I love like need have my house
I bet his parents are so proud….
(I actually tucked this away before checking out Amalah’s site this afternoon, where she is quite taken with a piece of spam she received. First I thought I’d write about it another time, considering… but now I think maybe it’s just a particularly spammy day and I should continue the love.)
My ISP has a spam filter. Whether or not it actually catches any spam before delivering to my inbox, I’m not sure. The things that get through still seem typically spam-like to me, but what do I know. I’m just the loser paying these people approximately $729/month for the extreme privilege of receiving this spam faster than ever before… on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full and my broadband connection is actually working. Anyway.
A couple of days ago I received a piece of mail from Chester Lockwood. Naturally, I was startled to see the email heading:
this has worked for me hardboiled throaty
Now, I don’t know Chester, but no one has called me that in years, I tell you. So it was a bit jarring. Thinking I could throw that interesting subject line into my blog at some point, I elected to save this piece of mail rather than deleting it. But I didn’t look at the body of the message.
Tonight rolls around… I am coughing, I feel yucky, I have promised jilbur a story of my great fictitious romances and I just don’t feel up to it (I will do it, but not today). Now, I figure, would be a good time to to feature Chester in all his one-lined zinging glory. So I went ahead and clicked on the email, only to discover that Chester is no lucky one-hit savant. Oh no. Chester is a poet!
I was expecting a treatise on penis enlargement. I get a lot of those; I’m sure you do, too. Forwarding them to my ex was fun for a while but everyone has to grow up sometime. Anyway, this little ditty from Chester was not about enlarging my penis, but declared that “local babes want a bone.” (So do I, Chester. Tell them to walk slowly around the supermarket searching for ringless left hands pushing carts holding something other than beer and ringdings, just like the rest of us.) This was followed by a website address, and then this piece of mastery:
A given white glove is thinking. Her daughters hairy mp3 player stares. Any white caw stinks. Her daughters purple computer calculates. Whose well-crafted paper lies or maybe a hairy mouse looks around. A odd shaped fancy golden small white underwares run. His brothers silver spoon got an idea. The well-crafted printer got an idea. Her soft caw is angry. Whose purple odd shaped house smiles. Our slopy printer calms-down however, the fancy hairy laptop arrives and perhaps any little book lies. Our children green tv arrives or maybe their golden silver slopy laptop adheres or a beautiful ram stinks. The green sport shoes smiles. The purple green paper makes sound. Our slopy sport shoes stares. Her well-crafted soft small green tv stares. Whose stupid small white printer sleeps however, a given round-shaped gun calms-down as soon as whose tall fancy glove adheres. His brothers green underwares got an idea. Her daughters bluish bottle stares. Any given soft omprella show its value and still our children smart mobile phone snores. Their tall purple little bottle adheres or maybe his brothers shining white green green recycle bin stares as soon as whose round-shaped small printer stares and still any given round-shaped book fidgeting. The beautiful laptop stinks or maybe her daughters noisy red t-shirt calms-down. Mine fancy caw lies. Our silver baby walks at the place that their odd shaped mobile phone makes sound. Any round stupid balloon calculates. A silver kitchen is angry. Her noisy soda stands-still. A expensive clock arrives however, a tall well-crafted sofa spit while a stupid bottle fidgeting. A well-crafted tall underwares stinks at the place that a given expensive smart slopy sport shoes arrives.
I mean, anything I’ve ever written just pales in comparison. Thanks a lot, Chester!
First Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction
Awesome; you’re game for this! Let’s see if it’s any fun.
Julia asks: What’s my ideal job? Where would it be and what would I be doing?
I’ve always wanted to be a taxidermist. In Alaska. Something about all that time with dead animals in a place where this isn’t any sunshine for half the year…. (Fiction!)
I’m not sure I know what my “ideal” is, otherwise I might actually be working now (and working towards something). If I get to assume in my fantasy that I no longer have a short attention span, then by all means I’ll take being a Famous Novelist for Gobs O’ Cash please, Alex. I also think I might enjoy being a Personal Shopper, but I suspect that after a while I’d want to kill all the people I’d have to work for. As for the where… I love the heat, hate the snow, hate humidity. If money and friends/family were no object, I’d be in Arizona or New Mexico in a heartbeat. (Fact.)
