Fashion Friday - Fashionably Late Edition

It seems, and in fact has been, a most frightfully long time since a post has been posted about fashion. I would like to take this fine Saturday to say a little bit about shoes. Yes, shoes. As a wise person once said, "You should not judge any man until you have walked a mile in his shoes". Perhaps this erudite and perspicacious individual attempted to intimate that one human being should not judge another without knowledge of this other's experiences and philosophies of life, or maybe he simply meant that much can be discerned by a person's choice in footwear. Whatever the case may be, the judicious choosing of what a well dressed and stylish lady adorns her feet with is paramount. In brief, and to conclude, there is something to be said for footwear that is chic, versatile and comfortable.

The ballet flat is a pretty piece that goes well with both skirts and pants.



The simple pump is a shoe that, though high-heeled, can be incredibly comfortable, as well as chic.




A pair of boots can be coupled with a vast array of outfits and are appropriate for almost any season.

Chivalry Isn't Quite Dead Yet

Or at least it wasn't back in May. Quoting from Christa Taylor's blog, which is quoting from an old Dockers ad campaign:

"Once upon a time, men wore the pants, and wore them well. Women rarely had to open doors and little old ladies never crossed the street alone. Men took charge because that’s what they did. But somewhere along the way, the world decided it no longer needed men. Disco by disco, latte by foamy non-fat latte, men were stripped of their khakis and left stranded on the road between boyhood and androgyny. But today, there are questions our genderless society has no answers for. The world sits idly by as cities crumble, children misbehave and those little old ladies remain on one side of the street. For the first time since bad guys, we need heroes. We need grown-ups. We need men to put down the plastic fork, step away from the salad bar and untie the world from the tracks of complacency. It’s time to get your hands dirty. It’s time to answer the call of manhood. It’s time to WEAR THE PANTS."

Read the rest here.

The Glass Windshield

Members of Femininity Summit 2010, readers of this blog, I humbly submit the following thoughts about feminism's betrayal of the American woman:

A woman can now choose to become a doctor, a lawyer, a plumber, the local garbageman -- even to seek election as President of these United States. But if you glance behind the steering wheel of a Mustang or a Corvette, what are you going to see? A man. Behind the wheel of a BMW? An old man. Feminists may prattle on about glass ceilings in the realms of art, writing, politics, or academia, about salary disparities, lack of career options, or "the oppressive patriarchy" which has apparently stifled us for centuries, but the real barrier that women face isn't a glass ceiling at all -- it is a windshield. Why aren't women out on the streets, the top down on their Porsche 911? Why aren't feminists concerned over this disparity of female to male motorists? The fact is, respected readers, that I smell a conspiracy.

If the feminists of America, yea, even of the world, were really so very anxious about the complete and total equality of the sexes, they would not stop with the apparent autonomy that many women now revel in. They would not rest until we had gained an equal representation in all aspects of life, including the driver's seat. Instead, they remain mute on this issue, which leads me to wonder whether they are lining their pockets at the expense of their sisters in the field. Most car manufacturing companies are controlled by men, after all, and what would suit their interests more than a dearth of female drivers? Feminists claim that they seek this total equality of the sexes, yet I have not read one article or essay, heard one interview that addresses this most grievous of inequalities. And where else would feminists get the money to pay for all of those hideous pantsuits?

So, my fellow women, do not accept these red herrings of women's ordination or reproductive rights. Demand from them what you truly deserve: a Lamborghini Murcielago.

Hay,

So, The Shadow of the Bear movie needs some extras. I e-mailed them to say that my sister and I might be able to come. They said that they are especially in need of male actors, but girls are totally welcome.

Here is the information *copy and pasted* from the director of the the movie:

Are you within driving distance of Blaine MN?

Are you (or look like you could be) between the ages of 16 and 18?

Do you own a suit or prom dress? (or could borrow one for the day)

Are you free on July 24th?

Do you want to be in a Movie?

Then send me an e-mail at theshadowofthebear@ymail.com and let me know of your interest in being in the "after prom party scene with Rose and Rob" for our film shoot on the 24th! I'll send you any further information you need to know!

The Shadow of the Bear movie blog is below:

http://theshadowofthebear.blogspot.com/

How Much Does a Stamp Cost, Anyway?

We good Catholic homeskillets here like to write letters. I mean actual, physical pen-and-stationery letters. Facebook updates? Nice to keep tabs on friends over the summer. E-mail? Eh, it's okay, but it's still only words on a screen. You can't touch them. Phone calls? It's great to hear somebody's voice, but once the phone call ends, that's it -- there's no lasting record, nothing to hang on to and remember the call by.

