Fishing or Wine, What’s more Romantic?

Jon Watching Boats Pass in the Harbor

Most girls would love to spend the weekend at a vineyard in Door County Wisconsin (one of the top stops for Wisconsin dwellers in the summer), sipping wine off the vine and sauntering down endless green woven rows hand-in-hand with a loved one while the sun rests on top of their heads. Romantic—to most girls. I’m not “most girls,” and I definitely don’t live in a world written by Nicholas Sparks. I’m a Wisconsinite.

Now, don’t get me mixed up with a gal that doesn’t like to be wined and dined. I enjoy a bit of romance like any other female, but when faced with the choice of wine and fishing, lately, fishing makes me take the bait.

Before Jon came to visit me from Canada this past weekend, I had a couple items on the agenda for his first Sheboygan outing, and one was definitely heading to Door County. It was our second on the “to do” list until he suggested stopping at Gander Mountain on the way.

That’s all it took—goodbye wine, sunset, and hand-holding. Well, one of the three. We replaced the first item with beer.

Over an hour in Gander and we came out with two poles, handfuls of lures, a breast cancer awareness themed tackle box, leaders, line, pliers, and hopeful, childish smiles. I know, I forgot to mention on more item—my camo, pink Browning hat that I’m not supposed to own according to my clothing fast. Honestly though, how would I catch a Moby Dick without one? I was glad Jon thought so too, so it became a gift.

“Did you want to wear the hat?” the clerk asked me as he checked us out.

He had read my mind or perhaps my eyes; he understood my excitement. He had mentioned that he had recently returned to fishing after a 10 year break.

The Pike put up a Good Fight but Jon Won

I wore that hat for two days straight even when we weren’t fishing. It would have probably been longer, but I had to return to the classroom on Monday. It wasn’t a lucky hat; I didn’t catch a thing, but it was mine, and it was filled with memories: It blocked the sun, so I can see Jon as he watched a sailboat pass through the harbor. It kept my shoulder-length, brown hair under wrap, so I could help Jon reel in his thick, unexpected pike from the dungeon-colored waters of Lake Michigan. And of course, it led Jon to say, “You look so cute in your hat.”

Let’s see a winery top that.

Do I play for the Canadian Roughriders or Sit the Bench?

Jon and I Become Roughrider Fans in Green

Recently I posted photos on Facebook of my recent Canadian adventure when Jon and I became true Saskatchewans by parking our bottoms and Canadian beers in the Mosaic Stadium in Regina to cheer on the Roughriders. The photos received many “thumbs ups” from family and friends, but one of my good friends was the first to notice what was “really” going on in the photos: “Do I spy a new shirt? :)” Beth wrote.

How do you end up going to a sporting event in a different country in the visiting team’s colors?  Well, simple. You could only bring enough clothes to fit in a suitcase and half of them were dirty from your recent fly fishing trip, so you take a chance on what is clean. I wore a black t-shirt and shorts.  When we arrived, the Hamilton Tiger-Cats were of course clad in black and yellow—go figure.

Flashbacks of being at my first Wisconsin Badger game came back to me. I remember watching a young man who wore a blue shirt (not even a color of the opposing team) get pointed at by huge sections of the crowds as he climbed the stadium steps to his seat—all the while being called an “A**hole” in unison.

I knew right away I would not be making a very good first impression on the multitude of fans painted thick in Irish green like it was St. Patty’s Day in Regina from the fresh cut-out watermelons on their heads to sparkly sequin flats embossed with the team’s “S” logo.  I have to say, I didn’t expect this. Being from the home state of the Green Bay Packers and Badgers, I didn’t think any fans could compare, but yes, Canadians too were serious football fans; their clothing said it all.

Thousands of Green Roughrider Fans at Taylor Field in Regina SK

Yes, Beth, readers, it is a new shirt that Jon (remember the bet is with him and not just me) insisted on, that I was proud to wear. After not buying any new clothes for almost 7 months now, and I still haven’t, I’m beginning to realize the magic that comes with clothing again. One person in Roughriders gear is just well, one person in Roughriders gear, but over 35,500 people in Roughriders gear is a community. I got to be part of that community by putting on that shirt on Sunday, and, now, whenever I sport my green gear again. . . .  I also justified the new shirt by claiming that it’s Jon’s size, so it’s his shirt too that we can share.

Don’t tell Him you Got Fishing Gear at Walmart and Not Cabela’s

My Almost New Waders for Fly Fishing

“You can’t tell anyone,” Jon said to me after leaving the store.

