A Wuss in Chic Clothing

If ever there was a day when this gal needed some Shania Twain, it was today.  My horrid habit of eating the ice from my drinks caused a filling to crack.  The dentist said it was in need of a crown.  My first crown.  No one told me exactly what to expect.

The appointment was just after the dentist's office opened.  The idea was to go straight from there to my office.  My nice pashmina protected my arms and shoulders from the chill in his office while the heating ramped up. 

Barely after reclining in the chair, he stuck a huge needle in my gum.  "Little sting."  Little sting, my ass.  Those needles weren't that big before.  When did they get so big? 

But the anesthesia worked.  My lip and tongue tingled until they felt as large as a lemon.  By that time, the tingling had subsided and there was no feeling.  That's when the worst of the whole procedure began. 

It's that smell.  Like burning flesh.  Like hair caught in a candle.  And it doesn't stop.  Because he just keeps on and on and on until my tooth is ready for the temporary crown.

Woah, woah, woah.  Temporary?  You mean I have to come back for more?  Heaven help me.

And THEN... the anesthesia wears off.  Can someone just hit me over the head with a bat and knock me out until morning?  Somehow, miraculously, the end of the workday arrived. 

On the drive home, the day was cooling into evening.  But, hey!  If I can stand the pain in my mouth, I sure as hell can stand a little chill.  The convertible top went down, the seat heater went on, and the pashmina wrapped around my head and shoulders to keep my hair from tangling in the wind.  Throw on some shades and I'm ready for my closeup, dahling.

Blog Tweet, Blog Tweet

How can one have an old whiplash injury and never remember when or how it could have happened?

[Title taken from this.]

Curious Gaelic

If curiosity killed the cat, then I'm in over my head.  Following a successful reconciliation at church today, changing into casual clothes to cook was necessary.  While sitting in the bedroom fastening my shoes, something bright pink outside the window caught the corner of my eye.

Turning to have a better look, there were two EMT's from the firehouse working on their ambulance.  Both sported a pink that does not readily occur in nature.  Except on maybe some hybrid azaleas or cone flowers.  However, the man getting out of the EMT Supervisor truck wore the usual navy of the department.

Hmm... Is it the Race for the Cure weekend?  Is it the Komen 3-Day weekend?  Are they imitating the Pink Fireman?  Hmm... Curious minds want to know.  Guess I should go knock on their door and ask.  I'll let you know what they say.

[Title taken from this.]

As Scarce as Hen's Teeth

Spending 14 years as a full-time mother spoils a person.  No boss to answer to, no office politics, self-determined schedules.  Ah, what a life!

My duck feathers are losing their oils.  It's getting harder for things to roll off my back. I've noticed that my jaw is clenched tightly during the day and doesn't completely relax while at home.  Perhaps some football player can help me pick out a mouth guard to protect my teeth.

Who knew a duck had teeth?

Fortune $500 Added Benefits

Mr. Gaelic gets paid $5 to walk the dog for 30 minutes.  Actually, there doesn't have to be a dog in the picture.  Or anything else except some form of exercise for 30 minutes and his office will pay him $5. 

They also give him $35 for going to his annual physical, $25 for going to the dentist.  But it's not paid in cash.  It's paid in gift cards.  Yet there's a cap of $240 a year that he can earn.

He then can use the gift cards at a number of approved vendors from Amazon to Zappos.com.  All part of his company's encouragement of their employees to be healthy.  His well-being reward.

What about the rest of us?  We exercise and eat healthy and visit our doctors and dentists.  Why can't our companies pay us in Best Buy gift cards? 

One of the vendors is a national grocery chain that sells mostly organic foods.  So, let me see if I have this right.  You work for a Fortune 500 company.  They pay you to be healthy.  Then you can use your rewards to buy organic food to be even healthier.  Because you are healthier, you miss fewer days from work.  Increased productivity all for as little as $240 worth of gift cards a year for being healthy.

Don't let it be forgotten that exercising also leads to fewer stress-related diseases and less depression.  Aha!  Happier worker bees!  Happy.  Healthy.  Productive.

Where's the justice?  How can the rest of us get such added benefits?

Where's My Empty Lap?

Goooooood Evening, blog buddies!  My Pollyanna is showing.  Mostly because the stitches were removed from my back.  The results came back.  The spot that the doctor cut out was benign.