And there are letters. Something that you can hold in your hand. Letters not only express the writer's unique personality and traits, laid out on the paper for you to see and hold on to, they represent valuable time taken from the writer's hectic life and spent on you, the recipient. The writer chose the paper, filled it with their soul, and gave it to you. How cosmic is that? And, if you're anything like the ladies of this blog, the margins are crammed with doodles, coffee stains, and random outbursts of life. At no extra charge.

I have a thing for blank paper of any kind. I've been known to spend hours in the stationery aisle, selecting the perfect ream of paper, elegant or whimsical; some stationery I even pick out with a specific friend in mind, one who would get a particular inside joke, or get a kick out of a cheesy pattern. But blank paper isn't enough -- you have to fill the blank pages with thoughts, jokes, anecdotes, and memories.

I've always adored the thought of letters, permanent keepsakes and milestones of a relationship, collected and tied with ribbon to be enjoyed years later. You can't do that with texts and e-mails. They just don't carry the same level of meaning. There's something so very impersonal about them. Don't get me wrong. I use and enjoy the convenience of e-mail and Facebook just as much as other people. But there's always a zing of excitement and adventure when ripping open an envelope that has traveled half-way across the continent to reach you. What tales will those ink-covered pages unfold?

Hat tip to Karen Edmisten for inspiring this post.

Father's Day

Sunday was Father's Day. And we didn't post anything on this blog about it. (guilty look) Come to think of it, we didn't post anything about Mother's Day, either...(double guilty look)

The Monday after Father's Day, I was sitting in the dark of church (tangent: there's nothing like sitting in a dark church; peace and serenity envelop you, and you can't help but think, in the words of Julian of Norwich that "all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well" end tangent). On a whim, I picked up a letter my dad wrote to me for my eighteenth birthday, that serves as my bookmark in the birthday gift he gave me. The beautiful thing about a beauty is that you always discover new beauties within that beauty each time you encounter said beauty. That's how I felt as I read my father's writing. My dad's wisdom and intelligence were evident to me when I first read the letter on my birthday. But, sitting in the calm of God's house, I was struck by the all the love that the letter contained. And all the love that the writer had for me. A father's love is something I don't understand as easily as a mother's love. (That's probably something to do with my geneder...) But it's a mystery that fascinates me. The strength, the quiet power, and the depth of a father's love astounds me.

"For stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
its flames are a blazing fire.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away." (Song of Songs, 8:6-7)

One of Lizzie Bennett's many admirable points (oh-ho-ho, you thought you were going to escape this post without a Jane Austen reference? Think again, my friend.)is her rock solid relationship with her father. Mr. Bennett loves Lizzie to pieces, and he supports her in her endeavors to be a proper young lady in a house full of twittery young flibberty-gibbets. Mr. Bennett has passed onto Lizzie his sense and intelligence. And he's her protector. He's totally got her back. Look at the way he backs her up on her refusal of Mr. Collins, because he has her ultimate happiness in mind.


Fathers are one of those absolutely wicked awesome gifts we majorly do not deserve, but because God's a really nice guy (understatement), He gives them to us anyway. There's something incredibly beautiful, mysterious, and awe-inspiring about the realtionship between a father and a daughter. At the Femininity Summit Prelim. Meeting, we discussed father-daughter relationships, and we agreed that the greatest gift our fathers have given us is the knowledge that we matter to them. Knowing that your father sees you as his beautiful young lady is balm for the soul.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Picnic Poetry

Penned by the Good Catholic Homeskillets (alias: GCH)

There's something to be said

for sunsets in the park

for pumpkin streusal muffins

for dancing hand-in-hand

for paroxysms of cute

for whipped cream and Oreos

for mocking the avant-garde

for picnicking in the park

for watching pigeons fly

for laughing with best friends

for people-watching in random places

for wearing pretty skirts

for nuns who wear pink habits! (Holler. Love them.)

for the Basilica on the horizon

for skirts on a sunny day

for talking random nothingness

for ripples

for Italian soda

for people who sing/talk to themselves

for ducks on the water

for plump squirrels

for babies with big hair

....feeling the breeze on your legs.

There's something to be said

for duck diapers

for the limitless sky

for cat-tails

for being a woman

...and for peanut butter

for living life

for calling people/anmials/inanimate objects: "sweetie"

for wee voices

for long hair blowing in the breeze

for knowing how to count

for bronze that looks like wood

for little brothers

for kung-fu fighting

for secrets, mysteries, and illuminating the truth

for cottonwoods rusling the in the wind

for dreaming

for learning from mistakes.

