Column: Secondhand Clothes

OK, those of you who know me know how much I love my secondhand clothes! And now all of Rochester knows, too...

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Today, while waiting for my friend Michelle at Starbucks, I realized that I’m wearing the same long-sleeved, blue shirt I wore on my first date with my husband. In 1994.

I suppose most people would’ve ridded themselves of a 12-year old shirt from their wardrobe by now. But not me.

Jay and I have been married for 10 years, and I can’t bear to part with it. And not because it has sentimental value. I mean, I got the man; I don’t need a 12-year-old shirt to commemorate the evening we struggled through fairly awkward dinner conversation followed by me falling asleep during his favorite movie (“The Thing”).

I can’t get rid of the shirt because there’s nothing wrong with it. No tears. No stains. No worn elbows. It’s in good condition, it fits, and it goes perfectly under the other shirt I’m wearing today.

Which is another blue shirt – this one short-sleeved and bearing a white Aeropostale logo (because today, apparently, I fancy myself a 20-something skater chick. But that’s beside the point).

I got this shirt ($4.50) – along with the jeans I’m wearing ($11) – from Refashion, a local consignment store that is the foundation on which 80 percent of my wardrobe hails. Including all but one of the formal gowns I’ve worn to black-tie charity events in the last three years.

Some would call me frugal. Others, cheap.

I prefer resourceful. Practical. Thrifty.

I just can’t bear to throw out something that’s still useful. And I don’t know why I’d buy new what I can get used at less than half the price.

I’m always the first to admit that my clothes come second-hand. Wait, admit isn’t the right word. Brag, maybe. Boast, even.
“Nice dress,” a gorgeous woman in an even more gorgeous $300 dress said to me at the most recent black-tie fundraiser I attended.

“Thanks! $36 at Refashion!” I squealed. “I spent more on my hair!”

I’m not sure she was impressed, but I was.

On vacation with my friend Lisa in October, a woman at dinner one night said, “That’s a great wrap!”

“Isn’t it?!” I gushed. “I got it for $7 at a consignment shop.”

I get a high from constructing entire outfits — shoes included — from others’ cast-offs.

And I’d like to argue that you’d never be able to tell. Well, unless you came by my house while I’m shoveling my driveway this winter. Then you’d see me in a pair of weathered Sorels, liners the thickness of paper. My sister’s eighth grade cast-offs.

Unfortunately, my penchant for pinching wardrobe pennies doesn’t translate to other parts of my life.

I can’t clip a coupon to save my life. And I can justify just about any amount of money spent on travel, as I’ve imposed no price cap on life experiences.

But, tomorrow’s shirt? $7 at Refashion. Jeans? $12 at Kismet. Shoes? $10 on the clearance rack at TJ Maxx. The high I get from constructing an entire outfit for under $30? Priceless.

Happy New Year!

Hey Everybody!

So I went and put our blog address on our Christmas cards, and then didn't update for nearly a month. I -- we -- really will get better at this. :)

We hope you all have a FABULOUS 2007. Thank you to everyone who sent cards and/or pictures this year. And those who intended to but didn't. And those who vow to next year. :)

The boys and I (Jen) spent the last few days in TRF, and are now safely home. As always, I didn't see or call half the people I intended to see or call -- next time!

Jay spent his time "off" putting in a new floor in our foyer. It wasn't easy, but it looks great.

OK, my goal for 2007 is to learn to put pictures on this thing. It can't be that hard, right? Maybe it'll be my goal for January. Check back in a week to see how I've done...

I took last week off from writing the column, but I have a couple I haven't posted yet -- so I'll add those. I'll get better at that, too.

Happy New Year, Everyone! the Koskis

12/6 column: Ice Fishing

My husband doesn’t ask a lot. He likes the History Channel. Dreams of clutter-free kitchen countertops. Hopes his pasta-crazed wife remembers to make red meat every once in awhile.

But most of all, he just wants a week off every December to go ice fishing.
This is Jay’s week. He leaves Friday. And I don’t want to say he’s obsessed or anything, but consider the facts:

• He’s been packed for two weeks. His three-tiered tackle box, a duffel bag filled with Carhartts and wool socks, a video camera, a 10-inch gas-powered auger, three fishing rods, his GPS and Vexilar (that’s a fish sonar machine, for the uninitiated), and a pair of heavy-duty boots have lined our bedroom wall since Thanksgiving. “Don’t want to put it off to the last minute, you know,” Jay reminded me while writing his packing list in October.

• He woke our four- and seven-year-old sons up from a dead sleep last night to show them how some of his lures glow in the dark.