Let the earthquakes, hurricanes, flooding, zombie apocalypse come.  I'm here and I'm cleared.  Get used to it!  I'm here to stay. 

[Title taken from this.]

Long Time Coming

Lazy usually doesn't describe me.  Laziness didn't keep me from continuing my daily installments of the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. Terror did.

Before the explanation of how terror paralyzed my blog posts, here are the past and future (daily) challenges.

The past:
1.A picture of yourself with 10 facts
2.A picture of you and the person you have been closest with the longest
3.A picture of the cast from your favorite show
4.A picture of your favorite night
5.A picture of your favorite memory
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day
7.A picture of your most treasured item
8.A picture that makes you laugh
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with
11.A picture of something you hate
12.A picture of something you love
13.A picture of your favorite band or artist
14.A picture of someone you could never imagine your life without

Today:
15.A picture of something you want to do before you die

The future:
16.A picture of someone who inspires you
17.A picture of something that has made a huge impact on your life recently
18.A picture of your biggest insecurity
19.A picture and a letter
20.A picture of somewhere you'd love to travel
21.A picture of something you wish you could forget
22.A picture of something you wish you were better at
23.A picture of your favorite book
24.A picture of something you wish you could change
25.A picture of your favorite day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you
27.A picture of yourself and a family member
28.A picture of something you're afraid of
29.A picture that can always make you smile
30.A picture of someone you miss

The timing of Day Fifteen's request was poignant in that I'm still not completely cleared of suspicious cancer cells.  Skin cancer.  So "what do I want to do before I die?" has become a very real question. 

Bucket Lists are fun to think about.  But when the shit hits the fan, they're not all that realistic.  Seriously?  Sailing around the world?  If it's really that important, make it happen now.  When it can be enjoyed.  Even when I posed the Bucket List question on Facebook with a caveat of only one thing, people's suggestions were too broad or grand for the immediate. 

My "List" has been revamped.  If you know me in real life, you've heard me say that if I were ever diagnosed with some terminal disease, I would climb Mount Everest.  Because if I'm going to die, at least do something fun.  But no more.  I'm a wimp.  I'm not an Alpinist; I have only recently rejoined the world of exercisers; and to top it off, I'd have some disease that could be a lethal burden to my fellow climbers.  No, I would want to surround myself with all the love and comfort I could for as long as I could.

My "List" is quite simple.  To be with the people I love in a place I love.  My family, at home.  No grand adventures, no thrill seeking, no fastest or highest anything.  Just Mr. Gaelic, Finola, Deirdre, Maeve, Baby, Thing 1 and Thing 2.

And no regret that I never summitted Mount Everest.

[Title taken from this.]

Good News, So-So News, and a Warning

First the good news.  The stitches are out of my finger.  Yippee!  The pins are out of my finger.  Yippee!!  The bones are healed.  Yippee!!!  However... The progress on mobility backslid while my finger was in the latest bandage.  The finger only bends about 60° and won't touch the palm.  Yet.  Give it a few weeks.

The so-so news.  As you may remember from last Thursday, it was not a good evening.  After calling the doctor's office this morning for the official word from my biopsy, the nurse informed me that the results came back with "suspicious cells".  The doctor wants to do a more extensive biopsy at the end of August.  She wants the site to heal before she takes more.  Next time she'll stitch me up, that's how much she plans to take.

And the warning?  It may be too late for you.  According to doctors, melanoma is a young person's cancer.  The damage is done when we're young.  Such as the many, many sunburns (including one second-degree sunburn) growing up as a fair-complected, red-headed child spending summers on the Gulf Coast.  Whose great-grandfather died of the disease.

But it's not too late to pass the warning along to others.  "Dear 16-Year-Old Me" isn't meant as a "Scared Straight" admonition against tanning.  Just as a friendly prodding to check yourself. 

The Wait

Is this how it begins?  The end? 

The voice on the answering machine informs me that the results of my biopsy are in.  Yet the doctor's office will be closed for the four-day weekend beginning in the morning.  She says to call at my earliest convenience for the results.  Four days from now.

If it were benign, she would have said so on the answering machine.  I don't say anything.  He doesn't say anything.  Then he speaks,

"I'm sure it's nothing."

Does he really believe that or is that the only thing he could think to say?

He asks if I want a beer or wine.  I don't drink anymore.  I ask for white wine. 

