Thursday, December 1, 2016

I'd Buy That For A Dollar

Nothing to see here. Just burnin' a hole in your pocket, girl.

Morning Readers,

How was everyone's Thanksgiving?

As far as the Kellermans were concerned, it was another red letter holiday, trademarked by me eating too much, my kids not eating at all, and everyone complaining they were hungry at bedtime. I ventured out to exactly one Black Friday sale, and dragged a still-attached Mrs. Jones out with me so that everyone in the ridiculously long line could ask if she was a boy.

(This didn't anger me, as I'd been the one to zip her so totally into a hand-me-down boys hoodie, she resembled an androgynous, blue potato. Whatever it takes to get fifty-percent-off a coat.)

And while we're on the subject of deals, the drabness of winter is starting to rear its head, which means my dollar store roaming is in full swing. Some people are iffy about frequenting their local discount spot, but I'm on the other end of the spectrum. I probably think about it too much. As in...

Husband: Did you go to the grocery store?
Me: Uh, I ended up going to the dollar store.
Husband: But you were gone for three hours.
Me: You don't know my life.

At thirty-two, it takes a sizable effort to convince me to leave the house for any type of social engagement, but if you tell me I can wear my TOMs with the holes in both toes and we're going to go make it rain at Dollar General, suddenly, the world seems rife with possibilities. A delicious, bargain oyster.

Now, I'm not into public service announcements, per se, but if you've written off your local dollar store because it's probably just full of crap, I'm here to tell you...

It is!

But a lot of it's crap you can use, and I've spent a solid year experimenting with what happens to be safe crap, and crap that ends up shoved in a car's console. (That stuff's kind of awesome though. For instance, when risking your life by giving a hitchhiker a ride, it's always nice to break the ice with, "If you don't kill me, you can have the five, plastic wind-up dolphins I threw in my glove compartment.)

Paige's List of Useful Crap

1. Toilet Paper

This is entirely subjective, but my recent experience was good and two-ply. Husband had his doubts, but I switched his regular brand, while he wasn't looking, so all's well. I think. He looked at me suspiciously for a week but couldn't quite figure out what was going on. Who says 'no' to four rolls for a dollar? Not this girl.

2. Baking Utensils

Need a measuring cup? Spatula? Weird sifting thing for sifting stuff? Giiiiiiirl, if you got three dollars and some gas to get there, you could be channeling Ina Garten right now. Just make sure the milk you use is from quinoa-fed mountain goats who've been journaling their feelings on a consistent basis.

3. Wrapping Paper

Never. I repeat, NEVER buy wrapping paper, gift bags, or gift boxes from regular stores again. Once you buy your first gift box for a dollar, it's like the heaven's open and your veins are hit with some type of bargain opium.

Never mind, that was a terrible analogy. Don't use cheap opium. Or any opium really.

4. Decorations

My current addiction, grabbing seasonal decorations at Dollar Tree makes me almost as happy as the time I threw my winter boots in the washing machine, regretted it when the banging noises hinted the whole thing was going to explode, but all footwear ended up coming out intact and clean-ish. If you leave now, you can nab...

Christmas mugs
Garlands
Stockings
Door hangers shaped like snowmen who look so optimistic, you want to divulge your deepest fears just so they can soothe you into some sort of passive state, facilitating the purchase of even more garlands

I own so many fake poinsettias, it's clear I have a problem. I know it. The neighbors know it. More on that later.

5. Food Stuffs

This is tricky and requires a lot of trial and error. For instance, dollar candy is generally awesome and makes me fat like any other candy. However, cookies, chips, and beef jerky should be approached with caution. If you're like me and have a four-year-old, go ahead and let them try the jerky first. Doc still seems fit as a fiddle, so I may be able to add dried beef to my list of successes.

I could go on, but I won't. Surprisingly, this post isn't sponsored by a dollar store of any kind. I'm simply a woman who's found a nirvana of sorts and dug her way out of cheap paint brushes (did I mention those?) long enough to share her joy.

And now I'm off to drink coffee out of my $1 mug. 


Until Next Time, Readers!

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Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Holiday Goals and A Giveaway from Basic Invite

(A beautiful card from Basic Invite) I'd love to do a card like this with husband, but we'd have to find an empty field to hide from the children in.

Morning Readers,

I hope everyone's in a veritable candy coma from yesterday. Is it possible to eat your weight in Reeses?

Because I ate twice that.