• He told me three times last week how he finally found the “vertical jigging spoon” he’s been looking for all season — on sale for $1.49.

I understand his excitement in getting away. I really do. No deadlines, no bedtime routines, no wife saying, “Wouldn’t you like to watch Desperate Housewives with me tonight, honey?”

All that and he gets to spend a week with his ice fishing buddy, Dave — who, if it’s possible, is even more crazy about the sport than Jay is.

The two have been sending e-mails back and forth for several weeks — messages that would appear cryptic and just plain weird to most of us.

From Jay: “Crunch time: Need ice.”
From Dave: “Open water on Bemidji. Three inches on Big Bass.”
From Jay: “New bronze spoon at Gander – buck fifty.”

But I have to admit I don’t understand the appeal of ice fishing. I like cold weather. I like cold weather when I can sit in front of our fireplace and say things like, “Would you look at that blowing snow! Anyone for a hot chocolate refill?”

So I can’t understand why a person would rather hang out in sub-zero temperatures on a sheet of ice that may or may not be strong enough to hold them — all while sitting over a 10-inch hole and waiting for a fish to swim by. For days on end.

Yet, somehow, my life is now revolving around just this activity.

Jay comes home from work saying things like, “Do you think I should bring the big cooler or two medium coolers?”

He walks around the house, wistfully muttering things like, “Full moon tonight. Good fishing.”

He deftly sneaks the topic into our everyday conversations.

“What do you think we should get the boys for Christmas this year?” I ask innocently enough.

With impressive haste, he answers, “You know what would be cool? An Aqua View Scout. It’s an underwater camera — only the camera is in the nose of this fake fish….”

But at least he’s getting his fix. In a week, I’ll have my husband back — and maybe a big cooler (or two medium coolers) full of fresh fish to boot.

Latest column: Running Santas!

Here’s one of the things I love about life: It’s completely and totally unpredictable.

You can plan your routine. You can plan your meals. You can set out tomorrow’s clothes every night of the year. It doesn’t matter. You never know what the next day will bring.

From the minor surprises of everyday life (“Mommy, look! I cut my hair!”) to the moments that make memories (“Will you marry me?”), there’s a certain excitement in not knowing exactly what’s going to happen next.

Seven years ago, I’m sitting across from my son’s new nurse practitioner. She’s patiently checking his ears for an infection while he screams on my lap. And I think to myself, “Boy, is she good. We are coming back to this woman.”

Two years ago, I’m sitting across from a stranger in my two-year-old’s PAIIR (Parents Are Important in Rochester) class thinking, “Hmm. She’s wearing cool shoes.”

Three days ago, I’m standing between these two women — who I now know as Lisa and Stephanie — dressed in a bright red Santa suit and flowing white beard. We’re surrounded by swarms of identically dressed Santas — each of us making our debut in the inaugural “Running of the Santas.” And we are, of course, laughing all the way. (There’s something about 500 Santas running down the street that ups the jolly ante.)

Now, I couldn’t have predicted seven years ago that my sons’ nurse practitioner would become my friend. I didn’t know two years ago that the woman with the cool shoes at PAIIR would end up being so fun. And as recently as six weeks ago, I certainly didn’t expect to be running down Minneapolis’ Nicollet Mall in a Santa suit while a crowd cheered me on.

But that’s life. The person standing in front of you in line at the grocery store might be your next friend. The next song on the radio might be your favorite. The next page in this newspaper might advertise tomorrow’s big adventure.

Fabulous, unpredictable opportunities are everywhere. You just have to show up, sign up, and, sometimes, help make them happen.

Of course, unpredictability isn’t always positive. Some of the worst things that happen in our lives can’t be predicted. On the way to the “Running of the Santas,” Lisa, Stephanie and I stopped at a hospital in St. Paul to visit my friend and college roommate, Becky.

Two weeks ago, Becky and her husband dropped their kids off at their church for a Parents’ Night Out event and headed to the gym for a workout. After warming up with a one-mile run, they headed to the weights. And then it happened: Becky became weak, nauseous and felt a horrible pain in her head. An aneurysm had burst in her brain.

When she arrived at the gym that night, Becky could never have predicted how the night would end. And she can’t predict exactly what the next days will bring. None of us can.

But Becky says that her experience has a silver lining. “I am just so thankful to be alive,” she told me. “I am so lucky.”

When I entered her hospital room this week, I expected to leave heavy-hearted. But, instead, seeing Becky filled me with hope and gratitude. And that, my friends, was gloriously unpredictable.