Suddenly the weekend plans to drive to the mountains to look at property seem meaningless.  My dream retirement home vanishes before me.

I feel scared and hollow at the same time.  Is this the beginning of the end?

Hello, My Name Is Gaelic, and I'm an Addict

The good news is that all five pins were removed from my finger last week.  The bad news is that the bruise covers half my palm and it's that putrid purplish-greenish color.  The doctor prescribed Oxycontin.  I love that man!

However, that's not what I'm addicted to.  When the entire weekend is spent in bed in a drugged-up stupor, Facebook and work are prohibited on the doctor's orders.  Lest I write something that I would later regret.  At this point, the drugs have lessened and it's probably safe to go back in the writing pool.

Reading wasn't easy while on the heavy drugs.  No concentration.  Which means that movies were also too difficult to follow.  Even when Mr. Gaelic queued up an old Popeye cartoon, my mind couldn't stay on the plot.  Now that's saying a lot.

To occupy myself I reverted back to a deep, dark secret that only a few very close friends know about me.  It's my p*rn habit.  Actually, two different kinds.  Because I like to spice things up a bit.  My usual food p*rn websites make me hungry.  But the meds kept me from salivating too much over gorgeous photos of flan and roasts and cream sauces and wine sauces and, well, you get the picture.

So instead I indulged in my other p*rn habit.  House p*rn.  Maybe I'm a frustrated, closet architect.  Because I adore looking at house plans.  And you can keep your colonial, center-stairway, ranch, split-level, saltbox, McMansions.  I like modern house p*rn.  Give me concrete and steel and glass and cantilevers and hearthless fireplaces. 

This is one addiction that causes no harm.  Until it's time for the retirement house.

Not So Clean Break

There will be a short break in the challenge.  After gearing up for my first motorcycle ride in almost four years, the pins in my finger were dislodged while wearing the protective gloves and spending a couple of hours on the motorcycle yesterday.  The pain that had been occurring on both sides of my knuckle shifted all to one side.  The knuckle looks not only massively swollen but also deformed.  Even the mini Ace bandage wrapped around it to control the swelling sends me into stomping fits accompanied by more expletives than most sailors know.

Oxycontin is my constant friend until the doctor's office opens tomorrow morning.  The new hand doctor (finally got to see him over three months after my original hand doctor's untimely death) said two weeks ago that his office would call me to schedule the in-office operation to remove the pins.  Call me?  My a$$!  It reminds me of "Don't call us, we'll call you."

This has been one long weekend.

Death Be Not Plowed

There has been no exercise regimen in my life since Christmas.  No ballet.  No swimming.  No free weights.  No Pilates.  Nada.  Nil.  Nothing.  Zip.  Zero.

But my doctor and my health coach (she comes with the health care plan at Mr. Gaelic's office) want me to exercise to help reduce my cholesterol.  It's above the normal range.  Plus my LDL cholesterol is too high and my HDL is too low. 

The health coach calls me every three weeks to discuss my plan.  The first homework was to come up with a plan to exercise.  The next homework was to start implementing the plan.  My plan, it turns out, was overly ambitious.  It fell flat just two days into it.  Actually it fell into the couch halfway through the 15-minute exercise DVD along with my assertions of "I'm gonna die.  I can't breathe.  She's trying to kill me."

Today's plan was to take a nice slow-paced bike ride along the bike trail into the city.  The problem was all the rain last night created a very humid morning.  Riding next to the river and the low-hanging fog made it all the worse, bordering on Amazonian-rain-forest humidity.

It wasn't until the bike route turned away from the river that the perspiration on my arms, and tummy, and back, and forehead, and you get the picture, began to dry.  By the time I reached the office garage, it was like riding on a nice spring day.  No more feeling like a draught horse tied to a plow.

De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da

Look at the calendar.  It's Maundy Thursday.  Not only did Jesus partake of the Last Supper with his disciples, He washed their feet.  Then He told them to do the same amongst themselves.  His new commandment was to love one another as He loved them.

In the late morning, Deirdre and I trekked to the Army Medical Center where the wounded warriors from Afghanistan and Iraq are sent to heal to the point of returning to their families.  The purpose of the visit was to deliver Girl Scout cookies from several troops in the city.  Some of the younger troops made signs and cards for the warriors.  Deirdre, being older, was allowed onto the floors to interact with the warriors themselves.