Which basically means I'm writing this post while my hands are shaking, but fear not because it's time to jump straight into the holiday season. No pressure, right? *sighs heavily and drools chocolate*

Sooo, it's around this time of year I make bold declarations. After pouring a hot cup of coffee, I gesture around to all my off-spring and say, "Stop hitting your brother." But follow up with, "This year, we're doing Christmas cards. We shall stand together as a family, smile, and spread our awkward Christmas joy."

Last year, Sundance was critical. "We are ?"

"Of course," I laughed.

"But we don't do that."

"Hush child."

"Well, we should. Other people do that."

"Ok, less feedback. More eating your Lucky Charms. Oh, and that milk's dual purpose. You can use it to wash down half this Pop Tart. I'm glad we're doing pictures and not a holiday letter to everyone about our eating habits. Merry Christmas, all the Kellermans have diabetes."

But...

Life gets in the way. I marvel at my friends and family who send out a beautiful holiday card every season, but I fail every, single time. I blame egg nogg. It makes me lazy. Also, organizing all my children into outfits not covered with food and then sifting through which ones won't scare the people I'm sending them to is overwhelming. Oh my gosh, and then I have to stop yelling long enough to put those cards in envelopes. Slowly. Curling. Into. Fetal. Position.

HOWEVER

This year is different. This year the good people at Basic Invite reached out to me and were all like, "Look at this vast array of wonderful products we offer. We even offer free samples and speak softly so we don't scare you off like a frightened deer."

https://www.basicinvite.com/


They dig this blog, but they also dig you and me because they're kicking off my season of giving things away by offering 25 FREE cards of your choice.

That's it. No strings attached. So, if you're like me and want to actually send fantabulous cards out this year, they've got you covered. No excuses, people. All you have to do is send them to your Great Aunt Jane who owns the dachshund farm in Wisconsin.

Another beautiful card you could send to Aunt Jane and her dachshunds.

What? Well, even if you're not doing holiday cards, you can use your winnings to get 25 beautiful...

Shower Invitations

Wedding Invitations and Announcements

Party Invitations

Or "Happy Half Birthday" cards for people you have a highly vested interest in

Basic Invite is also amazing because they offer 180 different color options to tweak your particular product, and 40 different color envelopes, so you can find just the right one. And remember, you can get a free sample before you commit, so you can neurotically pick out the right colors, just like me!

Y'all know what to do. Go get your Raffelcopter on. I'm off to steal Reeses from the four-year-old.


Until Next Time, Readers!

a Rafflecopter giveaway


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Thursday, October 27, 2016

How To Make A Festive Fall Wreath of Self-Loathing

It should come out looking something like this. Fun!

Morning Readers,

Sorry I haven't checked in for the last month or two, but I needed some time to feel sorry for myself. This was essential because, as we enter the season of being thankful, I try to make a point of carving out time to make sure I'm miserable.

Some people start putting out decorative gourds. I make festive wreaths of self-loathing and anxiety. Ever seen a mason jar filled with worries? Boom. Trademark that mother.

How did it start?

I can't pin point the exact date, but, for posterity's sake, let's say it was September 2nd. Traditionally, September 2nd isn't offensive, however, with a little tweaking, I can carefully mold any position on the calendar into twenty-four hours of irritation and inconvenience. I get into a funk sometimes. This happens to everyone, but, when given the opportunity to miserable, I like to really drive the point home.

What I don't do when I'm irritated and anxious:

Any type of self care
Work out
Smile at the mailman, unless he's delivering coupons for free burgers or custard
Leave my house
Type happy things on the internet

Election season got ya down? Impending cold weather a reminder you hate gloves? Can't handle the fact Thanksgiving is around the corner and the only thing you're thankful for is blankets you can crawl under to hide from the world?

I've got you covered. One spare afternoon, and you, too, can build your own decorative wreath. 

Supplies Needed: Hot glue gun

Let's go!

How To Make A Festive Fall Wreath of Self-Loathing

Step 1.

For a good, sturdy base, make sure you begin this project without any gratitude whatsoever. I like to start by weaving together zero optimism with the bleakest outlook on life I can muster.

Step 2.

As you braid your terrible attitude into a fun circle, try to add some anger on every third pass. If you're having trouble coming up with things to be angry about, here are some suggestions:
  • Everyone in the world has more stuff than you do
  • Everyone has a cleaner/nicer house than you
  • No one has problems as bad as yours
  • Everyone always has a good hair day and you perpetually look like Helen Hunt in the last scene of Twister. Except girlfriend's hair didn't look that bad at the end, and her abs were totally on point. Ugh. Be angry about that. Be angry at Bill Paxton too.
Step 3.