Michele asks: Okay Mir, will you give us the dirt on your divorce??
The story is short and simple: He decided to become a she, she now leads a life of intrigue as a pole dancer at an elite Boston transgender bar, and we are still good friends and she sometimes helps me with my hair. (FICTION!!)
The story is long and complicated, and any holding back has less to do with my not wanting to share than with it just being, well, very long. Here’s the shortest version I can manage: I was looking for “mate” material (as many of my previous paramours were not) and kind of talked myself into this nice, stable, responsible guy who in many ways was really not my type. He was painfully shy, had never dated (when we met he was 25), and was looking for anyone, I think. We both wanted kids; lots of kids. We married (too soon and too young), we went through infertility, miscarriage, and eventually, arrived at parenthood. At which point, whatever little spousal relationship we’d built up was completely thrown over in favor of Being Parents To The Almighty Children. The ex became involved in a start-up company and his life reduced to work, the kids, and his family. Oh, did you think his family was me and the kids?? Silly! His family is his parents and siblings. I never made it past second-class citizenship, I’m afraid. Anyway, his dad was dying of skin cancer, and we spent every “vacation” with his family our entire marriage (nearly 10 years); before his dad fell ill, during, and after.
Two years before we split, his dad died. According to the ex, this was “the first bad thing” that had ever happened to him. (Apparently having our dead offspring scraped out of me was no big deal.) Ex fell into a deep depression from which he made little effort to emerge. It wasn’t long before he had some very scary, chronic health issues… all of which turned out to be psychosomatic illness from the depression. The final straw was when he lost his job and completely lost it. He wasn’t diagnosed and treated until he’d been in the hospital for his “mystery illness” several times and then confessed to a nurse that he was trying to think how he could kill himself and make it look like an accident so that the kids and I could have the insurance money. I basically had to take him to our local hospital’s psych ward and have him committed, during which time I found out that he had punched our then two-year-old in a fit of rage, then lied to me about it.
Every fiber of my being wanted it to be over right then. I was All Done.
But I stayed, for almost another year. He went to counselling. I went to counselling. We went to counselling. Our couples therapist was a raving lunatic who “sensed the delicate frame of mind” the ex was in and delighted in telling me I was too uptight about everything to make the ex feel like she was on his side. Her solution for everything was “You two just need to go out on a date and have some fun!” (Example of her brilliance: It was a recurring theme that the ex was cultivating a bizarre and sick co-dependence between himself and our daughter, and she had all but stopped eating unless allowed to sit on his lap and be hand-fed by him. I wanted this to stop. She told me I was too controlling. It took our daughter’s therapist phoning this lunatic to tell her, Yes, this NEEDS TO STOP RIGHT NOW for her to concede that perhaps he shouldn’t do it anymore.)
We ditched the couples therapist. We did some counselling with our pastor. Only, I am good friends with the pastor’s wife, and so I underhandedly swayed him my way, dontchaknow. He never told me I “wasn’t allowed” to get divorced, which was his responsibility, being a man of God and all! Are you getting the picture, yet?
As soon as he got a new job, I told him I wanted a trial separation. He kept saying “you don’t want a separation, you want a divorce, just say it!” No, I said, I needed some time apart if there was to be any hope of salvaging anything. He fought, he bullied, he spoke of how he’d been a model husband and I was just planning to rip his children away from him. Oooookay. We separated, the bullying got worse; I filed for divorce.
The divorce was long and ugly, with the only saving grace being that–although he made a lot of noise about it–he never fought me for custody because that whole nervous breakdown and subsequent lockdown in the psych ward thing meant he would never win, and even he had to see that.
Ya know, I could’ve skipped all the previous and summed it up in one sentence: At the tender age of 33, my ex suddenly discovered that life’s not fair and he’s never really recovered. (Truth, sadly.)
Snowball asks: What (besides my kids) gives my life the most meaning?
I have a small pet rock named Gunther who tells me what to do and say, and we will always be together! (Fiction.)
