Oh No! Bathing Suit Season

A couple of days ago I tried on bathing suits from last year, the year before and the year before that.  I never seem to stay the same size from year to year.
I now have a collection of suits, circa 2012, 2013, and 2014.  None fit.
I suppose I keep the suits from year to year as motivation or inspiration.  Which, by the way, winds up being neither of those but rather, instead, puts me in a depressed mood.  That’s when I make my annual declaration.  “I will never wear another swim suit again.”  Heck, I don’t even know how to swim.
“It’s ridiculous,” I complain to Ross.  “A woman of my maturity (ha!) shouldn’t be wearing one of those things anyway.”
But we live near the beach,  have a pool in our community and I’ve been going to water aerobics.  

I have given up “in store” bathing suit shopping.  (I do bathe.)  I cringe when I stand in front of one of those horrible fun house dressing room mirrors.
That’s why I have been online shopping for suits since 2012.  I have the garments shipped to my house.
It works out nicely. I can try the suits on in my own bedroom.   The mirrors here are much more forgiving. Besides,  I keep the lights low and the shades drawn.

So, yesterday, I spent several hours browse shopping online.
Lands End, LL Bean, Macy’s Jc Penny’s and Nordstroms all carry similar styles. But, I was looking for something more unique.
While I was browsing on Amazon, though,  I stumbled across a manufacturer of vintage retro style bathing suits called Cocoship.
First of all the prices are incredibly cheap.  That’s right, not reasonable, not inexpensive, CHEAP!
They range in price from $18.99 to 28.99.
Secondly, there is a varied selection.
A slight glitch is that the sizing is not the standard US sizes.  However,  there is a conversion chart.  But even with the conversion chart, I was unsure about what size I should choose.  I was also hesitant about the quality of a $24.00 bathing suit.








Fortunately, there were over 1,200 customer reviews, some with photos.   They were rather entertaining to read and helpful, especially about the sizes.
I don’t know about you but when I read customer reviews I read the single star reviews first.
For example:

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful

1

Ehhh..

ByKatie Anyanon July 8, 2014

Size: XXL(US10-12)Color: NavyBlue(Fast Ship)Verified Purchase

This swim suit is very cute, but poor quality. As soon as I put it on the first time I heard threads tearing (not because of the fit).

 I’ve worn it twice and the panty line seam is already stretched out even though the bottoms were actually too large. 

The bottoms also come up VERY high- all the way up to the top. If you want a 1-time-wonder, then by all means, go for it, 

but I would not recommend purchasing this particular brand.

Then I go on to the five star reviews:

58 of 64 people found the following review helpful

5Excited for summer!

ByE Buckleson January 9, 2015

Size: S(US2-4)Color: NavyBlue(Fast Ship)Verified Purchase

I really liked this suit. it came after about 10 days, it seems to have quality construction, and fits me pretty well.

The sizing seemed confusing with mixed reviews, but I decided to go with my gut and get the small.

 I am 5'6" 110 lbs and have a pretty straight up and down body type. The bottoms fit well but are a little loose at the top.

 I may take them in a bit. But they fit my butt well and that is what really matters. 

From the photos it was hard to tell the coverage level of the bottoms, they are full coverage front and back, 

keeping true to the classic style of the suit.
The top is a little strange. It is padded, not push up, but the cups are a little far apart for me, like others had 

mentioned in their reviews, 

but it would be easy to tack it together or possibly knot it. 

I have a relatively small chest and I was worried that the large coverage bra would shrink them more. 

This is sort of the case, especially as the bra is fully padded, it looks like it would be a push up, and it is not. 

So you are left thinking, where is the cleavage? I would rather have an un-padded bra or a push up. 

But hey, small chest problems.
All in all it is a good, well made suit that happened to fit well. I am happy with it.

Since there were over 600 five stars and only 40 with one star I decided to give the suits a try.

I chose three styles.  I ordered the items yesterday afternoon and Amazing Amazon will be delivering them tomorrow and the shipping was free.  

I like this retro look.  They seem to fit my ahem, maturity. 

I’ll be adding my own review here once I get my delivery.  No photos though.

