handwriting.  Occasionally, I would look through the book, because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.   

My point is that I've had lots of time to consider baby names, even before there was a boy to name.  Over the years, I  have formed several 'rules' regarding baby names:

First, no juniors.  I have enough trouble remembering my husband's first name now, and if he and my son had the same name?  It wouldn't make things easier, that's for sure.  You'd think that it would, but you would be wrong.  My head would explode. 

Second, put a rhythm to the name.  Mix it up--if the first name has only one syllable, the second name can have two, etc.  Give the name some rhythm, just for those days when you've yelled your child's name at least 5 times that hour.  Zane's name has a nice rhythm, and if you say his full name repeatedly, as I do, you could probably dance to it. 

Third,  that name needed to have a bit of pizzazz.  A normal sounding name, but not the same name as every other kid. I didn't want to yell my son's name and have 300 other kids with the same name come running. The name Zane is unusual enough, but there are very few kids with that name, unlike the 14,000 girls around here named Madison, Madysin, Madisyn, etc.

Fourth, keep the oddness to a minimum.  Weird spelling? Nope. I did not want my son held back in Kindergarten because he was unable to spell his own name. That would just be cruel.  Zane is a simple name.

Fifth, ask the question:  Will my child get beaten up for having this name?  Naming your kid Chastity?  Vanity? Destiny? Kiss of death, socially.  I used to get picked on; the kids would call me "teeny-weeny", something I would not wish on my child.  Or would I?  I had a heck of a right hook, the benefit of learning to defend myself.   

Sixth, consider sports or clubs.  Will your child's name sound great on the PA system?   If not, you might want to reconsider naming your child Worthington Codrup Johnson Smith III.  My kid's name will sound just fine on the PA when he walks up to get his high school diploma.  

Seventh, is there meaning in the name?  Zane is supposed to be a derivative of the name John, which means "God is gracious" in Hebrew and "Godly light" in Hindi.   And Zane is indeed a godly, if energetic, light, and God is indeed gracious for giving him to us.  Now, if only he can live up to all that hype. 

Mamakat's prompt:  5.) Share how you came up with your kids names!

Disappearing Handwriting

Mamakat's Wondermous Prompt: 1.) A trend you can't stand.


When I was a kid, way back before electricity, way back before the reading Holy Wars, we had to learn to write cursive.  There we sat at our little desks, our heads bent over the paper specially made for learning to write cursive.  This paper had a dotted line in between the solid ones, and it cost a bit more than the other paper we used.  All of us kids had special pencils that were thick and easy to grip, and the classroom was quiet as we practiced writing a cursive A, followed by a cursive B, and so on.  Our teacher circled the room, making sure that we were writing the letters correctly, and helping us when we did not stay on the line or when our cursive Q ended up too lopsided. Once we mastered the upper and lowercase letters, we began to string the letters together to make words.  The idea was that the pencil did not lift from the page until the word was finished.  I often struggled with that idea; I didn't feel that such things should apply to me, and I am sure that my teacher got tired of my attempts to individualize my education.

A funny thing happened as we learned to write in cursive; those of us who practiced diligently found ourselves doing better on spelling tests.  The practice of writing the words down created a muscle memory that helped us remember the correct spelling, as did seeing the word we had written on the paper.  Once we didn't have to think about the correct spelling, we were able to concentrate on creating actual sentences.  One thing led to another, and by the end of third grade, we were writing fools.  Many of us waited eagerly for our writing assignments, happy to be able to show our teacher what we could do.

I loved the physical act of writing.  I would raid my dad's desk, where he kept a cigar box full of pens.  I would then hide in my room, writing my name, other people's names, and any stories that popped into my head.  I am sure that my mother despaired of ever clearing out all the loose pieces of paper from my room, but we did not have recycling back then. I wrote letters to people, including a girl who didn't even speak English.  The act of pressing the pen to the paper, rolling it along the page to release the ink to form letters, then words, was intoxicating to me, even if it was just a homework assignment.  The fluidity of the movements in writing was somehow a dance, a dance that I could actually participate in, and  I loved that.  Still do.

My son will never have that joy.  He will never learn to write cursive.  He will print words out painstakingly instead of smoothly sliding his pencil along the page.  He will never write saucy comments in his peers' yearbook at the end of the school year.  Should Zane ever become famous, he won't be able to sign autographs with a flourish.  Schools don't teach it anymore.

I hate that.

The reasoning for not teaching cursive seems rational.  When I look askance at the teachers I work with, most of them just shrug stoically and change the subject.  The kids won't use cursive except to sign their names, so why bother?  The big writing tests don't count off for handwriting, so why bother?  Kids will be using computers and typing, so why bother?     I could scream. 