This may surprise, it may revolt, it may sound trite… but my faith journey is the most meaningful segment of my life aside from my children. I was raised a mostly-non-practicing Jew, joined a very extreme Christian sect in college, and after a while settled in as a Methodist. (Hint: should you wish to switch religions and still have your parents’ acceptance, try switching first to some bizarre and scary faction, so that when you turn to a more socially acceptable alternative your folks think that it’s really not so bad.) I have travelled from an angry, “why me?”ish young person to the woman of faith that I am today, secure in knowing that I can handle whatever comes my way, and feeling–for the most part–very blessed. The particular church I’m with right now (I have moved around a lot, so this is the longest I’ve been in one place for a while) has been a church home for me like no other. I sing in the choir (and I had forgotten how I love to sing!), I’m a commissioned Stephen Minister, and I think I’m here for a reason. Despite my potty-mouth and overall obnoxious tendencies, I do love calling the Christian Community my home. Plus, many of the blue-haired old ladies get a kick out of me. It’s a win-win thing. (Fact.)
Zoot asks: If you could only eat ONE food for the rest of your life, regardless of nutrition, what would it be?
Pigs feet. (Fiction!! *gag*)
Just one??? I want to pick chocolate, but too much sugar makes me wacky (yes, wackier than usual… shut UP). I think avocados. You know what a guacamole whore I am. Yummy. (Fact.)
Zuska (hi Zus!! *waving*) asks: What toenail color is suitable for sassy Summer wear for both mother and daughter this season?
Black. (Fiction, fiction… don’t hit me.)
Well ya know, Those People (I don’t know who they are, exactly, but they seem to wield quite a bit of power) say that pale pink is this season’s new black. Oooooooookay. Ignoring the obvious–which is that pale pink ain’t gonna be black no matter how far you put your nose in the air, honey–this is a good solution if you happen to like pale pink, but not so much if you, you know, don’t. I suggest a trip to your local Gap store, as all of my toenail polishes came from the Gap outlet last season. My Chickadee and I both favor “chrome blue” right now, which is a wild and funky and fun silvery blue (for the toes; on fingers it would just be scary, I think) and matches nearly everything. Plus it is Not Pink, which is handy when the resident Monkey asks to have his toes done as well. (Fact.)
Jennifer asks:
Favorite book? “A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving.
Best childhood memory? When I was 8 we headed to Florida for our yearly jaunt to the grandparents, and my parents surprised me and my brother with a detour to Disneyworld for several days. Our family tended to put the DYS in dysfunctional but I remember that trip as being non-stop fun.
Favorite smell? Outdoors, right after it rains, mmmmmmm.
Secret crush? I don’t think I have one. I’m not quite through the whole men-are-useless thing, yet.
(Okay, those are all facts ‘cept one. But I’m not telling which one.)
Debby asks: If I could be any movie star, who would I be?
Elmo. (Fiction, mostly… he seems to lead a pretty good life, though.)
Glenn Close. She’s an amazing actress who has succeeded in spite of being fairly normal-looking and not a Barbie doll clone. And although she’s enjoyed critical acclaim, she stays out of the limelight and appears to lead a fairly normal life. (Fact.)
Also from Debby: What’s my dream vacation?
Is it ice hiking or snorkelling somewhere tropical? If you don’t know the answer, you haven’t been reading very carefully.
Hula Dula has wayyyyyy too many questions, yo. But I’ll try.
Naked wrestling really isn’t allowed? Well naturally I discourage it. If I don’t get to, why should they??
Was I already working or did I go back to work because of the divorce? I “retired” from software engineering when we made our last move and the ex was busy co-founding a new company. I’d worked full-time before the kids came and part-time from the Chickadee’s birth. Then we came here, the kids went to preschool and I worked on some freelance writing. I had some success, but the whole husband-mysteriously-ill-and-also-by-the-way-insane thing cropped up pretty quickly, and I quit writing. When it became clear that we were headed towards divorce, I took an extremely sucky job with a local mortgage brokering company which–to its credit–allowed me very flexible hours so that I didn’t have to change the kids’ schedules around. I was laid off at the end of last year (seemed tragic at the time; was really a blessing in disguise because that place was chewing up my soul).
Ever streaked in public? Yes.