Do you read customer reviews?   Do they influence your purchase?  Do you write reviews?

Part Three The Red Sweater Serial

During the month of April I participated in the A to Z blogging challenge.  A first for me, I attempted fiction for the first time.  I had such fun with it that I decided to give it another go.

This time I will be writing a serial type of story.

As I meander through my imagination, I expect an episode to take shape in time to be posted each Tuesday. 
If you would like to catch up simply click on the “Red Sweater Serial Tab” at the top of the blog. 

Part Three

Rachel sat at the white painted desk with her chin cupped in her hands.  The desk fit cozily in the windowed alcove of her Inn room.  It was barely sunrise.  She was exhausted.
As she gazed out the window,  she saw Michael, the inn keeper, leading the horses out of the barn into the field. 
Rachel was having second thoughts about this visit to the Charington, especially after her restless night.  She was particularly questioning her judgement to stay in the White Pine room. 
She had tossed and turned, unable to find solace in the oversized bed.  Fond reminisces of happy times she shared with Sam turned into taunting nightmarish dreams.   She woke several times during the night feeling fitful and uneasy.     
Rachel, who struggled with anxiety, had panicked the night before when she thought she had lost the sweater.  
It was barely a swatch.  The sleeves were pilled from years of stroking.  The heart shaped buttons dangled, barely hanging on by a single thread.  
Like her life, she ruefully thought. 
She still could not figure out how the sweater wound up on the floor next to the bed.  It must have fallen out of the tote when she tossed the bag on the bed, she reasoned.   She laughed when she spotted it. 
That’s what I get for being so careless,  she thought.  
Sam would have been the one to neatly place the luggage on the bedside rack.
Remembering the scare she had last night, thinking that she might have lost the most precious link she had, her stomach clenched.  She could feel a warm flush creep up from her neck and into her cheeks.  The palms of her hands began to sweat and her heart pounded in her chest.  Only she understood why a shabby faded piece of cloth meant everything to her.  It was like the fuzzy pink “blankie” she carried around with her when she was a child.   
Pull yourself together, woman!   You have to follow through with your plan, she admonished.
Sam was the easy going one.  His mild, serene composure provided the stability her chaos required.   The shock of  the past two months, not having Sam with her,  had jolted her into realizing that she should have trusted his love.  
Rachel looked at her watch.  She had to talk to Evie, but it was too early to call her.  
She could smell the aroma of fresh brewed coffee wafting up from the kitchen and decided to go down to grab a cup. 
The pot was set up in the dining room along with fresh warm croissents.  As she was pouring her coffee, Roz came into the room.
“Good morning, Rachel!  You’re up mighty early.  Did you sleep ok?” 
“Morning, Roz,” Rachel answered.  “To tell you the truth, I didn’t get much sleep.”
“I think I understand,” Roz said kindly. 
“Roz I need to ask a favor.  I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.” 
“I’ll help, if I can,” said Roz. 
“I’m trying to locate an old friend of mine,” she said.  “I’ve found out through “ findanyone.com” that she may have relocated to this area.”
Rachel reached into her jean’s pocket and pulled out a scrap of folded paper.   She opened it flat and read off a name.  
Rachel caught a look of recognition on Roz’s face.  
But, Roz hesitantly said, “Uh…no.  No, I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name.  Sorry.”
“Oh,” said Rachel.  “Well, I have an address, here.  Are you familiar with this area?”  Rachel asked, pointing to the address on the paper. 
Roz said, “I’ve got to get breakfast ready, my dear.  Will you be joining the other guests this morning?”  Seemingly avoiding Rachel’s question and not waiting for her answer, Roz went scurrying off to the kitchen. 
Rachel left the dining room with her coffee and went out to the wide front porch. The sun was up by then and there was a slight breeze.  She sat in one of the red slatted rockers and tapped in Evie’s phone number. 
After a brief conversation, Evie promised to call Rachel back in 15 minutes. 
While she waited for Evie,  she contemplated the path she had been on and what led her back to Charington.
And as she had done every day since the day she finished knitting “ Elizabeth Zimmerman’s Baby Surprise Jacket” in persimmon red, she felt a deep longing and unbearable sadness.  