“Haha! Why?”  I clutched the bag to my chest like a little girl who just got the newest Barbie—Adventure Barbie equipped with hydro pack, walking stick, and head lamp.

“It’s just disappointing.”  He looked like he had just caught the biggest trout in the river and before he could snap a picture to prove it, the line snapped. (Yes, that disappointed.)

“It” refers to the fact that we couldn’t find fishing waders for me at his favorite store, Cabela’s, when we had traveled almost two hours to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan Canada to do so.  We ended up walking across the street and purchasing them at Walmart.

I could somewhat share his disappointment. I’m not a fan of Walmart either. I usually try to avoid it at all cost unless I need an oil change.  What don’t I like about it? I think it is the same for many:

• cart tires smashing into the back of your heels from the huge crowds that treat the aisles like freeways

• empty fountain drink containers left on shelves where you are shopping for fruit

• the fact that you can’t just go in and buy what you need (Yes, this is more my problem than Walmart.)

So, why did we choose Walmart? No, it wasn’t because it was cheaper even though it was. It’s because of my abnormally big feet in comparison with my height. This is why I told Jon he shouldn’t be so hard on Cabela’s. When you are 5’ 5’’ with 9 ½ feet (sometimes 10 depending on the day, depending on the shoe, depending on what I just ate), trying to find an item that fits both at the same time, is like trying to find Adventure Barbie dressed in Patagonia gear; it just doesn’t happen.

Cabela’s fishing waders were pretty much picked over when we arrived. There were only a couple women sizes left, and these women were all centers for the WNBA, not me.  The only one that fit me height-wise was “young adult.”  Yes, I’m wearing a little kid’s pair of waders.  I know they look like they fit in the photo: I’m smiling, looking like I’m having a great time, but in reality, I’m in pain, well, my feet are. I may have the body of a young adult, but my sasquatch feet were screaming for release.

I did find release and at Walmart of all places.  I guess dodging carts, ignoring garbage, and avoiding the “stuff” can make miracles happen: This weekend I, Jodie Liedke, will for the first time go fly fishing in a pair of waders that don’t suck the life out of my toes or stretch up over my head.

I will let you know if I catch that big fish.  Perhaps that will perk Jon up and give me an excuse to buy more fishing gear because that doesn’t count as clothing, right?

Can you Carry-On a Bunny Hugger or a Hoodie?

My New Bunny Hugger aka Hoodie

What is big, red and comes only once a year? No, I know what you’re thinking, and it is not Santa though he does make a trip to my parents every December bearing gifts. Yes, even though I’m 29 years old he still makes a stop for me, but nope, it’s not Santa, but my brand new Badger red hoodie or as the Canadians like to call it a “bunny hugger” or “bunny hug.”

Last week I waited impatiently as the Canadian customs worker reviewed my passport. He was the only male working and of course I got stuck with him by chance, well, not by chance but because the previous woman with him is oblivious to the rest of the world with her huge yellow polka-dot suitcase that was “supposed to be” considered a carry-on that she couldn’t even carry.

Let me define carry-on for all you present or future flyers. A carry-on is a suitcase that can be “easily” stored in the overhead compartment in the plane. I say “easily” because if you have to “People’s Elbow” your own luggage to try and make it fit, or others in that row need to be removed and placed further up in the plane so that yours can fit IT’S NOT A CARRY-ON.

I watched this woman for a good five minutes as she wrestled with her suitcase the size of a toddler. She tried many ways, too many ways as if she was playing Jenga but instead of trying to remove a piece she was trying to put one in—a piece that didn’t even belong to the game like a jumbo eraser. The gentleman next to the window in our row with a long graying pony tail who had only brought on a lap top bag whispered to the woman sitting between us, “That’s supposed to be a carry-on?”

“That’s called ridiculous,” I said. “Anyone who brings a bag like should be tossed onto the runway with their big bag.” I’m a very impatient flyer. I want to get on and get off.

The woman’s eyes widened at my comment. She was probably thinking: Well, this will be a long flight. I’m sure she was happy when I put on my headphones and started to read my book.

The man laughed, “I agree.”

Anyway this woman flew on two flights with me. From Wisconsin to Minnesota to Saskatchewan she performed her same suitcase battle twice, so it was no surprise to me that when we landed in Regina, she didn’t even have her paperwork filled out nor her passport ready, which led me to be stuck with the male customs worker, who didn’t look so friendly, and why would he be?  He had to deal with disorganized polka-dot Hulk Hogan.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.” I handed him my passport. (This was a good start.)