Most embarrassing moment? I know a couple at church who used to be in the choir. There are a few of us in the choir who are real wiseasses, and this couple could cut up with the best of them. It was a running joke with the husband that upon arrival for rehearsal, it was time to set cell phones to “pleasure” mode so as not to be disruptive. (Was it less disruptive when his phone rang and we all shrieked “He’s VIBRATING!”? I think not.) I think we sustained this joke partially because of how horrified many of the more senior choir members were about it. Anyway, they left the choir (but not the church) and started attending a different service than the one I go to, so I didn’t run into them for a long time. Came face-to-face with the husband one day, and this pops out of my mouth: “Gosh I miss seeing you at choir! I think of you every time I set my phone to pleasure mode!” OH. MY. GOD. (Next sentence out of my mouth: “Could we please pretend I didn’t just say that?”)
(I offer you the same deal as Jennifer: Those are all facts ‘cept one. But I’m not telling which one.)
I know I said I’d answer anything, and do it this afternoon. But I started on this in the morning because this cold is still trying to kill me. Jilbur, I love your idea. I’m going to go take a lot of cold medicine and go back to bed, and will try to come up with something brilliant for you later today.
File Under: I can’t believe I just said that
“EXCUSE ME, do I really have to tell you that there is no naked wrestling allowed in this house???”
Fun Fridays Facts and Fiction
In my daughter’s kindergarten class, they regularly have Fun Friday. They do something wacky on Friday afternoons whenever feasible, and instead of “quiet time” they watch a movie. The Chickadee thinks this is about the most fantabulous invention since the Freaky Dismembered Barbie Styling Head.
Know what? I am in desperate need of a Fun Friday ritual. As my resources, budget, and attention span are limited, I’ve decided to turn to all of you, my newfound blogging buddies. I want to write tomorrow. For me, that’s nearly always fun. But I do not want to have to think much, because if I think I am mostly going to be thinking about The Big Ovary Decision™ and/or my stupid yucky wheezy cold and/or the fact that Mr. I Will Simply Die Without My Children Because They Mean So Much To Me flat out refused to even attempt to figure out how he could help me manage childcare coverage after I have major surgery because, oh yeah, he’ll be out of vacation days, so oh well. Maybe I’ll luck out and they’ll find some cancer in there and I’ll be able to change his mind. Yeah. Anyhoo, you can see where my mind has been today and will likely continue tomorrow… without your help.
So here’s your challenge, dear readers (that would be… um… my dad… and Kym and anyone else I can slip a coupla bucks to in the next 12 hours): I would like to start a continuing segment for Fridays where I respond to questions left by YOU. Ask me anything about me; consider it a little accelerated get-to-know-me gig. You may specify whether you would like the factual answer or the fictitious answer, or if you don’t specify it will be up to me. Or maybe I’ll just completely lie regardless of what you ask. It depends. I do that sometimes. That’s part of the fun.
Leave your queries in the comments on this post, and I’ll address them all sometime tomorrow afternoon. If no one responds I will pout. (It’s not pretty, trust me.) So come on in and lemme have it, and let’s see if this would make a good weekly feature or if I really just need to start going to bed earlier.
Facing the Big H
Fair warning: gentlemen, you may wish to avert your eyes.
The backstory: I have a very uncooperative reproductive system. I have suffered from severe endometriosis since my teens. It’s a complete pain in the ass, or, to be more specific, it’s a complete pain in the lower abdominal area and sometimes the back, much of the time. My uterus was reluctantly coaxed into hosting the Chickadee and the Monkey until their respective baking times had elapsed, but even that was quite the production.
And the bleeding… oh the joy, the bleeding! If bleeding were an Olympic sport, I would be a contender. In fact I daresay I would have a good shot at medalling. I have grown used to the finger prick for iron levels being followed by the nurse exclaiming “Oh geez, THAT can’t be right… let me do it again.” Move over, Yvonne Goolagong. You don’t know iron-poor blood ’til you’ve had chronic endo. It just Isn’t Right, my body.