Having woven a great base, it's time to get out that hot glue gun and start adding a layer of resentment. I prefer leaves and vines made from ill-will I've gathered from the internet.
Fun tip: The internet is a fantastic place to grab discounted irritation and 50% off indignation.

Step 4.

Carefully overlap and hot glue the leaves and vines to give your wreath a look of robust sadness. Watch out. If you don't add enough resentment, the wreath starts to look sparse and lets gratitude show through the holes. Hideous. How are you going to Pin that?

Step 5.

Head back to the internet. It's time to gather accent pieces. (My fave part!) In some other wreath-making tutorials, I've seen crafters add flowers or decorative wheat. I prefer to add berries of jealousy and despair. Specifically, head over to Instagram and peruse how others live their lives. Some types of accent pieces that worked for me in the past are:
  • Realizing everyone's makeup always looks perfect and I never have the time to put any on
  • Admitting I'm the only person in the word who's not a size two
  • Coping with the fact that, with the exception of my own kids, every child in the world is impeccably styled 
  • Accepting the hard truth that everyone in the world is rich
  • Making peace with the sad reality every other person on the planet is on vacation in the Bahamas, except me
Step 6.

This is the critical step of choosing the focal point for your wreath. Remember, the right object can make or break all your hard work, so pick wisely. This season, I tried to focus on the fact I wasn't doing or achieving enough. Crafter's Monthly said this was more indicative of the 2015 craft season, but I say go with your gut. Things I used as my focal point included:
  • Reminding myself I'm thirty-two and haven't done anything groundbreaking, like discovering a cure for a disease or winning the Nobel Prize for literature
  • Worrying I don't parent nearly as well as other parents and becoming positive I'm ruining all my children in some way I'm not sure of yet (have narrowed this down to more affection/less affection/more time helping with homework/less time with homework to inspire independence/ yelling less/yelling more to prevent death on part of people who climb and fall off everything
  • Accepting that every other human has a beautifully decorated house, while I'm on my third month of painting kitchen cabinets, my linoleum is curling, and hand prints cover our walls from ceiling to floor
  • I have split ends
Step 7.

Now that your wreath is done, make sure not to hang it on the front door. Let it sit inside your house and gather  dust. Showing it to other people might lead them to comment on it and bring up their own wreaths. Downer, right?

Right.

BUT, now that I'm done making crafts, it's time to head into the holiday season and get some great posts up on this here blog. I've got fantastic giveaways coming up, and I'm all about giving you guys free stuff before Santa season.*

*Will not be giving away any wreaths



 Until Next Time, Readers!


And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Ned Yost Sort of Wants To Live Here

Ned Yost before he gained eight-hundred pounds. He ate those glasses before he ate the rest of the house.

Afternoon Readers,

"Your dog spent all day trying to escape."

The neighbor laughed while he said it, but as I tried to keep Mrs. Jones from leaping to her death on the patio, I also searched desperately for humor amid the chewed-up garden hose and a Barbie doll with no legs. "Did he?" I yelled back across the fence.

He nodded. "Yep. He nudged the lock on the fence for about twenty minutes. For a minute, I thought he had it. That dog's really something."

"He's something, all right. Thanks for telling me."

"Good luck!"

"Luck has nothing to do with it," I mumbled. "We're gonna need an exorcist."

Ned Yost, as it turns out, is a little more than we bargained for.

Ok, a lot more.

Getting a puppy is kind of like playing the lottery. You either win and the dog you picked out grows more or less to expectation. OR, the creature you bought on Craigslist ends up weighing eight hundred pounds and eats your oven. There's not really an in-between, at least where the Kellermans are concerned.

Flea literally gave us fleas. Ned Yost is literally giving me a nervous breakdown. And Husband needs to quit giving me animals. Especially animals who, unfortunately, are too smart for their own good. Someone should've warned me chocolate labs....

Eat everything not nailed down
Eat everything that's nailed down
Eat actual nails

That's correct. All worldly possessions the Kellerman children see fit not to break, Ned Yost trots behind and ingests. That leaves Husband and I with exactly one pair of socks each and a 401k we're hoping the dog doesn't figure out how to log into. I've stopped waiting for the sun to wake me up, and, instead, listen for one of the children to shout, "Ned ate your mascara, Momma. How you gonna look pretty?"

I'll never look pretty again, children.