The first warrior we met had no legs, as did the second.  The third was in a neck brace and two full length leg casts.  Our escort prepared us at each room with the injuries and the length of their stay up to now.  Our fourth warrior has been at the Medical Center since July.  He has no legs and only one arm.  During our visit, waves of pain washed over his face but he tried not to express it.  Instead we talked about the planes he used to jump out of.

The last warrior we saw in that wing had been shot and can't move his arm due to the nerve damage.

"How long have you been here?"

"I got shot on the 11th."

Ten days ago.  And here he is, thousands of miles away from the fighting.  Having a Girl Scout give him cookies.

At the evening service, the seminarian preached about being in a clinical pastoral internship last summer.  In pedagogical terms, the internship was "do, reflect, do".  He quickly learned, in his life, that could also be phrased as "receive, give, receive".

The sermon was poignant in its timing.  In doing something that I considered to be giving of ourselves, Deirdre and I received untold riches in a few brief moments with those men.  In doing, we receive.  I want to do and do and do some more.

[Blog title taken from this song.]

Easy Like (Palm) Sunday Mornin'?

The subtitle of today's blog could be "Hey, Mom! There's goop on my forehead!"

Remember your history?  Remember how the Puritans in Massachusetts forbade the celebration of Christmas?  Growing up as a Southern Baptist in the South, the church didn't celebrate Christmas with a church service unless December 25th happened to fall on a Sunday.  We also didn't celebrate Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday, or Good Friday.  They were considered too "Catholic".  Never mind that as a current Episcopalian, the church celebrates those holy days but without the authority of the Bishop of Rome, or the Pope, depending on which side of the Reformation you sit.

Today, in case you missed it, is Palm Sunday.  It's the day that the Church remembers Jesus' triumphant procession into Jerusalem.  We carry palm fronds and crosses woven from palm leaves as a reminder that the people laid palm branches and cloaks on the road as Jesus rode into Jerusalem.  It's very celebratory.

But then something gets in the way.  You see, Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy Week which culminates in seven days on Easter.  In between, Jesus will celebrate Passover with his disciples (Maundy Thursday), be arrested, tried, and executed (Good Friday).  Finally to rise again in the promised Resurrection (Easter).

That's not what gets in the way, however.  What gets in the way is that people don't or won't attend church this week on Thursday and Friday.  In order to have the Easter story on Easter Sunday, somehow we have to get Jesus from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the trials of Good Friday.  So the Palm Sunday service becomes dysfunctional in attempting to celebrate Jesus, institute the rite of communion, and crucify him all in one fell swoop of a service.

It wasn't until I was sitting in the 5:00 p.m. service this afternoon that I realized I really don't like the Palm Sunday liturgy.  Especially since I plan to attend church on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.  And this year at our parish, there's even a Holy Saturday service for the "forgotten" day of Easter.

A couple of things made up for the week's worth of liturgy packed into one service.  The 5:00 p.m. service is much higher church than the other services at our parish.  Incense carries our prayers heaven-ward while a sung liturgy hearkens back to the early Church.  After communion, parishioners are invited into the side chapel for a laying on of hands for healing. 

The 5:00 service was my first choice following the shattering of my finger back in January.  Having a priest lay hands on my head and pray for healing and health brings me comfort and peace.  Yet today, the priest did something that I don't remember from other healing services.  He rubbed his thumb in the chrism and made the sign of the cross on my forehead before laying his hands on my head and praying for my continued healing.

Five weeks ago there were ashes in the exact same place and design reminding me that I am but dust and to dust I will return.  Now the olive-and-balsam oil is anointing me with healing strength.  The same questions from Ash Wednesday creep into my thoughts. 

Do I wash it off or let it wear away on its own?  It's an outward sign of an inward contemplation, although nowhere nearly as obvious as a big black smudge.  I can see the shiny cross on my forehead in the mirror because I know what I'm looking for.  Like the Turkish rug merchant showing a buyer the slightest imperfection, it's my disclaimer before God that I need His healing grace.