The result of this is that I have spent a large amount of time in my adult life in a lot of pain, or really bitchy, or both. I have had three prior surgeries designed to “clean me out” and take care of my “little problem.” Well by the third surgery I’d had enough; I said TAKE THAT STUPID THING OUT and my doctor said no, it’s not time yet. Let’s try one more thing. So I had endometrial ablation instead. If you don’t feel like following the link, let me summarize: ladies have this squishy gross bloody lining in their uteruses (uterii??) that sheds once a month, or–if you have endometriosis–constantly, and to ablate that lining means to laser that junk into vapor so that hopefully your uterus will shut the hell up and leave you alone, bleeding-wise.
I had the ablation. The bleeding stopped. Hooray! Life was good.
The bleeding came back. Cuz, have I maybe mentioned, my body just Isn’t Right?
Now, I don’t quite understand how this works. My lining was obliterated, there should be nothing left to bleed. But I’ve always been rather gifted. So I did what any responsible person would do; I ignored it for a while and hoped it would go away. It didn’t. So I went back to my OB/GYN and she decided we needed to do “more testing.”
From my experience, “more testing” usually means “come back a couple of times for really unpleasant procedures and then we’ll decide to cut you open again.”
She did not disappoint. I went in this morning for a sonohystogram, which is a lovely procedure wherein–just in case you do not feel demeaned enough by lying spread-eagle on a table with your feet in stirrups while another woman shoves the gigantic sonogram-dildo-doohickey into your nether regions–your womb is injected with saline while they do the sonogram. The idea is that it helps to visualize any weirdness inside the uterus.
This is an interesting theory, and probably sound diagnostic practice, for normal people. However, it turns out that after an endometrial ablation you may have some scar tissue, or in fact be totally yucked up in there in strange ways, and the doctor will take that little harmless-looking plastic catheter and jab around until you cry and still be unable to actually fill the organ with water. Who knew?
But before that happens, the sonographer does the “baseline” imaging, which involves only the normal amount of humiliation, unless of course you are me, in which case she will announce “Wow your left ovary is all junked up, it’s the size of a grapefruit” and you will feel many things, but pretty is not on that list.
Anyway, after an endless period of time which I really couldn’t determine because I spent so mcuh of it concentrating on not screaming or throwing up, it was over. I was allowed to redress and led down the hall to Talk With The Doctor.
And the doctor said lots of things, and she called my left ovary junky again (ya know, I don’t feel any real attachment to it, myself, but still, there’s no need to be mean), and spoke of some “puzzling weirdness” that is “probably” normal for post-ablation and there were lots of other things that I could clearly hear being within qualifying quotation marks and the bottom line is: It Isn’t Right. Oh, and It’s Time.
So the thing is, I am not a woman with an attachment to my uterus. (I know some women are, and that’s great, and I don’t mean to insult.) That thing has been screwing with me for as long as I can remember. I already asked for it to be removed before, remember? So sure, take my uterus, please. (ba dum bump) What I was not prepared for, however, was this issue with my left ovary, which, dammit, has always been the good ovary, the obedient ovary! Nice Ovary, I always called it. (What, you don’t name your ovaries?) My right ovary has a history of being problematic. Now my left ovary is so screwed up that the doctor who normally schedules surgery out a minimum of three months is wanting to know what’s on my schedule in two weeks. And she is saying she thinks it’s time to consider taking it all.
I was ready to talk hysterectomy. I was not prepared to talk total hysterectomy. I was not ready to talk Hormone Replacement Therapy. And, well crap, as long as I’m being honest, I really wasn’t even ready to talk hysterectomy. Single mom, two kids, who just made the decision to have no daycare over the summer, here. How am I supposed to manage major surgery and six weeks of recovery??
So that’s where I’m at right now. Someone will call me tomorrow to see if I can in fact be scheduled for the week that my kids will be off visiting the ex-laws, and that leaves me only… oh… five weeks of convalescence I’ll need to figure out, if that works. In the meantime, I’ve already been told to say good-bye to the left ovary. It’s “my decision” (there are those quotation marks again, meaning it’s sort of my decision, because either way I’m likely to be unhappy and she doesn’t want me coming back to bitch at her about it) whether to leave the other ovary or go whole hog and be done with it.
Sometimes it totally sucks to be a girl.
Zoot made me do it!
I do whatever Zoot says. Sometimes. Well, tonight, anyway.