Value In Fictional Writing? or Why Bother?

In the May 10th New York Times Book Review section, Tom Perrotta began his article about “A God In Ruins” by Kate Atkinson this way:

“In recent years, a number of talented novelists have experienced a sudden and alarming loss of faith in their chosen literary form. David Shields thinks most novels are boring and disconnected from reality. Nicole Krauss is “sick of plot and characters and scenes and climax and resolution.” Rachel Cusk has decided that conventional fiction is “fake and embarrassing.” Karl Ove Knausgaard goes even further, dismissing the entire enterprise: “Fictional writing has no value.”

This distaste for the clunky machinery of traditional narrative fiction has spread quickly. Some of the most interesting “novels” of the past few years — Teju Cole’s “Open City,” Jenny Offill’s “Dept. of Speculation,” Ben Lerner’s “Leaving the Atocha Station,” not to mention Knausgaard’s epic, “My Struggle” — are barely novels at all. They read more like memoirs, or a series of lightly fictionalized journal entries, recounting the mundane lives and off-kilter ruminations of their first-person narrators, who are either postgraduate students or blocked writers. There’s a bracing smallness to these books — even those of Knausgaard, who’s a miniaturist on a gargantuan scale — and a serene indifference to what has long passed for ambition in the novel. There’s no plot and barely any action, very few characters, no shifting points of view or tricky chronologies, no attempt to recreate a distant era or illuminate the inner workings of a particular society at a particular moment in time. There’s just the writer, eating his omelet, putting her child to bed.”

Perrotta goes on to say:

"And the thing is, they’re all terrific books — fresh, unpredictable, intellectually stimulating and often quite funny (especially Offill’s and Lerner’s). It’s enough to make even the most committed advocate of conventional fiction wonder if Shields and company are on to something: Maybe the realistic novel has outlived its usefulness. (God knows we’ve all read some boring ones.) Maybe it’s time to wean ourselves off plot and character and scenes and conflict and all the rest, just leave those things to television. Maybe the most we can hope for on the page is a pinpoint focus on the writer in front of us, the adventures of a single consciousness at play.”

I have just started to dabble in an attempt to write little fictional pieces. After reading Perrotta’s article, I thought how silly am I  to think I could possibly write fiction.  Especially, since I have had zero formal training.  I know nothing about conflict, plot or character scenes.  I simply enjoy inventing, imagining, and telling stories.  I haven’t figured out how to liken a sunset, a running brook or a dark and stormy night to something other than a sunset, running brook or dark and stormy night.

I have no grand illusions, or for that matter, a desire to publish anywhere except my blog. 

Ross encourages me to continue with my stories.  I have had a few positive comments on my blog.  Of course, I wonder if they are like the families and friends of less than talented America Idol contestants who tell their loved ones’ “You can sing, you can really sing!”

I am fascinated by writers. Writers who simply have to write because it is their passion.  I admire and am in awe of their talent and abilities.   Because I am a reader, always have been, I say, please keep writing.

And then when I am in the shower or lying in bed unable to sleep, my imagination takes over and I find myself in the midst of a story wondering, “what will happen next?” as if someone else has been telling me a story.

I guess that’s why I write, “to find out what happens next”.

By the way Mr. Perrotta gives “A God in Ruins” a good review.

"But then you read a novel like Kate Atkinson’s “A God in Ruins,” a sprawling, unapologetically ambitious saga that tells the story of postwar Britain through the microcosm of a single family, and you remember what a big, old-school novel can do. Atkinson’s book covers almost a century, tracks four generations, and is almost inexhaustibly rich in scenes and characters and incidents. It deploys the whole realist bag of tricks, and none of it feels fake or embarrassing. In fact, it’s a masterly and frequently exhilarating performance by a novelist who seems utterly undaunted by the imposing challenges she’s set for herself.”

How do you feel about fiction writing?   Do you agree with Karl Ove Knausgaard that “Fictional writing has no value”?

By the way, I’m pretty sure I know how you will answer. :)