There's something to be said

for trees over londs*

for sculptures which you are not allowed to climb on (but you do anyway *mischievous smirk*)

for coaxing wild animals

for summer adventures with dangerous women.

Happiness is in the small things- in living life moment-by-moment, and by finding delight in each little blessing that comes your way. Because those small things are really big things. Each moment, we're given a choice; a very simple choice: to choose God or to choose ourself. But that's a huge choice. That's the original choice that our first parents were given. And they botched it.

The more we choose God- the more we hand ourselves over to Him- we grow ever closer to being the person He intended us to be. But the oftener we choose ourselves, the smaller our spirits will shrink. The questions of a small spirit are: "What's in it for me?" & "What can I get out of it?" Those questions cut us off from all the joy God has to offer us. Because if you approach a sunset with the question: "What's in this sunset for me?" you'll miss the whole point of that sunset. You don't get anything from a waterfall, sunlight piercing through the clouds, listening to birdsong, or climbing trees-you climb trees for the sake of climbing trees. Because the tree is there-and it's beautiful- and, praise the Lord, you have limbs, which means you can climb that tree, so why not?

There's something to be said for living life as a seeker of Beauty and Joy, for choosing God in each moment instead of self (easier said than done, right?). And, by choosing God, opening yourself up to the beauty He's poured into each moment.

(Disclaimer: All these thoughts are the product of recent conversations with wonderful and intelligent friends. Major kudos go to them.)

*Lond (lah' nd): Eng., noun: a mix between a pond and a lake.

Dirty Words (and more)

So, since the Femininity Summit kicked off last week with a prelim meeting, I've been having a lot of conversations about the importance of language and how we carry ourselves when we converse (thanks so much for your wonderful brains, my friends!), which started my mind on a train of thought about swearing. In her post about On the Verge, Desdemona mentioned swearing as a way of getting attention from those around us. It's such a cheap way of getting attention, too -- curses don't express profound ideas or relevant facts. They are spoken merely to grab the attention of listeners and attract it to the emotions of the speaker and how he chooses to express himself. Or, worse, the swearing is merely a habit.

Whatever the reason for swearing, the fact remains that, besides being totally unladylike and inelegant, it's just so boring. Honestly, if you actually stop and think about it (although why you'd really want to, I don't know... :P), there are only a handful of swear words that are constantly repeated and reused. As Desdemona joyously proclaimed, the English language contains so many delightful, scintillating (:D!) words that precisely describe an emotion, situation, or characteristic. Antediluvian. Portrait. Bureau. Sanctimonious. Alizarine. Incorrigible. Desolate. Pudgy. Dichotomy. Bumpkin. Neophyte. They cannot be applied to many situtaions because they convey such an exact idea -- they are vibrant words which paint a living picture in the minds of those who hear or read them. They bring ideas to life.

As Desdemona also pointed out in her post, life is an adventure. If you look at it any other way, you're simply going to end up sobbing your eyes out over some trifle that doesn't really matter. Sure, that C I got in class was horribly disappointing (I'll be honest: it flayed my pride alive), but really? If my final goal in life is to please God, get to heaven, and, God willing, help others to reach heaven, then each moment can and should be lived with the knowledge that I know how the story ends: this may be news to some people, but God wins. The End. Joy is an intrinsic element of the Christian life -- there are no gloomy saints. Every moment can be sanctified, and we were not made to walk through this valley of tears alone. Thank God for friends because otherwise I would have gone insane long ago.

Ultimately, does that C matter in my life? Maybe. I don't know, and there's no point in worrying about it now. There are too many other wonderful and perilous things going on in my life right now for me to spend precious hours fretting over a grade from one class in my freshman year at college. God has a plan for me (another news flash), and it will all work out fine.

This started out as a post about swearing and morphed into a musing on...pretty much everything else. Which is just fine on this blog.

Awe-ful (as in, "Full of Awe")

Fr. Longenecker does it again. I seem to be eternally linking to his blog posts, and with good reason!

"I am at my brothers house at the beach for a few days, and we were talking at the beach yesterday about how dangerous the seasons. It reminded me of a line from GK. Chesterton, where he referred to something as 'simple as dangerous as the sea.'
I thought it was also a good description of God."

Read the rest.

See? We're Not the Only Ones

Interesting article in the StarTribune on Thursday about a group of women who vowed to wear more dresses this summer. Coincidence, or are women finally tired of the jeans-and-T-shirt look that has become a staple of our grunge culture?