Mutually Exclusive

Would you rather:

• Take a pill everyday that would provide your body with the exact vitamins, minerals, and calories and guarantee perfect health and weight but never be able to eat anything ever again OR never have perfect health and weight but eat anything you wanted?
• Have power but little money OR have money but little power?
• Pay $8 for a gallon of water OR pay $8 for a gallon of gas?
• Be blind OR be deaf?
• Live in Khartoum, Sudan OR live in Yakutsk, Siberian Russia?
• Be only 4 feet tall OR be 7 1/2  feet tall?
• Always have summer OR always have winter?
• Live in a fascist society OR live in a communist society?
• Have polluted rivers OR have polluted air?
• Die of cancer OR die of a heart attack?
• Have all mountains leveled OR have the Grand Canyon become the Grand Lake?
• Have no more movies OR have no more books?

Either/or.  Black or white.  No middle ground.  Which shall it be?

The Touch, The Feel of Gaelic

There are five senses.  Yet there are only four here so far in my non-Bucket List list.  There have been sight, sound, smell, and taste.  Have you ever realised that most of your senses are located in the head region?  The only one that covers more than just the head region is touch. 

What is on my want-to-feel-before-I-die list?  This:

• The Dead Sea keeping me afloat
• My grandbaby's soft skin
• The wind from a tornado as I chase the storm (with a professional, of course)
• Spray from the ocean on my face while sailing in the Greek Isles
• The silkiness of my daughters' wedding dresses
• Sheets made of silk
• Weightlessness
• Cool dirt while digging for truffles
• Spongy trails as the elevation increases on Denali
• My wedding rings on my left ring finger (they were cut off when I shattered the bone in my finger and won't be repaired until there is no more swelling in my finger)

That's also an update on my finger.  The pins are beginning to hurt under the skin.  They'll need to come out at some point.  When I make a fist, my finger still sticks out at an odd angle.  But physical therapy is continuing and small progress is made each week.  As the professionals tell me, it may take a year before my finger is stabilized.  And it may never be back to normal -- in size or in how straight it is.

Perhaps Number 11 on the list should be "a day without pain in the finger."  But whining doesn't feel so good either.  So we'll stop at Ten.

To Promote the General Well-Being

Lou Gehrig said, "Today, I consider myself to be the luckiest man on the face of the earth."  What of the happiest person in America?  The New York Times knows.

According to the annual Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index, he is a tall, Asian-American, observant Jew who is at least 65 and married, has children, lives in Hawaii, runs his own business and has a household income of more than $120,000 a year.  And the New York Times tracked down someone who fit that description.  To top it off, they posted an interactive map online to compare the well-being of Americans by congressional district based on several criteria.

We Americans always love a great competition.  "My district is better than your district."  Ever noticed how everything devolves into winners and losers?  Such as chanting "U-S-A, U-S-A!" at presidential inaugurations.  Imagine folks chanting "U-K, U-K!" or "Deutsch-land, Deutsch-land!"  But that's a different blog and I digress.

After my initial curiosity of comparing my current district to my childhood district, my eyes opened to the real possibility of using the information on the map to my best advantage.  Mr. Gaelic and I want to retire to the mountains, preferably East Coast mountains rather than west of the Great Plains.  Our initial search for land is centered on eastern Tennessee, western North Carolina, and southwestern Virginia, the land of our forebears.  But should we be looking elsewhere?

Take a look at the clues on the map.  Those areas tend to have higher rates of depression, health problems, high cholesterol, diabetes, and smoking than my current district.  They also have less nighttime safety, dental visits, and health insurance than my current district.  That generally translates to less productive and active seniors, more police presence at the expense of taxpayers, and more morbidity for everyone. 

Time to expand the search for mountain property.

And Now For the Rest of the Story...

A died almost three years ago.  She had skin cancer.  She was married to our priest, O.

J died 16 months ago.  He had stomach cancer.  He attended a different Episcopal church but his wife's godfather was our priest's former boss.

While sick with cancer, J needed people to stay with him during the day while M was at work.  While spending a day with him, J asked me to tell him about O.  He wasn't terribly interested in A's illness but rather in how O was coping without his wife, the mother of his children, his best friend.  Without saying it, it was clear he was asking because he knew he wouldn't get better and wanted some sort of reassurance that his wife M would be okay.

Several weeks after J's funeral there was an email exchange with M offering to tell her about "something that J said when I was sitting with him once".  M never took me up on it.  Until tonight.