This is due to the fact, when he's not eating dryer sheets, the dog is thinking up ways he can escape the yard and and run toward freedom. Possibly the cat. No one's sure on this particular point because we don't know it's happened until it happens. And, by that point, I have a beleaguered old woman on my porch, trying to wrestle a muscular, Hershey-bar-colored lab up the porch steps. Last night wasn't any different.

"Oh. Hi, Sue."

"He got out again."

I shifted Mrs. Jones to my opposite hip and surveyed the situation. My small, greying neighbor looked like she'd just done a steeple chase and hit every ditch on the way down. Hair stuck out all over her head, and little beads of sweat trembled and splashed on the doorstep. "You took little bit to open the door. Everything ok?"

Quickly, I reached out and grabbed Ned by the collar, before I apologized. "Sorry. The baby was trying to base jump from the top of the stairs. I only have a few rules in life, but catching my offspring first and answering the door second is a non-negotiable."

Relieved, the little woman slumped against the house. "Can he jump the fence now?"

"I hope not."

"But you're not sure?"

"The only thing I'm sure of is that the baby is eating the credit card bill behind me. Thanks, Sue. We'll work on it."

Either the dog was getting the locks open or jumping fairly tall fences. Both options lacked appeal, but I decided to brief Husband about it the next day.

"Our dog's a menace to society."

Husband nodded sympathetically yet didn't pack the dog up and adopt him out immediately.

"He's getting out a lot."

"Mmm hmm."

"We need to tie everything shut or build him some sort of fiberglass cag-"

But that thought was interrupted by two loud thuds and a squeal. Three seconds later, glass tinkled on the ground as Ned Yost came flying into the house through the basement window.

Husband ran downstairs. "What the hell?"

I turned back to the stove and poked at almost-cooked hot dogs. "So, as I was saying. Maybe we enlist him in the Navy and see if they can straighten him out."

The moral of the story here is that we don't need anymore animals. Gerbils or hamsters might be ok, but even then. Are they good with locks?

So it's settled. We need a hamster.

Or a gerbil.

Or an exorcist.


Until Next Time, Readers!



                                                                  Buy Some Beer!
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Monday, August 22, 2016

The Going Rate of A Tooth Fairy


Morning Readers,

Ok, now that summer break has come to a close, let's get everyone up to speed, shall we?

If you want to take a few minutes to clap over the fact I got together all the necessary items to successfully usher the twins into first grade, go ahead. I'll wait. No one's more shocked than I. Then again, if you saw a confused-looking woman throwing thirty boxes of crayons into her cart, while she shouted, "Finders keepers, Donna," last week, perhaps you're already current.

When I wasn't hoarding three hundred erasers, the last few weeks revolved around keeping up with the many needs of the Kellerman children.

(Four-to-one is tricky odds when you're a parent. Yes, my capacity to love has expanded impressively, but holding a baby while all three of the others mutiny over a sudden outage of off-brand frosted flakes lacks a certain appeal. I've learned to hum Amazing Grace and throw slices of bread at them until they retreat back to the Lego table.)

Other Things We've Been Up To:

Painting the outside of the house
Painting the inside of the house
Painting the kitchen cabinets
Mentally painting a future where I don't paint anymore

Now that I'm not largely pregnant this year, home improvement is the name of the game. Well, that and lost teeth. Sundance recently poked her front, bottom tooth, declared that it hurt, and quickly realized it was a money-making situation.

"My first tooth is falling out. This means the Tooth Fairy owes me a dollar."

I nodded. "True. Let me look at it."

She crept closer. "Don't rip it out."

"Hmm, the only reason I got out of bed today was to torture a six-year-old, but ok. Huh, it looks like your new tooth is coming in behind the old one. That's different."

"How diff'rent?"

I Googled quickly and got my answer. "No worries. It says here it's called a "shark tooth." So the good news is it's normal. The bad news is you're half shark."

Sundance wiggled her tooth back and forth. "No, that's good news. I've always wanted to be part shark."

"Well, it's settled then. When it falls out, you put your tooth under your pillow, and, after that, we'll release you back into the ocean."

"Mom."

"What?"

Later that week, Sundance, through unexplained circumstances, managed to misplace her newly-extracted tooth. Because she's understanding, it fell to me to write a quick note to the Tooth Fairy explaining the situation. It was placed carefully under Sundance's pillow, after which, everyone went to bed and waited.

"Morning, Daddy! Look what the Tooth Fairy left me."

Husband looked down at what the little girl was waiving up at him. Then he looked over at me. "A five?"