She made herself a super-cute avatar with a link to the place to make your own. So I spent mere seconds cursing that she hadn’t come up with this before talking myself into posting a real picture, and went right on over.
Here I am:
Now, look at the avatar, and then at the picture to the right. Isn’t it eerie how close they are???
Yeah, I know… time for bed.
This is Mir. This is Mir on speed. Any questions?
This cold is kicking my butt. And being the deep, introspective, philosophical being that I am, my deepest musing at this point is… “Will I be well enough to mow the lawn tomorrow, as it is forecast to be the first of 40 days in a row without rain, and if not, exactly how long does the grass have to be before it is considered child abuse to allow my children to play outside?”
I am a reluctant asthmatic, and by this I mean that I am one of those folks who mostly outgrew childhood asthma, and whatever remains I largely ignore through denial. There is no medication for asthma of which I’m aware that doesn’t have side effects that are more annoying than a little wheezing. But now I have a cold, and my lungs greeted those invading germs with outstretched arms. “Come on in here, guys, she might not even notice!”
So I spent the first half of the day waiting for death to come and take me away, but it didn’t happen. (Instead, he made a brief appearance to tell me to get my hypochondriac pansy ass out of my pajamas, laughed in my face, and took off.) By the time afternoon rolled around, I had to admit that my biggest problem was difficulty breathing. I’m rather fond of breathing–I do it all the time–so this was a problem, indeed. I realized that if I hoped to get anything at all done today, I would need to get out The Inhaler.
A little digging in my purse unearthed my trusty Albuterol inhaler. Albuterol comes from the Greek for “makes your heart race, causes jitters, and imbues an inexplicable feeling of impending doom that is alleviated only with constant motion.” Good stuff. It does open the lungs up, which is very handy.
Anyway, the rest of the afternoon went pretty well. I put away all of the laundry that’s been sitting around in baskets upstairs… and I did four more loads of laundry… put all of those away… cleaned the kids’ rooms… took out the trash… cleaned out my car… organized my medicine cabinet… called a couple of friends… alphabetized my sock drawer… counted how many grey hairs I have (don’t ask)… and painted the entire house. (Okay, I didn’t really do that last one, but only because I don’t have any paint.) AndI’mfeelingjustfinenowthanks.
Ack
I feel I must warn:
Lee’s pad is germy. Alas,
he gave me his cold.
Okay, maybe I
spent too much time there Monday.
Learned my sad lesson….
*insert tuba-sounding noseblow here*
Carnal Pleasures
No, not the first definition. The second one: “relating to the world; earthly.” When you’re living a no-first-definition-fulfillment kind of life, you learn to maximize the things that do make you tingle.
I have two loves in my life that border on addiction: shopping and food. (Yeah, I am aware that I am the only woman in the history of humankind like this. This is my blog. MY BLOG. And I feel like writing about this today. Stop snickering and keep reading, or go away.)
For the first, only bargains will do. I’m frugal-minded and–oh yeah, these days–broke, so it’s not like I’m one of those crazed Imeldas spending $4,000/pair on shoes every weekend. I like the thrill of the hunt, and knowing that other women would really want to hurt me if only they knew what I’d paid for that. And sometimes, I can’t contain myself, and I tell them. I don’t mean to… it’s just that sometimes it kind of bubbles over. It’s part of the high.
Other Woman: Wow, I love those shoes!
Me: Really? Thanks.
Other Woman: Yeah, they’re adorable.
Me: They’re Jones New York.
Other Woman *with an appreciative nod*: Oh well that explains it, then. Very nice.
Me: I GOT THEM AT GOODWILL FOR FOUR DOLLARS!!!!! Brand new! Tags on! FOUR DOLLARS, I tell you!
Other Woman *jolted by my screaming, and perhaps frightened by my little victory dance*: You’re joking, right?
Me: No!!
(And then I run away, cackling, before she slaps me.)
For my other obsession, there are a variety of ways to proceed. Chocolate comes first, naturally. But then there’s PMS-time (salty foods) and someone-else-cooked-time (nearly anything will do, here, infrequent pleasure that it is) and damn-all-you-with-unadventurous-palates-time (sushi) and someone-else-is-paying-for-a-meal-at-a-restaurant-without-a-play-structure-time (thanks, Dad). Okay, I pretty much just like to eat.