“Why are you making this trip to Canada?”

“I’m visiting my boyfriend who is working in Moose Jaw. He is helping build a hospital.”

His eyebrows rose. “And how long have you been dating?”

I smiled. What this a legit question? Surely he was joking? “Well, he would say December, but I would say much earlier than that.”

He didn’t laugh at this. He really wanted a number.

“About six months.” (I went with Jon’s answer.)

“Did you bring him any gifts?”

“Just me,” I laughed.

Again he didn’t laugh. “And you’re not working right now?”

“No, I’m a teacher, so I have off during the summer.”

“Well, you’re a keeper aren’t you,” he smirked.

Haha! Was this really happening? Yes, the Canadian customs worker was actually making me feel pretty horrible. Why didn’t I bring Jon a gift? At that moment I kind of wished I was the lady with the oversized polka-dot case with a gift for Jon inside. I’m sure the customs worker thought she was a gem next to me who he thought would probably be a drain on their economy, especially when I told him I only had $40 dollars in my purse. (Just so you know I brought my credit and debit card too.)

Needless to say I was feeling like a big jumbo eraser walking through the sliding doors to meet Jon. But of course, he greeted me with a huge smile and a white plastic bag. We gave each other a quick hug and kiss, and then of course, I had to ask: “What’s in the bag?” Part of me hoped it wasn’t a gift.

“Just a little something,” he said.

The bag looked bulky.  “Is it clothes?” My eyes lit up like it was Christmas, and I was a pre-teen again. Except instead of pulling stoned washed jeans out of the bag, I pulled out a bright red hoodie that said Regina Canada.

“They call is a bunny hugger here,” Jon said.

I snickered. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” Jon said.

“Does it come with a bunny?”

Later we would come to find out that Saskatchewan’s definition of a hoodie was a bit in the past. The earliest hoodies had fur, usually rabbit, lining the front pocket like a muff, so it felt like one was hugging a bunny. I didn’t care what it was called, to me it was new and it was clothing, my first piece since last December when I had sworn off new clothes all together for a year.  It was reassuring to know that Jon didn’t think I was an eraser, a drain, he thought I was a keeper.

I can’t wait to wear my bunny hugger. Now if only the weather would open a window and let in some cold so I could. It hasn’t been under 70s since I arrived in Canada—go figure.

Deadly Dryer Casualty

Ok, Now I’m Being Dramatic

I just moved into my new condo by Lake Michigan, and let’s just say, everything was going flawless until I used the dryer. It’s not that I don’t know how to use a dryer though some could argue this: one being my mother (Her idea of a dryer is the outdoor clothesline even when it’s snowing outside.) two myself (At my old place I had to call my landlord because I was convinced that the dryer was broken since it wasn’t drying any of my clothes, yet it was still spinning; however, come to discover a couple hours later, I had left it on fluff. I didn’t tell my landlord that part. I didn’t want to look like an idiot. I’ll just look like an idiot to the whole world now.).

If I had only listened to my mother this incident in Sheboygan would have never happened. “You don’t have to dry anything with this basement; you have tons of room for a clothesline,” she said after we viewed the place a month back.  In the fall I would be the new assistant professor of general studies at Lakeland College, my undergraduate alma mater, but I think my mom may have been more excited by the fact that I could hang wash in my basement. However, after 18 years of hanging loads of wash on a line for her, I was gonna take the easy way out: the dryer.

Everything was going perfect like I said until I came back down to remove my clothes. They were dry—this is good, but the dyer had also attempted to take three lives: my black full-body slip, my hippy tank that is just long enough to be a dress if I don’t bend over (I wear jeans shorts underneath.), and my one and only strapless bra. The tangled collection dangled down like on a noose to the inner rim of the dryer.  One of the hooks from the strapless bra had snagged. Many words fell from my mouth that I can’t repeat (I made this blog PG.), but I will say that I was considering kicking the dryer like it was a real person and giving it a beating back. Now, you are probably thinking this is no big deal. Uh, yeah it is! Most women would just cut the noose, toss the casualties, and find new loves, but I didn’t have that option. I needed to save them. I’m not buying any clothes until 2014.