People have to be able to communicate, one way or another.  Writing is just as much a part of communication as other aspects.  If a person can't talk, or use sign, then they should be able to write them down so others can read them. Writing is interconnected with reading, too.  The better you read, the better you write, say the researchers.  Learning to spell words correctly, learning to string words together for form sentences, combining sentences to form paragraphs...all of this starts with learning to write in cursive.  To eliminate handwriting cuts out a vital aspect of writing that limits these children.  I hate it. 

I have no idea what to do about this, except whine and complain.  Maybe if I wrote a letter to the editor?In cursive?  Would he even be able to read it?

Portraits

Mamakat's prompt:   Ask your child to draw a portrait of you and share it with us. (Inspired by Scary Mommy)


At some point, my son started to draw.  It's a developmental progression, of course, and small marks on the wall tend to progress to more organized efforts such as architecture.  When we pick up Zane from daycare, he usually has a picture for us.  I always ask the boy "What is it?" or "What did you draw today?"  I want to make very sure that I am holding said picture in the correct orientation and commenting on the right thing.  I've been chastised for mistaking a picture of his daddy for a tree on more than one occasion.  

Here is the first unsolicited official picture that Zane identified as his mother.  I like the organization of squiggly lines into some sort of circular form.  There is what looks to be an eye in the center of that maelstrom, and in January of 2012, this was an accurate description of me.  It was indeed a tumultuous time, and my son was channeling Early Picasso.

This is the next unsolicited picture of me that Zane officially identified as "Mom in a Tornado", drawn sometime in 2012.  I now have a head and a body with feet.  My outfit appears to be some sort of tent.  I either have no arms or I have one arm wiping my brow, I can't tell.   I can see two clearly identifiable eyes, but no mouth or ears.  I may or may not be wearing makeup, and I may have dyed my hair blonde.  Still, this effort shows good growth in fine motor skills.

It was therefore with interest that I asked Zane to draw another picture of his mama.  What colorful impressions would Zane put on paper this time?  This is what I got:

On the one hand, I appear to be skinny.  On the other, I have no boobs and I appear to have lost an eye.  I'm smiling, missing eye and all.  I do have a nose, and I do have tiny T-Rex arms, but no hands. I'm concerned that my legs seem to meld into a single appendage that looks suspiciously like a cloven hoof, because I'm not really sure what the heck that means.

My Killer Outfit

Mamakat's Prompt: Describe an outfit you LOVED wearing.


My roommate Laura was graduating from college.  I was moving back in with my parents to complete my student teaching.  We were both busy cleaning out closets, packing, and getting ready to leave San Marcos.

Laura has always been extremely proficient at picking out clothing that looked good.  She had amassed piles of clothes; there was no way most of them would fit into her car.  Ever practical, Laura gave many of the clothes that no longer fit to me, including a black pencil skirt.

I loved that black pencil skirt.  It was made of a lightweight fabric with a lining, and it zipped up the back.  It was probably supposed to be knee length, but since I am short the hemline fell about an inch below my knees.  I didn't care.  The moment I put that skirt on, zipped it up, and looked into a mirror, I was in love. 

Then I found a sweater.  It was a scoop neck sweater that had the buttons in the back, with three quarter sleeves. It was clingy at the waistline and the sleeves, but more generous at the bust, so it was appropriate for work.  This sweater was a color of blue that I've never seen again, but this is very close:

I didn't usually wear blues back then, but I put that sweater on, and it just worked.  Wow.  It flattered my skin tone and I felt as though I were illuminated from within!  I got so many compliments about that sweater that my other clothing seemed dull in comparison.

I added that sweater to my much loved pencil skirt one day.  I don't think that I have ever stared at myself in a mirror for that long since.  I have never been under any delusion that I could ever be considered a hottie.  But when I had that outfit on, I sure felt like I was beautiful.  I felt like Cindy Crawford strutting down the runway. (Note: if you don't know who Cindy Crawford is because you weren't born yet...no, I won't say a word.)

And not only beautiful.  In that outfit, I felt as though I could handle anything.  I felt confident. I called it my power outfit for that very reason, and I wore it as often as I could, with a pair of black pumps and some pearls. 

Unfortunately, my 'ample' proportions grew a bit more ample over the years and I could no longer wear my power outfit.  It was with a heavy heart that I placed that outfit into the Goodwill bag one cold day.  I only hope that some other less than confident woman found that sweater and skirt, and felt as wonderful in that outfit as I did. 

Of course, if she walks by me wearing that outfit, however, she's going down.   I might actually fit into it again!