Today, I descended into the depths of compound carnal sinning, and I did it with my kids in tow. Corrupt ’em young, that’s my motto.
Often on Tuesdays we have a doctor’s appointment or two in the afternoon, and then some time to kill before I drop the kids with the ex for their dinner night. Today our appointment was early, leaving us a lot more time that usual. I considered heading home. The doctor’s office is about halfway to the ex’s house, and as I’d just paid $12.79/gallon to fill my car with gas, I decided we were staying out.
First stop: Priceless Kids. Let the record show that I do my most giddy bargain shopping for the children. While I’m thrilled to find stuff for myself, part of the maternal instinct is this urge to make sure your offspring have more clothes at any given time than you have ever owned in your entire life. That way, you can lie to yourself that you won’t have to do laundry as often. And when they have a growth spurt, you can… start all over again. Yeah. Anyway, I’d gotten a tip at a fabulous bargain site I visit that there were Lands’ End nightgowns at Priceless Kids. At 3 for $10. (My pulse quickens just typing it.) Priceless Kids is kind enough to have a little “movie area” at the rear (bonus!) where the kids can hang out and watch Aladdin while I paw through the racks, searching for my prey. I found the nightshirts in question… all nice hefty cotton knit (did I mention that for the ultimate bargain high, it has to be something of really nice quality?)… and was in heaven. I made my selections and scoped out the rest of the store.
I just love that stores like Priceless Kids remove brand tags from things that any red-blooded American mother can identify at ten paces. Totally cracks me up. I mean… if you were not the clothing whore that I am, I suppose maybe you wouldn’t recognize the font they use on the Lands’ End tags. (*cough*amateurs*cough*) But–I swear I am not making this up!–there was an entire rack of girls’ shirts sporting various gigantic, shiny “Limited Too” logos on them… with.the.tags.cut.off. Oooooh, sneaky!
After a while, I paid for my purchases and peeled the kids away from the movie, and we headed on to stop two: Trader Joe’s. I was already light-headed from the first store. But I wanted more! Trader Joe’s rocks on several levels. First off, when I shop there (not very often, because they’re not too close by) I can pretend that I still live in California. Between the organic/novel/weird goods they deal and all the hippies who either work or shop there, it’s a great illusion to enjoy for an hour or so. Next, they have committed themselves to clear and concise labelling for the seven major food allergens, which means I can buy food for my son there without having to worry that maybe they forgot to mention something that might, you know, kill him. And to top all of this off, they carry delicious, fresh, unusual (well, for around here) foods at fabulous prices. I can’t say enough about them. In fact now I’m wondering why the hell I don’t get my lazy butt down to that store more often.
At first, the kids queried every item I put in the cart.
“Why are you buying green mayonnaise?”
“Ewwwww, mushrooms. Are they like maybe radioactive? Cuz I don’t think it’s normal for them to be that big.”
“That stuff looks like grass. Do people eat grass?”
“That came from a real live fish? I’m not eating that!”
(etc.)
After a while, I’d fallen into a deep and blissful trance… it’s possible they stopped quizzing me. It’s equally possible that they continued and I tuned them out. I do vaguely remember some excitement when they saw the purple potato chips. For the most part I was off in another place, where everything is so yummy you could just cry from the happiness of it all. (As one friend put it: I’m in touch with my inner trough.) And the cherry on top? Balloons at the check-out. The kids want to go back again. Tomorrow. Pleasepleaseplease Mama.
My tranquil state lasted for approximately two minutes after leaving the store. My cell phone rang; “traffic is terrible, I’m stuck on the highway, I don’t know what time I can be there” (there may have been more, but it’s hard to process when you’re both driving and counting to ten). Let’s just say the rest of the day was not without its hiccups.
But now… now, all is right with the world. The kids are in bed. I have a bowl of “Avocado’s Number” guacamole (suitable for avocado-loving geeks who think the spoof of Avagadro is giggle-worthy) and a bag of chips. I would happily exchange the bag of chips for a big spoon, but I’m trying to exercise some restraint.
Or maybe I’m gonna go grab the spoon as soon as I finish writing this.
Some things are private, ya perv.