I slowly tried to pry loose the three amigos. When I found out they wouldn’t budge, my temper got the best of me (thanks Dad), and the “slowly” turned into “quickly” as if I were removing an industrial size Band-Aid.  The clothes came free all right, but the slip’s rings that held the adjustable straps bruised and bent, the top’s strap was amputated, and the  bra’s hook became a fixture to the dryer (I would pry this out later with a pair of needle-nose pliers with my headlamp on.). Oh, why didn’t I listen to my mother? Because we never listen to our mothers until we become them. I still had way to go.

Until then I tried my sewing skills again. First patient, my bra. This I would need in the upcoming weeks. I purchased a set of hooks and eyes from Hobby Lobby. I could do this I thought. When I got back home, I realized I didn’t have any black thread, so green had to do. Who was going to examine my bra that closely—surely no man—so giving it a bit of an Irish flair would be fine.

Sewing and Saving my Bra

After I hand sewed the hook on, I of course, had to try it out. I twirled, yes twirled, around in front of my full-length mirror and was pretty proud of myself, when pop! Yup, there went the freshly fastened hook, flying across the room never to be found again unless by the vacuum.  “Shit!”

The bra didn’t fall down to my waist with the missing hook, and I thought perhaps I could get away with just one, but then I considered the future outcome of that decision that held potential for leaving me topless.  I definitely wouldn’t be spinning around with pride if that happened, more like screaming and running like Sasquatch was chasing me.

I sewed that hook on three more times until it was one with the bra, so I could stay in place. I have plans to try it out this weekend, so please pray for me and my Irish themed bra. I don’t want to be the next casualty.

Did I just Mess My Shorts?

Not the Best Biking Wardrobe

What do you do when you mess your pants and have nothing to change into? Easy. You rock it! . . . Ok, let me explain. I didn’t really “mess” my pants. First off, it was shorts, and second it was mud not mess. I knew that but strangers didn’t.

Brady and I took a day trip to Decorah, Iowa last Saturday for an adventure. Most people would say, “Decorah? Iowa? What is there?” Well, you will have to go and find out, but we saw Dunnings Springs, had pizza at historic Mabe’s, ice cream at the Whippy Dip, and, the best part of the trip, biking on a trail that was in no way meant for biking—this is where the short fiasco comes into play.

It was much much colder and rainier than expected, so I had to put on every article of clothing I brought along, including my fashion scarf, black Sergeant Pepper inspired jacket, and my neon yellow running shorts over the top of my compression pants. Yeah, I was such a hot mess every local knew I was an out-of-towner, but that wasn’t the icing on the cake, or more like icing on my butt rather. It was so muddy on the non-bike trail that I took a digger only one minute into the ride. Brady’s response to my fall: “Did you just fall over?” like I had faked it. And, then he laughed. (This is not where I messed my shorts. I’m just trying to let you know how muddy it actually was. It was really muddy just to make my point one more time—cement muddy.)

We only lasted about 10 minutes on the “walking trail” when we saw that it took an upward route that would have been barely manageable hiking much less biking. It was then we stopped. It was then Brady starting laughing again.

“What?”

“It looks like you pooped your pants,” he said.

Yup, there it is–bright yellow inspired.

“What?” I tried to turn to look at my backside, but I had too many clothes on to really maneuver to get a good look, so what did I do? I had him take a photo, and sure enough, it looked like I had an accident. A thick target-like brown line ran up and down my short crack.  I didn’t have a fender over my back tire, thus each speck of mud found a home and settled in my backside’s crevice.

Did I change when we got to the waterfall where a group of locals gathered to take family photos with the help of a photographer? Nope, I haven’t purchased clothes for almost 6 months, I could rock a muddy it-looks-like-you-messed-your-shorts crack, and I did rock it with my own style, which is called “I give up.”

I can only image their family photo shots with Brady and me in the background hiking up the falls with my muddy crack flashing in neon. “Did that girl poop her pants?” little Susie will be asking her father.

Magical New Shoes Not for You

The Pumas were not a hit. Next.

Every fall our mother would buy us three new items: a pack of Hanes socks, an even bigger pack of Hanes underwear, and a pair of shoes to begin the school year. Socks and underwear, well, those were boring buys for a child, but shoes that was just magical. Ahh, the feel of new shoes that were just too white so white you needed to go and get them dirty to make them yours.

That feeling has changed though. Now, I have so many shoes that my bookshelf also serves as a display rack for my footwear in my bedroom, and I probably only wear 5 of the over 30 pairs that I have. (Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.)The magic was gone. The trick revealed until Jon, my boyfriend, brought it back.