I cleared my throat. "I'm just as shocked as you," I said.

"Are you?"

"Absolutely. I have a few theories though. First of all, it's been years since either of us lost a tooth. Inflation probably has a lot to do with it. I think I got fifty cents, but that was in 1990, and I think we can all remember what car phones were doing to the economy."

"Mm hmm."

"Besides that," I took a sip of coffee and thought about it, "There's a very high probability the Tooth Fairy is a woman who doesn't feel comfortable going into a gas station at two in the morning to get ones."

"So she forgot to get change?"

"It's a tough job."

All this to say, the Tooth Fairy set the bar pretty high for anyone else who loses their first tooth. Because we made it very clear that a five dollar bill generally appears for a first tooth, but not for teeth which fall out in quick succession.

Then again, if the Tooth Fairy has anymore painting to do, the fumes might cause her to accidentally leave a twenty next time. Who knows? 



Until Next Time, Readers!

And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on:

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

If He's Smart, The Salesman Never Rings

Unless you're giving away free tiaras or babysitting, I'll have to pass.

 Morning Readers,

I know you tuned in today to hear rational commentary about the world at large, but what if we started with Rice Krispies and anxiety instead?

Great!

First off, the limited edition red, white, and blue Rice Krispies are fantastic. They don't taste any different, but if you swirl your spoon just fast enough, it's a crackly milk tornado of Americana. Two thumbs way up.

Now then, have I ever told you what happens when you ring my doorbell?

Growing up, I had neighbors who owned a rat terrier who, every time the doorbell rang, threw herself right at the glass storm door. It was terrifying, but she was just super duper excited to see whoever was there. I'm the opposite of that.

Salesman? Neighbor? Ax Murderer? How's a girl to choose?

I wear crippling anxiety like a suit, so standing inside the coat closet and evaluating my options usually sounds fine. Because, in the end, people ringing my doorbell during the day are almost always salesmen, and I know what's coming next.

"Mom. Mom, open the door. There's a guy out there, Mom."

"I know."

"He can see you. Even if you're laying on the floor."

"Go upstairs, child, and leave me be."

"It's ok, I'll open it for you. Hi! My mom's hiding behind the door. What's your name?"

My whispered, "Sh*t" is carried off on the wind as I push the door open and the offending child behind me. "Can I help you?"

Last Friday found me staring at a clearly-exhausted young man sweating profusely in the July sun. I felt bad for him. Poor lamb thought he was there to sell windows. He didn't even see the attack coming.

"Hi there. Are you the lady of the residence?"

"I run this nut house, yes."

He smiled. "Great. You see, we're having a sale on windows. I noticed that some of yours are a little, uh.. "

"Yes, that's duct tape." I nodded quickly. "Well, it's very nice of you, but we're not doing windows this yea-" Before I could finish, children started leaking out behind me like an oil spill.

"Mom, who's this?"
"Is he here to make dinner? I'm hungry."
"Yeah, did you know she only feeds us sometimes?"
"Can I see your clipboard? I'll draw a camel on it for you."
"Here, I'll take all those papers. I need to decorate my dollhouse."

Desperately, I reached behind me and tried to shove three kids back through the door, while the baby, suspicious I was about to sell her for some new double-panes, clawed her way up my shoulder and tried to throw herself down the other side.

The poor window man looked around, quickly realizing he was being closed in on from all sides. "Are- are they all yours?"

I thought about it. "They are. I'm not real quick to claim the one trying to untie your shoes though. I mean, he looks like us, but he's a bit of a loose cannon right now."

The salesman looked past me and peered into the house timidly.

I laughed. "There aren't anymore in there."

"No?"

Shaking my head, I took the flyer the man was absently holding out for me while he watched all three of the older kids race down the driveway and look for a way to climb into the storm drain. "No, but I have a neurotic dog who'd love to come out and tell you his problems. How much time do you have?"

The man smiled politely and peered sideways. "My name is Mark, by the way. If- if you ever need anything, the number's on the card. We can come out and quote you. I can see you have-"

"My hands full? Or kids falling into the sewers? Either or, thank you so much for popping by. I'll keep you guys in mind for next year. If you have to head out, I totally understand. But if you want to stick around, I'm going to tie a rope around my waist and jump down in there to pull everyone out. I could really use someone to hold the other end."

"No, it's ok."

"You sure?"

But he was already speeding down the street.

I yelled for down the driveway. "Ok, everyone out of there. Head to the backyard so I can hose you off."