In making plans for her daughter to stay with us for the weekend while she's away, M added a P.S. to her email suggesting that we get together for coffee and that she was ready to hear what J told me.  How does one tell a friend that her husband, while dying of cancer, was more concerned about her well-being than his own?  Even the thought of telling her makes tears roll down my cheeks.

That's the kind of love we all hope to have.  Not that someone will love us that much, but that we are lucky enough to find someone to love.  Unselfish, undying love.  J was a lucky man indeed.

When a Friend has Cancer, May I Complain About Having a Cold?

Everyone always says that they need a vacation from their vacation.  Well, I need a sick day from my sick day. 

There's a cold going around work and it finally landed on my desk.  After a noontime meeting and eating at my desk, the last thing I needed was four more hours of work.  Especially since I had been in the office for six hours.  Mr. Gaelic (we carpool) drove me home and wrapped me in a blanket.  I had some fun websites to visit (thanks to a chat session with Laoch), hot apple cider to soothe my throat, and three layers of fleece to help settle me in for a nap.  I slept for all of 30 minutes.

Not that my body didn't need the sleep and could have used more, but that our neighbor from across the street called asking if his two girls could come to our house after school.  The wife was recently diagnosed with lung cancer which has already spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder.  The husband had to take the wife to the hospital because her pain medicine isn't blocking the pain.  Even sick with a head cold, you don't turn away the kids of a woman with cancer. 

Fine and good.  They stayed in the family room with Maeve playing Wii until supper.  But I still heard them.  Been there, done that, got the t-shirt!  Having a five-year-old saying, "I want..." and "Why...?" does not make for a restful afternoon.  Maybe it was easier when they were my own kids.  Maybe I'm becoming a codgerly old woman.  Or maybe, just maybe, I'm plain sick and tired.

Search for the Holy Sale

About three weeks ago, we had an ice storm and a two-hour delay for work with schools closed for the day.  Mr. Gaelic, in typical male thinking, went out to scrape the ice from the truck, neglecting to salt the walk on the way to the vehicle.  Two step out my front door, not even off the front stoop, and WHAM, I fall and shatter my left ring finger.  Two cut-off wedding rings, five pins, one cast, and untold numbers of Oxycontin later, he readily admits he could have been more focused on safety and less focused on getting to the office "early".

The stitches came out Friday.  While the nurse was removing the black threads (and let me just go on record as saying that having stitches removed from a finger hurts almost as much as the break itself), I was lamenting the scar I will have.  The nurse (a man) suggested that a new ring might be in my future.  Mr. Gaelic agreed.  And I have a witness!

Mr. Gaelic has been very protective ever since my fall.  He holds my arm in the snow, or walking down stairs; he carries bags for me; he drives me to work.  (Oxycontin use prohibits driving, at least in my book.)  He also drives me to my favorite hair salon to have my hair washed and blow dried.  The bandage is supposed to stay dry and I wouldn't be able to hold both a hairdryer and brush even if he washed my hair for me at home.

Yesterday's salon outing also became a stop at my new favorite designer's store.  Certain designers cut their clothes in a way that fits my body well without the need for alterations.  Dana Buchman used to be my favorite until she discontinued her designer line in favor of a line exclusively for Kohls.  She may be the same woman, but her clothes don't fit like they did when she had her own stand-alone stores.

Yet even with my new favorite designer, he has several labels and each one fits differently.  His basic line fits me in the rear but not the waist or sleeve length.  His next step up runs small for size.  Even though dress size numbers don't bother me, if the mid-line label fits my waist and sleeve length, it doesn't fit my hips.

That leaves his top-end prêt-à-porter line.  Prêt-à-porter is ready-to-wear, as opposed to his couture line which is seen on the catwalks of Bryant Park (oops, I mean Lincoln Center where they moved Fashion Week this year).  Great.  Just great.  My body type fits the most expensive line.  What's a girl to do?

Buy on sale only.

Which is what happened yesterday.  I snagged a 100% cashmere dress for more than 75% off the original price.  I didn't have to elbow my way through the crowds at Loehmann's or Filene's Basement or TJMaxx.  The saleslady set us up in a cozy dressing room with a loveseat and table and offered us coffee and water.  And the dress fits like a glove!

My new shopping habit won't be hitting the discount racks in strip malls, but hitting the stand-alone designer store downtown when they hang a Sale sign in the window.  Same price, better service.  Eureka!  I have found my new favorite store!