Since starting my clothing fast in January, I haven’t really even tried on a pair of shoes in the store. What is the point when I can’t buy them? I’m not going to totally torture myself. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t have someone else try them on. . . . No, Jon did not try on women’s shoes for me. He did something even better, and it all started when he said, “I think I may need some new shoes,” while we prepared salmon and salad for supper last weekend.

“Really?” (Insert a silly stupid look on my face as if I just found out I was going to get a pony. Oh, and I’m eight not twenty-nine.)

“Yeah.”  He stopped sprinkling seasoning on the fish and looked down at his shoes. “They used to be white.”

I dropped the knife I had been cutting tomatoes with on my washing machine (My house is so tiny the laundry room is in the kitchen.) and jumped and clamped my hands together. “Yes!”

Jon laughed. “Why are you so excited?”

“I love shoe shopping!”

He smiled, but it was not an excited smile, more of an “Oh, no, what have I said?”

“Let’s go tomorrow! And, you can’t just try on one pair and be done like you did with your glasses.” That’s a whole other story, check out “Shopping with Clark Kent.”

The next day, Jon was a good sport, going into over six stores and allowing me to live through his shoe shopping experience by letting me analyze and pick apart every shoe he was interested in and then say, “Well, they are your feet, your shoes, so you should get what we want.” Women couldn’t be more unclear.

Jon came out of the mall with more shopping bags than me.

What did he ultimately decide on? At the end of the day, he toted a simple yet stylish pair of low gray Vans from Zumiez as well as a shirt and tie from Express. Yes, we even got to go into Express too; I was living it up even though I couldn’t buy anything.

So, now, Jon has new shoes, but the excitement is still not over. Why? Because he hasn’t worn them yet! They have been sitting in their box untouched, un-peeked at for four days. If they were mine, I would have slept in them that night.

Jon, when are you going to wear your new shoes? You’re killing me!

Women, am I crazy? When you buy new shoes, don’t you wear them within at least 12 hours of purchasing them?

Does a Wet Suit Stretch in Water?

Surfing in Bolinas (Before the Fall)

I was so excited to try on my new California vacation outfit: a used but chemically-cleaned seal black wet suit. However, the outcome was not what I expected. I was thinking I would be able to re-enact the ship scene from Titanic.  You know the one I’m talking about “I’m the King [Queen] of the world” as I rode the waves like a real California pro. But, of course, I’m Jodie Liedke; I trip when I walk; I’m accident prone, so this foreshadowing was merely just a shadow and nothing else.

First off, I could barely walk in the darn thing. You have no idea how tight a wet suit is until you put one on.  It was like trying to fit into my middle, not high school, jeans again, and then once I had it on, after much pulling, tugging, and tucking later, I was like, how am I going to paddle?  I could barely move my arms. I was having flashbacks to A Christmas Story—“I can’t put my arms down.” Perhaps it would loosen in the water? (I would be proven wrong again.)

Ian our surf coach made the attire look easy, but then again it belonged on him.  He had Cali growing all over him: salty blonde hair, cracked lips, and skin that couldn’t get enough of the sunlight waves. He showed us how to get up, stand and balance, and even how to fall back before we even put a toe in the water. I thought I had it all down. I just wanted to get in the water and become Leo, or perhaps Rose would be more fitting and take on the surf.

Well, it wasn’t long before I got my chance. And take it on I did for about 15 minutes. Jon, who I found was more of a seal than a human, made it all the way to the shore his first time up. I, however, did get up, stay up, but not for too long. If Jon was a seal, I was more of Bambi at times in a tight black leotard—yeah, picture that. I did get the chance to think I’m Queen of the world though.

My fourth time up, I wobbled, I fell, I hit the water, I drank the water, I felt my left shoulder slam into the sand and crunch in two feet of water. For all those who have never dislocated their shoulder trust me you don’t pop your shoulder out of place it crunches. Ripping pain shot through my arm. I knew what I had done. This was probably the sixth time. The majority of the time a game of basketball or soccer would do the trick.

Jon aka the Seal Surfing

I babied my arm to the beach, dragging my surf board with me that was still attached to my ankle by a noose. “Are you OK?” Ian asked me. “Your arm looks funny.” Funny it was and also stuck out of place.  The wet suit was so tight it didn’t have room to move back into place like it usually did.

So, what did I do for the rest of my surfing experience? I sat on the beach, sheltered my arm, and watched Jon become the King of the waves as my shoulder slowly slipped back into place. I wasn’t about to ruin his experience because of a fall and a tight wardrobe.  Besides for the rest of the trip, he had to let me wear his clothes because I couldn’t get into mine, and he had to help me get my seal costume off afterward, and let me tell you, it was way harder to get off than on with a broken wing. Yup, there is another image for you.

Boat Shoes, Gandma Shoes, or No Shoes?

What should I buy?

What did Mom and Dad give me for Easter instead of candy? . . . They gave me exactly what I asked for: a gift certificate! Now, some would argue that this is cheating, asking for a gift card so I could buy clothes, but nowhere in my New Year’s resolution does it say that I cannot accept gifts. If it did, I would be plunging into frozen water right now.

So, you are probably thinking that I skipped the queenly Easter feast my mother had prepared and sped to JcPenny and immediately eliminated that $25 gift to a balance of nada. Nope, I actually didn’t step inside the store until three weeks later after hanging out with my friend Carolyn one night at a sushi restaurant downtown for Brady’s birthday.

“Do you see those?” I asked, Jon, pointing toward Carolyn.

“See what?” he asked.

I just about yanked his arm off, trying to pull him around the birthday crowd, so he could get a better view. “Those are the shoes I want. Carolyn has them on.”

“Oh,” he said. (Obviously, he wasn’t excited about them as I was.)

Carolyn had on the cutest pair of tan boat shoes.  They were of the professional, trendy, yet laid back flavor—translation, they would be appropriate to wear to work, and I was tired of all my same old same old boring flats that stunk like something fierce. No matter how much powder I shake in them, they still smell like something died in them. And when you can smell your own feet, you are wondering if others can too. Can you, smell my feet that is?

“Where did you get those? Please tell me JcPenny,” I begged her.

“No, Famous Footwear.”

Of course, that would make this too easy. However, I wasn’t going to give up hope. Perhaps, I thought, I could find something similar there. Women always have this thought and the turnout is always the same: we don’t want similar; we want the exact one.  We just try and convince ourselves that similar is a synonym for same. It’s not.

What did I find at JcPenny? I didn’t even find anything that remotely fell into the “s-sounding” category, not unless I wanted Velcro cream shoes similar to my grandma’s. (I love you, Grandma, but I do want to get married someday, and if a man saw me walking around in those, he’d run away and probably in a cute pair of boat shoes.)

Disappointed, I didn’t even roam around the rest of the store, browsing as I usually did. I just walked out. I didn’t want to waste $25 dollars on something I wasn’t obsessed with. After all, how many opportunities would I get to feed my clothing addiction? I have over eight months to go. . . . Carolyn’s shoes are super cute though!

Do These Pants Make me Look Fat or Phat?

Yes, I’m checking myself out in my new pants.

Ok, you should all be answering “phat” for that question because these new charcoal grey wide-leg trousers have become my favorite pair of dress pants to sport to work.

Now, I know you are probably wondering; where did I get them? I went to a new store in Waupun, WI. I have visited it many times, but this was the first time I walked out with a bundle—literally—a ginormous Kohl’s shopping bag full.  Did I give into my clothing temptation? No, I gave into Stefanie, my best friend, or I guess, I should really say, she gave into me. Probably because of my constant use of the word “suck”: “Not buying any clothes sucks.” “Why do all the new spring clothes have to be so cute; this sucks.” “You suck.” (You being every single woman I walk buy that has on a pair of not-even-scuffed-yet new shoes.) Did I mention that this New Year’s resolution sucks?

For almost an hour, I tried on shirt after shirt, pant after pant, and dress after dress from Stefanie’s give-away pile to Goodwill. No way were her cute clothes going to someone who really needed it! I needed it.

Some of my favorite picks were my new pants of course, a red Puma track jacket (This is Stef’s favorite too.), a Brewers jersey (I’m ready for some serious tailgating this summer now.), and underwear (Yes, you read that last part right—underwear. Now, don’t get all grossed out. They were brand new and cute to boot.)

What do you think?

Every time I pull something new from the bag and wear it, Jon gets all excited; he thinks I gave in and purchased something, so I would lose the bet and have to jump into freezing cold water for the Polar Plunge, but of course, I have way more will power and way more friends to share clothing with that he doesn’t even know of.  He better start preparing for that cliff dive because this is one clothing bet he will lose.