I'm not sure how many years I have left of Kellerman children rushing anyone who comes to our door, but it is what it is. In the meantime, I'll be anxiously waiting for the doorbell to ring again, drinking coffee, and making Rice krispy tornadoes.

Because they really are delightful.


Until Next Time, Readers!




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Friday, July 15, 2016

It's A Dressing Room, Baby

"I'll take that roll of trash bags and maybe a belt to define my waist."

Morning Readers,

Has summer consumed you yet?

I finally waved my flag of surrender and allowed swimming, random tasks, and wondering how weeds can kill all your fresh grass and crawl up to the front door take over my very act of being.

Oh, and Netflix. Netflix is my life.

Do I want to watch another episode? Is the Pope Catholic?

Melting into that type of laziness is only difficult when I have to suddenly pull myself out and do things like clothe myself. Which was recently the case when Husband and I received a wedding shower invitation and I realized the nearest thing I had to formal wear was some maternity leggings and a top that had fallen on the closet floor and was being used as a rug.

A shopping trip was in order. I was sad I didn't actually own a rug.

Sometimes I think I'm still pretty young. In my mind, I'm about twenty-two. I look twenty-two. Sound twenty-two. And then I have to take my baby dress shopping and realize I'm actually none of these things.

Having to haul around an eight-month-old velcro baby who can't be left at home is literally the quickest way to help remind you that you're thirty-two and the lines between your eyes are going absolutely nowhere but deeper. Hauling that same baby through racks of clothes and younger girls is also a good reminder that:
  • You now think most clothes are stupid.
  • There's a drastic lack of clothes for women who've had three c-sections and still have some loose fat they need to tuck into extra pockets.
  • An actual twenty-two-year-old sounds nothing like you. Like a baby deer, she is just learning to walk and chew gum at the same time. You wonder if the gum chewing keeps her forehead line-free.
Nevertheless, with Mrs. Jones on my hip, I foraged through countless stacks of tops, fleets of pants, and dresses that weren't dresses at all, but something unattractively named a "romper" and marketed to grown women who have mortgages. While the baby waved at people, I held things up.

"What about this?"

"Baaa."

"I don't know. It might be a halter top."

"Ma?"

"You're right. I need something closer to an actual horse harness to keep all this in check. If you can stay awake, maybe we'll pop by that western store on the way back. What about these pants?"

"Baba."

"Exactly. I'd look like a poorly tailored clown. Then again, I'm not sure what people's expectations of me are these days."

Mrs. Jones contented herself by grabbing at everything she could get her chubby paws on. Between extracting hoop earrings from her fist and gazing longingly at discount pajamas, I managed to pile several potentially unoffending dresses on my free arm and march to the dressing room. But I stopped short...

What was the proper protocol for bringing a baby in a dressing room?
Maybe I traded her to the attendant for a plastic number to hang on the door.
How long could the attendant sort rejected clothes and let Mrs. Jones slap her in the face though?

Unfortunately, I needed to make a hasty decision and buy something right away, so there was no getting around it. Hitching Mrs. Jones up on my hip, I grabbed the plastic number between my teeth and kicked open the first door the disinterested girl pointed at. "Well, here we go." I yelled.

No one intervened as I hung up my haul and looked around for a place to put the baby. "Where do you want to sit?" I asked. "This questionable corner or that questionable corner?"

The baby, seeing only wide open, unexplored space, was kind enough to gravitate toward the dirty concrete area that held only one used band aid and a shockingly-large piece of lint. The rest of the experience was pieced together by anyone waiting outside.

"Nope, don't eat that bandage."

"Is.. is this a corset?"

"Here, dig through my purse. It's better than picking up hepatitis."

"Hmm, this could work. But I'd need a sewing machine to fix the front and a flame thrower to fix the back."

"Where'd you go?

"There you are. There's only one bench in here. Didn't think you could disappear under it."

"Ok, I guess I'll take this one."

Semi-triumphant, I paid for my pick and, the next day, shoved myself into it with minimal tears. Husband was ready to start the car by the time I made my way down the stairs. "How do I look?"

He smiled. "Beautiful. What is it?"

"It's a romper. I wanted to feel like a toddler but also have the satisfaction I can drive myself places and do taxes."

"I see. I thought it was a dress."

"That's how they get you."

And so we headed out for the night. My purse on one arm and Mrs. Jones on the other. Just a woman, her velcro baby, and a romper.


Until Next Time, Readers!



And now that I've awkwardly made you my friend, come hang out with me on: